Chapter 7 #2
Then turning down a tennis scholarship at Stanford to join the pro tour. Winning a little—early round matches at mid-level tournaments—but losing a lot. Having to ask my parents for money because I wasn’t winning enough to support myself.
And finally quitting at twenty-two, with a career high ranking of ninety-seven. Fighting with my dad, and trying to blame him for my failure because he hadn’t believed in me. Knowing deep down that I had no one to blame but myself.
I look Dr. Malone in the eye. “I don’t play tennis.”
He looks at me quizzically. “You don’t play tennis.”
“Nope. But if there’s something else I could do to free up some of your time, like walking your dog—”
“I don’t have any pets. And my doctor advised me to get more exercise.”
“You look like you get plenty of exercise,” I retort, before I can think better of it.
But’s true; the man is built, with the kinds of veins in his forearms that come from a regular strength training routine. His shoulders are broad, his waist is narrow, and I doubt there’s a spare ounce of fat on him anywhere.
But Dr. Malone is my boss, and it’s probably not appropriate to comment on his appearance. I feel my cheeks heating up, and I notice his cheeks have reddened a little, too.
He clears his throat. “My doctor specifically recommended tennis. For my blood pressure.”
It’s clearly BS, but I won’t call him on it. “Well, like I said, I don’t play tennis. But I’m a fairly good runner, if you’d like to try that. Or if you’re looking for a personal trainer, I’d be happy to watch you do calisthenics.”
The corner of his mouth kicks up, and I realize I probably shouldn’t have said that either.
“Or I play in a rec soccer league Thursday nights,” I say quickly. “The season just started and we could use more players, so—”
“No,” he says, shaking his head. “It has to be tennis. You beat me at tennis, I’ll go to the meeting.”
“You want me to beat you at tennis?”
“Of course I don’t want you to beat me, Alexandra. I don’t want to go to this meeting.”
I chuckle in spite of myself. “You think you can beat me at tennis?”
“I think I’d enjoy trying.”
For a moment I think I might enjoy it too, but then I remember why it’s a bad idea. Tennis has a lot of negative associations for me. Frustration. Inadequacy. Anger. Regret.
“I don’t play tennis,” I say simply.
“But you used to,” he says matter-of-factly. “You used to be great.”
“Not good enough,” I say, and I can’t keep the bitterness from my voice.
He raises an eyebrow. “You were the runner-up at the Wimbledon Juniors.”
“Yep,” I nod. “Unfortunately, I peaked at seventeen.”
No one remembers the player who wins the junior events, and they certainly don’t remember the junior runner-up. It’s the adult tour that counts, and I couldn’t make it there.
“Who told you?” I ask Dr. Malone.
“I recognized you, actually,” he says. “I watch a fair bit of tennis, and I thought you looked familiar. The name threw me off at first, and the glasses.”
“Alexandra’s my real name.” I went by Ally Parker when I played. I also highlighted my hair platinum blonde, tweezed my eyebrows excessively, and wore contacts.
I look a lot different now.
Dr. Malone nods. “But like I said, you looked familiar, so yesterday I, uh, I Googled you. I found some YouTube clips of you at the Canadian Open a few years ago.”
“Damn.” I can guess which video he watched, one of me crashing out in the second round. It was so bad that I smashed a racket in frustration.
When a superstar smashes a racket, it’s seen as a sign of how badly they want to win. But when the 119th-ranked player in the world smashes her racket in the middle of a blowout loss? It’s pathetic.
“You were spectacular,” he tells me.
I stare at him in disbelief. “I lost 6-0, 6-0. A double bagel.”
“In the second round, yeah. But your first round match was great. You beat that English girl, Jessica—”
“Jennifer Lyons.” She was ranked eleventh in the world at the time. The highest ranked player I ever beat.
“Right,” he says. “You were on fire. Jennifer Lyons didn’t know what hit her.”
“I had a good match.” That was the thing about my tennis career; every now and then I’d have a good shot, a good set, even the occasional good match. Enough to make me think it was possible, and to convince me to keep going.
I felt like Tantalus, the mythological Greek who disrespected the gods. As punishment, the gods made him stand in a pool of water that disappeared when he tried to take a drink.
And I’d clearly done something to disrespect the gods of tennis, because they kept taunting me. Making me think there was hope. Success was so close I could taste it, but when I reached for it, it disappeared.
“So you don’t play anymore?” Dr. Malone asks. “Even for fun?”
I shake my head. “I don’t even own a racket.” I’d given enough of myself to a sport that wasn’t giving me anything back. “When I quit, I went cold turkey.”
“Cold turkey, huh?”
I nod. “I have a lot of willpower.”
He shrugs. “That’s too bad, because that’s my condition. You want me to come to the meeting, you have to beat me at tennis. One set. Take it or leave it.”
I take a deep breath and push it out slowly. “Only one set?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you play much tennis?”
He lifts an eyebrow. “Don’t think you can beat me?”
“Hardly,” I scoff. “But I don’t want to embarrass you. I’m still on my three month probation period here. Whipping your ass at tennis seems like a bad career move.”
I’m actually not sure I can beat him, but there’s no way I’m going to admit it. Drew Malone is fit, and he must be into tennis if he recognized me. But trash talking is a very important part of the game.
“You know I wouldn’t hold it against you.”
“I don’t own a tennis racket,” I point out, but I can feel my resolve weakening.
“I have a spare.”
I take another deep breath as I think about it. What’s the worst that can happen? If I lose, it won’t be a new experience for me.
“All right,” I say softly.
Dr. Malone smiles with satisfaction. “Good.”
“When are we doing this?”
He shrugs. “The meeting’s next Wednesday?”
“Yep.”
“Then either this weekend, or Monday after work. I’m on call Tuesday.”
“Tomorrow morning?” I suggest. Tomorrow’s Saturday, and I’d like to get this out of the way so I can forget about it.
“Great. Ten A.M.? There are decent public courts at Colonel Daughtry park, near the lake.”
“I know it.”
“Okay.” He glances at his watch and grimaces. “I have to get back to the clinic. I’ll see you tomorrow, Alexandra.”
After Dr. Malone leaves, I spend ten minutes eating Sour Patch Kids and trying to make sense of what just happened. By the time I’ve finished the candy, I’m no farther ahead. I still can’t make it make sense.
So I pull out my phone and FaceTime my best friend, Sarah Hayes. I feel a little guilty about calling a friend during my work hours, but I can rationalize it pretty easily. I’m ready and willing to work, and it’s not my fault I haven’t been given anything to do.
“Hey, Ally.” The video bounces around for a second before it steadies, and I can see that Sarah’s already in her pajamas. She’s currently in Spain, six hours ahead of me, in the midst of hard-core preparation for the French Open.
That’s right. I gave up tennis, but I couldn’t give up my best friend, who’s currently ranked third in the world in women’s tennis.
We were roommates at the tennis academy for two years, and we’ve been close ever since.
I hardly ever see her since I left the tennis tour, but we FaceTime pretty often.
Last winter I swallowed my pride and let her pay for me to join her in Cancun for a week at an all-inclusive.
“Hey, Sarah. How’s training going?”
She shrugs. “Not bad. I was hitting my serves today, so Claudio was happy.” Sarah’s serve has always been her weak point. Her coach, Claudio, has long maintained that if she could fix her serve, she’d be unbeatable.
“How are you?” she asks. “How’s the new job?”
“It’s . . . weird,” I admit. I explain how Heather hired me to work for Dr. Malone, who didn’t think he needed an assistant. “So I have nothing to do except manage his email and make him lunch.”
Sarah frowns. “That is weird.”
“Yep. And he wants to play tennis with me.”
Sarah’s mouth falls open. “What? Tell me you said no.”
“Well, actually, Heather wants him to go to a meeting, and he agreed to go if I could beat him at tennis, so . . .”
Sarah’s looking at me as though I’m speaking a foreign language.
“It’s crazy, right?” I ask ruefully.
“The crazy train has left the station, my friend,” Sarah says with a nod. “Is he creepy?”
“Dr. Malone? No, why?”
“Well, you’re hot,” she says matter-of-factly. “And the tennis thing could be just an excuse to get you to spend time with him out of the hospital.”
“I’m pretty sure he’s just into tennis, and he wants to play against a former player.” I remember the phone call I overheard on my first day, with a woman named Breanna. “Besides, I’m pretty sure he’s in a relationship.”
“Because no man in a relationship has ever made a pass at his assistant,” Sarah says dryly. “Be careful, Ally. What did you say his name was?”
“Drew Malone.”
Sarah’s video feed wobbles again. I’m pretty sure she’s Googling him.
And a few seconds later her expression changes. “Neurosurgeon, right?”
“Yep.”
“Shit, Ally, I assumed he’d be some old guy, but the man’s a total smoke show.”
“He’s not bad, I guess.”
“Sure,” Sarah says. “Okay. Yeah, I’d play tennis with him. Hell, I’d fly out tomorrow and play with you guys if it wouldn’t give Claudio a heart attack.”
“Dr. Malone would probably love that,” I say with a laugh. “Playing with you, I mean, not Claudio’s heart attack.” I’m sure most tennis fans would jump at the chance to play the third-ranked female tennis player in the world.
There’s a pinch of envy in my chest that I try to ignore.
“And you’re playing tennis with him,” Sarah says quietly. “Have you been playing at all?”
“Nope. It’ll be the first time. I don’t even have a racket, but he says he has a spare.”
Sarah frowns. “Let me call Tim,” she offers, referring to her agent. “He can arrange to have one delivered.”
“You don’t have to—” I protest.
“I might as well, Wilson will send it for free,” she insists. “And we can have Nike send you a couple dresses. They’re really cute this year.” Since she broke into the top ten, Sarah’s gotten some lucrative sponsorship deals, including with Wilson and Nike.
“Thanks, Sarah, but I’ll be fine. And we’re playing tomorrow, so there’s no way the stuff will arrive by then.”
“Okay,” she says. “You know, Ally, I’m kind of excited for you. Your neurosurgeon’s really hot.”
“He’s also in a relationship,” I point out. And even if he wasn’t, Drew Malone isn’t the type to date an admin assistant.