Two Dominic
Two
Dominic
T here’s nothing better than winning.
Or at least that’s what I used to tell myself. Once I get to the Grand Slam, I’ll have arrived. But that day has come and gone, many times over. I’ve been anointed the best player in tennis, ranked number one in the world. But with that comes pressure to stay on top.
No injuries.
Winning equals endorsements.
I’m the one keeping my family afloat. And have been since I was sixteen. In the early days, my mom worked hard and sacrificed to ensure I could go to tennis lessons and train with the best coaches, but that didn’t stop her from making bad choices after I found some success. My mom always chooses the wrong man in her quest for love. Consequently, she had me at the ripe old age of sixteen, and three more children after me from different relationships—one brother and two sisters—without any fathers who would stick around. So, ever since I won that first championship, I’ve been taking care of her and my three siblings. Nothing got in the way of winning, and that included personal relationships.
“Dominic! You ready to go?” my assistant, Micah Strader, says, holding his iPad.
He’s a foot shorter than me, with blond hair, brown eyes and an affinity for cardigans, but he’s a godsend. Micah ensures I stay on schedule and I pay him handsomely for it as I do with my agent, publicist, accountant and lawyer. Everyone has their hand in a piece of my pie while I work my ass off day in and day out.
Should I complain? Maybe not. I have amassed wealth and privilege over the last decade. Not bad for a poor kid from Phoenix, Arizona, who somehow found himself on a tennis court with a knack for the sport. I can buy whatever I want, be it a multimillion-dollar mansion in Phoenix or a Caribbean villa. If I want the latest Rolls-Royce or Bugatti, it’s mine for the taking.
“Yes, I’m ready.”
Grabbing the handle of my Louis Vuitton suitcase, I roll it out of the suite and down the hall to the elevator.
It was another successful Australian Open, and I’m heading to Sedona for a couple of weeks to relax before heading home to Phoenix. Micah has me booked in a private wellness spa. The last several championships were brutal. I’m looking forward to recharging with a massage or two. Or three.
The elevator dings, signaling its arrival, but before I can enter, the woman inside screams, “Oh my god! It’s Dominic Fletcher.”
“May I come in?” I motion toward the elevator. She nods furiously, so Micah and I enter.
The woman stares at me shamelessly until finally whispering, “Can I have a selfie?”
“MaryAnne!” the man beside her protests, but she stares at me expectantly.
It’s a hazard of the job, so I lean in and let her take the picture. Once she has her photo, she doesn’t even bother saying thank you, just saunters out of the elevator when we arrive at the lobby.
I give Micah a what-the-fuck look and he shrugs. We head toward the exit. Being the excellent assistant he is, Micah already checked us out and a bellman quickly rushes to open the tall glass doors.
“Thank you,” I respond, but the words are barely out of my mouth before the press swarms.
“Quite a match, Dominic. What’s next for you?” one of them shouts in my face.
“A break.” I have a love-hate relationship with the media. I need them to keep my name out there so I stay relevant, but then I have no peace.
“You’re retiring?” another exclaims loudly.
No, you dimwit , I want to say, but instead, I clarify. “You have heard of a vacation, right? I think I’ve earned one after back-to-back championships.”
There are several chuckles and Micah pushes past the press to the limousine waiting at the curb. I climb inside and Micah follows me and the door blessedly closes, sealing us away from intrusive questions.
Retire? I’ve given it some thought. I’m young and still in relatively good health save for the patellar tendinitis and rotator cuff injuries I’ve sustained over the years. I’ve put my body through a lot to stay on top. The endorsements help. I’ve planned for the future, not only for myself, but for my family. I’ve set up college funds for my siblings because I don’t trust Mom not to give the money away to one of her many suitors. It’s bad enough she flaunts my name to get ahead… She wasn’t always like this. When I started out in the industry, Mom was humble and eager to see me succeed.
“Thanks for handling things.” I look over at Micah.
“It’s my job,” he responds, and turns back to reviewing whatever is so important on his iPad. Sometimes being a celebrity is one of the loneliest jobs in the world. You can have people all around you and still feel alone.
Staring out the window, I remember someone long ago who understood, who shared my passion for the game. We could practice for hours and afterward have rounds of what I swear was the best sex of my life. Was it just the heady feeling of first love or was it something deeper? I’ll never know because I was cut out of her life like I was a cancer she had to get rid of.
I don’t know why I’m thinking about her. I haven’t done so in ages. There have been many women in my life before and after, especially after . Winning brings out the ladies. Some are groupies who want nothing more than to be with a celebrity. I watch out for those types because I’m not looking to be anyone’s baby daddy. However, I enjoy spending time with a woman who knows the rules of engagement. Tennis is my life. It’s how I make my living, and those who get sprung are sent packing. I can’t have drama messing up my game.
You see, we players all have our superstitions. For some, it’s carrying their favorite penny or wearing the same pair of socks. For me, it’s not having sex the night before a match. If I do, I’m sure to lose. And so I abstain. It’s my practice. It’s worked for me this long so I’m not about to change.
Eventually, we arrive at an airfield. A private jet is waiting to whisk me off to Arizona. I climb aboard the plane, which was built for my comfort in an elegant palette of grays and neutrals. There are four luxurious recliners with hand-stitched leather seats bearing my initials along with a private bathroom and a shower. After traveling commercial and being besieged by the general public, I quickly realized my privacy and peace of mind were tantamount. Once the multimillion-dollar endorsements started pouring in, the jet became a tax deduction since my work requires constant travel. It was a win-win situation.
No sooner than I’m seated, a beautiful, poised flight attendant asks if I would like a refreshment.
“Bottled water, please.” After powering through six sets at the Australian Open, I’m exhausted and in need of hydration and sleep. In that order.
Micah sits across from me, tapping away on his tablet as if it holds the secrets of the universe.
Within half an hour, we’re taking off and I find myself closing my eyes and trying to sleep. My cell phone buzzes in my pocket. I see it’s my brother, Justice, and answer immediately. “Hey, bro, what’s going on?”
“Hey, Dom. How was the match?” Justice inquires.
I sigh heavily. “It was a hard battle. Miguel Guinard is a young upstart from Spain who’s been coming up the tennis charts to challenge me. It wasn’t easy beating him.” At thirty-two, I’m not what I once was.
“I imagine you have to practice harder and longer to keep up.”
“You ain’t lying. These challengers are at least a decade younger than me and much faster on their feet.”
“So what’s next?”
“I’m taking a few months off, until my next match. I told my agent no more championships until the French Open. It’s a risk, but one I’m willing to take.”
And more importantly, it’ll give me time to think about what comes after tennis. I’ve been playing professionally since I was sixteen years old. Unlike some of my counterparts, I don’t want to keep playing until I’m in my late thirties and besieged by injuries. I would like to go out on top with a legacy of being the best. Sometimes, you have to know when to fold ’em.
“I’m glad you have some free time,” Justice says, interrupting my thoughts. “I was hoping I could run a new idea by you, one I have for a business.”
“Is that so?” I rub the signature goatee I’ve been rocking for years.
Ever since Justice graduated from Howard University, my kid brother has been on a quest to build his own wealth without working for “the man.” I want to support him, but I won’t waste money on a venture that’s not profitable, even if he is family.
“Have you put together a prospectus?” I ask.
“I have. Can I send it over to you? Could make for an entertaining read on your private jet.”
“Or put me to sleep,” I respond wryly.
“Ha ha. So, is that a yes?”
“Go ahead and send it. I’ll take a look, but I’m not making any promises.”
“I know, I know,” Justice replies. “Meanwhile I’ll keep toiling away at this nine-to-five.”
“That you happen to be making six figures at,” I add.
“Whatever.”
“How’s Mom? Anything I should be aware of?” I ask, holding my breath, hoping she hasn’t gotten herself into yet another relationship on the train to nowhere.
“Naw, same ole, same ole,” Justice replies. “I stay close by to ensure Ciera and Bliss aren’t a victim of her bad decisions.”
Justice and I bore the brunt of Mama’s poor choices in men. Several years older than him, I tried to shield Justice, but once I moved on to play professionally and travel the globe, it was a lot harder to do from a distance. Justice took over as man of the house.
“I appreciate you, bro,” I say. “I’ll talk to you in a few days.” I end the call.
I love my family, I do, but it’s never been easy being the oldest or the sole provider. Mama stopped working when I turned pro, and I get it. She worked hard to help me achieve my dream. I owe it to her to give her the very best, and I’ve done that.
She wanted to stay in Phoenix close to her friends. I bought her an expensive house in prestigious Paradise Valley. She wanted a luxury vehicle; I got her a Porsche Cayenne and gave her a sizable monthly allowance. Yet it seems like it’s never enough because Grace Fletcher has a knack for finding all the Mr. Wrongs, who only use her because of who I am. To combat this, my accountant handles all the house bills, credit cards, and Ciera’s and Bliss’s private school tuitions and other expenses. Who knows what would happen if I left Mom to her own devices?
Sometimes I wonder, where is the strong, independent woman who raised me and fearlessly fought for me to have a place on the tennis courts? I want that woman back.
Maybe someday I’ll brave her waterworks and share my feelings. For now, I keep them to myself.
“Dominic, would you like anything for lunch?” the flight attendant inquires.
“No, I’m good. Thanks.”
And I will be. I have to learn how to deal with my mother’s shortcomings and not internalize them. The next couple weeks of vacation will be good for me. I’ll recharge so I can deal with my family and figure out what’s next for me professionally.