Chapter 6 #2
Downstairs, Yoko sat at the hotel bar and ordered a glass of white wine.
The bartender was bored, cleaning glasses and gossiping with the server, who had no tables left in the restaurant.
At least, Yoko assumed they were gossiping.
They wore the same expressions as her mother and her friends when they got together to play card games like Karuta and Go, and talk about their neighbors.
Yoko filled her mouth with wine and allowed herself to feel very sorry for herself.
Maybe next year or the year after, she would win Wimbledon.
Or perhaps she’d get injured and never play another game again.
Anything could happen in the world of sports.
What would she do then?
Suddenly, Yoko realized she wasn’t the only person at the bar.
A broad-shouldered man, with thick light brown hair and hands the size of dinner plates, had entered.
He was talking to the server in a flat accent, one that reminded Yoko of American movies she’d watched through the years.
Was the man American? She so often struggled to make sense of accents.
It was also tricky for her to gauge people’s ages, especially when they were from different cultures.
A Japanese man of fifty looked at her, far different from an Englishman of fifty.
But if she had to guess, she’d say this American man at the bar was in his forties.
He was healthy, maybe a runner, a biker, or a swimmer.
Probably because she was staring at him, the American man turned and looked at her. Immediately, his expression changed. Yoko’s chest thudded. She knew he recognized her as the runner-up champion, which meant he’d been at the match today.
He raised his cocktail toward her. “Congratulations. I didn’t imagine I’d run into you here.”
Yoko raised her glass of wine and said, in shaky English, “I lost. Do you remember?”
The man’s smile widened. For a moment, to Yoko, he looked like a shark. “There always has to be a winner and a loser at these things, huh? It’s a tragedy.” He gestured at the chair nearest to Yoko. “Can I come over?”
Yoko felt stung with panic. The last thing she wanted was to make conversation with anyone, least of all in a language she was less than medium-good at. But how could she escape him?
“I am quite tired,” she said finally, by way of indicating that she didn’t have time for this.
But the man didn’t want to take no for an answer.
He carried his cocktail over and slid into the chair beside her, bringing a wave of expensive cologne.
The bartender had turned around to continue his gossip session with the server, leaving Yoko and the other guest to their bar conversation.
It occurred to Yoko that plenty of people tried to pick up other people at hotel bars.
She saw that the man was wearing a wedding ring, but knew that didn’t stop many people from pursuing nights with strangers.
Yoko shivered. All she wanted in the world was Akira’s love.
This felt sour by comparison. She was misplaced.
“The thing is, I watched you out there today,” the man said. “You’re a brilliant player when you want to be. But you aren’t there yet.”
Yoko understood the man much more than she wished she did. She hunched over her glass of wine and tried not to glare at him. Japanese women were meant to be agreeable. But she couldn’t bring herself to smile, as her mother would have wanted her to.
“How long have you been with your coach?” he asked.
Yoko said she’d been with him for many years. “We are both from Osaka,” she explained. “I’ve trained with him since I was a teenager.” She hoped she was getting all the words right.
“The thing about coaches is, sometimes, they can only take you part of the way there,” the man explained. “I sensed today that your coach doesn’t know how to push you where you need to go.”
“Where do I need to go?” Yoko asked, initially confused.
The man leaned toward her, his eyes glinting. “You need to go all the way. It should be you up there with that trophy. It should be you at the top of every list. Don’t you feel that?”
Yoko did feel that, but she’d begun to believe it was impossible. She took another drink but was unable to look away from this strange man. His energy was like fire.
“I’m a tennis coach myself,” he explained. “I spent years coaching Maria Ramford, Cynthia Walters, and Jamie Anderson. But your talent is far and away the best I’ve ever seen.”
Yoko recognized the women’s names. Many of them had gone on to secure championship titles. She’d seen many of them interviewed on television. But she’d never played any of them, which meant she couldn’t fully gauge their talents.
“My name is Carson Reynolds,” the man said, extending his hand to shake hers. Yoko did, trying not to laugh at how silly it still felt to shake hands like this. It felt overwhelmingly Western. “I live in the United States full-time, so if you wanted to train with me, you’d have to move.”
Yoko’s ears rang with alarm. Move? To the United States?
She imagined that glorious country of purple mountains and lakes the size of oceans, glowing white deserts, movie stars, burgers, and wealth.
Could she really move there? Could she leave her beloved Japan and forge a new path for herself?
It was true that Americans were known as the world's brash go-getters. Maybe her longtime coach didn’t know what it took to be a champion.
Perhaps this strange Carson Reynolds was the key to championships and glory.
And wouldn’t it be nice to get out of Osaka? Akira lived there, part-time, when he wasn’t off making movies. Himari lived there as well. Their love felt like a direct assault against Yoko’s potential happiness. Maybe if she stayed in Osaka, her game would dry up along with her heart.
“I will have to talk to my parents,” Yoko said, although she knew that conversation would be a dead-end. Her mother would never go for it.
“Let me talk to them,” Carson said, delivering that sinister yet gorgeous, big-toothed American smile. “I’m sure we can work something out.”
He said it like he always got what he wanted. Yoko figured he probably did.