Chapter 18
LET’S FINISH UP WITH SERVE AND VOLLEY, OKAY?” DOM CALLED out from the side of the court, and Penny swiped her wristband over her forehead.
She’d worked up a decent sweat during this hitting session with Alex and she felt good about her match that night. Glancing up at the sky, though, she doubted very much whether her match would actually be played, after the rains yesterday and the same forecasted for today.
Grabbing a ball from the basket set up next to the court, she took deep breaths, the same way she would out on the court during her next match.
Bouncing on the balls of her feet for a moment, she looked up across the court and let her vision blur out Alex’s familiar shape.
Instead, he took the form of her next-round opponent, Danjela Dujmov from Serbia.
Likely more of a challenge than Indy had been.
She tried not to think too much about that match and whether or not it had killed what was left of their friendship.
Instead, she focused on Danjela. She was a few years older than Penny and had racked up more than one tournament championship. On her good days, she could absolutely wipe the floor with anyone in the top twenty. She was inconsistent, though, and Penny hoped to take advantage of that.
Bringing her hands together, she held the racket against the ball as her knees bent, all her power pushing down toward the ground, and then she erupted up and through the ball as her racket head made solid contact.
She sent a low-lying screamer down the middle of the court, skimming perfectly off the edge of the T.
Penny raced forward, anticipating Alex’s backhand block back over the net, and caught the return in midair, burying it as far away from him as possible.
But as she took that last step and the ball flew exactly where she wanted it to go, her ankle spasmed and sent a laser-like flash of pain through the joint before it locked in place, sending her sprawling to the ground.
A noise flew out of her mouth, half shock, half agony, as the wind was knocked from her lungs.
“Shit,” she cursed, wincing.
It wasn’t nearly as bad as Paris, but it still hurt like a bitch. She didn’t look up, but she knew Dom and Alex were racing in her direction. Two shadows quickly passed over her as they both kneeled at her side.
“What happened?” Dom asked.
“Nothing,” she grumbled, an obvious lie, but she wasn’t quite ready to say it out loud.
“Can you move it?” Alex asked.
“Don’t try to move it,” Dom commanded, lifting her leg gently and extending it out toward him. Alex reached for her hand and squeezed it lightly, their fingers entwining against the smooth grass court. “What do you feel?”
“It’s… it hurts,” she admitted finally, not able to just shake off the throbbing this time. She’d done something to it.
“Come on,” Dom said, grabbing her other hand. “Let’s get you up and get it looked at.”
The tour doctor was a slight man, maybe fifty, with white hair and a dark tan from day after day out on the courts tending to the athletes.
Penny had seen him around before, but she’d never worked with him.
She knew that look, though, the crease between the eyes, the twist of the mouth, and the tsking of a tongue against teeth.
This guy wasn’t pleased with what he saw.
“I don’t like that the pain increases as your sessions wear on,” he said.
“I don’t like that you didn’t consult anyone before starting up your training again.
I don’t like that you weren’t being consistently monitored during that time.
” The doctor sent a glare to Dom, whose eyes were narrowed and shoulders slumped, already blaming himself much more than anyone else ever would.
“I don’t like any of this. Playing on a tear like you are, you’re likely making it far worse than it has to be.
Just two weeks of full rest and you’ll be healed.
You should withdraw now. Live to fight another day. ”
Penny blew out a breath. “And Zina Lutrova will be Wimbledon champion. Again. That’s not going to happen. I’m not waiting another year.”
She wouldn’t give in. Wouldn’t lose her spot, wouldn’t jeopardize her sponsorship with Nike, wouldn’t make wiping the court with Indy have been for nothing.
“Penny, listen to him,” Dom said.
She pulled her foot out of the doctor’s grasp and glared up at her coach. “No, Dom, you listen to me. I’m playing.”
“Penelope.”
“I’m serious, so either get on board with that, or get the fuck out of my way.
” Her coach stood there, mouth open and eyes wide.
She’d never seen him struck speechless before, and the harshness of her words started to echo back into her mind.
Maybe that had been too much. He meant well, he always did.
He wanted what was best for her, but she wanted that, too, and if he couldn’t see it, then she’d have to make him.
“Penny,” Alex said while Dom threw his hands up in the air, stepping away. “Come on, love, this is—”
“It’s an injury I can play through. A cortisone shot today and I’ll be good as new.”
“They don’t always work,” Dom shot back over his shoulder.
“If it doesn’t, she won’t play,” Alex said before she could open her mouth to respond again. “Right?”
“Right,” she agreed between clenched teeth. It was going to work. Simple as that. It had to.
The back garden of Alex’s house was a small rectangle of well-kept grass with a width of hedges separating his property from the homes behind and to the side.
It provided a modicum of privacy in the middle of an ancient city.
The landscaping was neat and meticulous, a sure sign that someone else maintained it while he was off traveling the world.
Soft, still slightly damp grass beneath her, Penny leaned back on her palms, staring up at the night sky, the sounds of cars, mostly a few streets away but some on the road just in front of the house, ebbed and flowed through her ears.
It was almost like the ocean back at OBX, where Alex had asked her to lie down and imagine herself winning at Roland-Garros, and now it was the only thing that could extinguish the fire running from her pulsing temples through her entire body.
She heard the click of the French doors behind her opening and then closing and soft steps on the little stone patio just outside the house.
“It’s not a court and we don’t have the ocean, but I suppose this’ll have to do,” Alex said, reading her mind as he sat beside her, kicking off his shoes.
“You can hear the traffic. It’s soothing.”
“Whatever you say, love. How does your ankle feel?”
She stared down at her leg, propped up on a few cushions, wrapped with ice, and wriggled the toes that peeked out of the wrap.
“Almost numb. Won’t really know until tomorrow.”
“Did you talk to Dom? About what you said to him?”
With a heavy sigh, she dropped down from her elbows, the grass cool against her skin. “No, but I didn’t really mean it. He knows that.”
He also needed to know exactly how serious she was about playing.
“Obviously. Dom puts up a good front and he knows you’re pissed off, but it was probably a kick in the gut to hear those words from you.”
“I’ll apologize, for my tone, not for what I said,” she said, and then after a moment of silence between them, “and it’s not as bad as that doctor says it is.”
Alex hummed his disagreement.
“I know my body. I know how much is too much, and it’s fine.”
“If you want to play, no one is going to stop you.”
“That’s correct.”
He propped himself up on his elbow. Leaning over her, he let his fingers trail over her neck, hooking one around the chain of her necklace and pulling the coin out from beneath the collar of her shirt.
He took it in his hand and squeezed it in his fist. “Just think really hard about what you want here, love. You’ve got the next ten years, maybe fifteen, to win Wimbledon, twice, three times, maybe four or five. ”
She brought her hand up and wrapped it around his. “Not six?”
“If you want to. If you make good decisions and take care of yourself and…”
“And don’t play on an injured ankle because I’m too proud to withdraw?” she finished for him.
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.” She sighed and pulled his hand to her chest. “If you felt like you could’ve managed the pain in your knee in Australia, would you have played?”
“Yes.”
“See?”
“But that was before.”
“Before what?”
“Before I figured out what was really important.”
She groaned, pulling away, the necklace falling from his grasp, and rolled over onto her stomach, letting her hair fall into her face and ignoring the way her ankle protested leaving its cushioned perch. “Don’t get mushy on me now, Alex.”
“I’m just saying that I was a mess back then. If my knee was hurting now and my coach and my doctor and you were telling me that it was a bad idea to play on it? I’d probably listen.”
“I want to win Wimbledon. I’m in Lutrova’s head. I can beat her.”
“You already proved that to everyone,” he said, reaching out and tucking her hair behind her ear, not letting her hide from him.
“It’s not about everyone. It’s about me.”
“And if your ankle gives out on you?”
“And if your knee gives out on you?” she countered.
“Knee’s fine. Doctor said so. The doctor you told me to see, if you recall. Doctor’s saying something different to you, and he’s a good one, wouldn’t bullshit you. He knows what he’s asking when he tells you to withdraw.”
“You think I should withdraw, too, then. Just say it.”
“Yes, I do. I think you want to win Wimbledon so badly that you’re letting it cloud your judgment. I think you’re making a mistake. A big one.”
The words cut, deeper than he probably intended. She knew where he stood, but to have him say it like that, so simply, it hurt.
“You’re just one more person I’ll have to prove wrong, then,” she whispered.
“I guess so.” He sat up, squinting at the sky. “It’s going to rain. Come on inside.”
“In a bit. I’m just going to think a little bit more.”