“Sure.”
If you enjoyed All Wrapped Up, check out All the Little Moments to really get to know Anna, Lane, Ella, and Toby.
No Going Back
by Cheyenne Blue
“The world number one does not lose in the first round of a grand slam tournament.” Her coach crouched beside the ice bath, his gaze dispassionate on Alina’s nearly naked body.
Alina sank lower in the frigid water and tried not to shiver as the cold bit into her aching muscles. “This number one just did.” She shrugged, striving for a nonchalance she didn’t feel. Nausea rose in her throat, forced up by the crushing disappointment of her failure and she blinked fast to control the tears that threatened. “It happens.”
No chance of a kind or consoling word from Anatoly. Her coach treated her like a machine. A thing to be fuelled efficiently, brought to peak fitness, and doubtless discarded once it was no longer profitable. Her emotions were irrelevant.
Anatoly’s lips tightened to a thin line. “The number one ranking is now achievable for five players from this tournament. Jelena Kovic or Simona Halep have only to reach the semi-finals. Serena Williams can retake the ranking if she wins the final.”
“Even Serena has lost in the first round of a grand slam.” Alina winced as her aching hip spasmed. Was this the start of her slide in the rankings? She forced her mind away from the negative thinking. That was a loser’s mindset. And she was a winner—next time. She had to be.
“Serena’s loss was the 2012 French Open. Not since then. You would do well to study her determination.” Anatoly rose, his face a blank mask. “Tonight, we will analyse your loss, pinpoint where you went wrong. Tomorrow, we will work on your weaknesses.”
Alina closed her eyes momentarily. She hadn’t had a day away from tennis in nearly three months. Even the off-season—December—had been spent at Delacourt Academy in Florida. She’d spent Christmas Day doing footwork drills. She clenched her fist under the water. She would not spend another evening with Anatoly listening as he picked apart her game, her tennis skills, her fitness, and then, invariably, he would focus on the personal—her looks and what she needed to do to gain better sponsorship. No. Anatoly could go hang himself.
“I have a date. Mikhail and I are going for dinner.” It wasn’t true, but she was sure she could talk Mikhail into it. His first-round match wasn’t until late the following day.
Anatoly grunted. “Be back early. I’ve reserved a practice court for 6:00 am.”
She didn’t reply, simply sank lower so that the ice water circled her neck. It was as frozen as her heart.
Mikhail was predictably delighted when Alina asked him to dinner. Men. She snorted to herself. A tiny hint of flirtation, the barest insinuation that this time he wouldn’t be going home alone, and he fell into her palm like vending machine candy. As the number eight seed, he was expected to cruise through his match. No doubt a sexual dalliance the night before wouldn’t put him off his game.
She tightened her lips. That was never going to happen.
One advantage of the Australian grand slam being held in Melbourne was that there was no shortage of fantastic restaurants. Mikhail’s choice though, was as plain as could be. A steakhouse, where she already knew he would order the largest steak on the menu, cooked well done, and served with a mountain of green salad, no dressing.
She arrived first, and was shown to a prominent table in the centre of the room. The restaurant was almost full and there was a background buzz of chatter and the subdued chink of cutlery. Alina fixed a smile to her face and strutted to her seat. It seemed the room fell quiet as she walked past. Every eye in the room was on her: assessing, caressing, lusting, scathing, dismissing. The world number one, dumped out like a rank qualifier. The censor in the gazes cut her like grains of sand on a windy beach.
She sat, ordered a sparkling mineral water, and pretended to study the menu. Mikhail was late. Where was he? She took a swift glance around the room under the guise of summoning the waiter. No Mikhail. Most of the patrons had returned to their meals, except for one woman who, like her, sat alone. Her black hair hung loose in an asymmetrical bob, and her copper skin was set off beautifully by the cream-coloured dress she wore.
The woman was, quite simply, stunning. She sipped a glass of wine and glanced around the room as if she, too, was waiting for someone. Her gaze caught Alina’s and stopped. The woman’s mouth tipped up at one corner and she raised her glass to Alina.
Alina looked away. Suddenly it hurt to breathe through the tightness in her chest. Caught looking. Her nerves jangled and she resisted the urge to glance around the restaurant to see if anyone else had noticed the interest in her gaze. Instead, she looked back at the menu, flicked a page, and studied food choices she had no interest in eating. Fillet steak or chicken in mushroom sauce? She didn’t care. Food was fuel for her body, seldom more. She ate the nutritionally balanced diet that her health and fitness coach recommended. Years of lean meat, protein, salad, and platefuls of pasta the night before a match. No dessert. No wine. Even her mother’s pierogies were a distant memory. Except for the other night, when she’d woken from a dream of potato and chive pierogies and sour cream sauce. The hunger pangs had made it hard to sleep after that. Other players went out to dinner together. Sometimes, by chance, Alina ended up in the same restaurant and she’d seen them: a group of laughing girls, drinking wine, ordering lavish desserts even. Alina’s lips compressed. That had never been something she’d done. Maybe that was why she was number one in the world and they were not.
When she looked up again, the black-haired woman was still staring at her. She smiled and it seemed as if she might rise to her feet to approach Alina. Then another woman hurried up to the table and bent to kiss the woman’s cheek. The moment passed.
Alina looked down at the tablecloth, at the heavy silver cutlery. What would she have done? And why was she even wondering? The woman was probably a tennis fan, someone who’d recognised her, nothing more. She’d probably been summoning her courage to ask for an autograph.
“Alina.” Mikhail stood next to the table. She hadn’t seen him approach. He stood waiting, as he always did, for her to rise and kiss him. Other players might want to pass unrecognised during a tournament. Not Mikhail—he thrived on the recognition.
She stood, kissed his cheek, and let him usher her into her seat as if she hadn’t just risen from it a second ago.
“You look stunning.” Mikhail covered her hand with his own. “That blue dress is my favourite.”
“Thank you. You look delectable too. Very handsome.”
“We make a good couple.” He tapped the menu. “Have you already decided?”
She nodded. Mikhail summoned the waiter and ordered fillet steak, well done, and salad, no dressing. Exactly as she’d known he would. The waiter was looking at her patiently. Chicken or steak? Did it even matter? She ordered steak simply to avoid a lecture on nutrition from Mikhail.
He was a good conversationalist, which was one reason she was happy to spend time in his company, and he knew more of the tour gossip than she did.
“Michi Cleaver is now sponsored by Nike,” he said. “Watch out. She may be after your number one ranking.”