Lucky Loser Read online

  Synopsis

  In the high stakes world of women’s tennis, love means nothing. Or at least that’s how Sinjin Smythe sees it. Then she begins to fall for her friend and former doubles partner Laure Fortescue. Having had her heart broken by one player, Sinjin isn’t willing to have it happen again. The talented but oft-injured Brit enters Wimbledon fighting her feelings—and struggling to resurrect her career.

  Laure Fortescue has fame, fortune, and a ranking inside the top ten. She has everything she ever wanted. Everything except Sinjin Smythe. As a rule, Laure doesn’t date other players. A rule she would gladly break if it means winning Sinjin’s heart.

  Both women reach Wimbledon desperate to claim tennis’s crown jewel—Sinjin because it would be her greatest victory, Laure because it could be her last.

  Where does love fit in a game that only one can win?

  Lucky Loser

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  By the Author

  In Media Res

  Rum Spring

  Lucky Loser

  Lucky Loser

  © 2011 By Yolanda Wallace. All Rights Reserved.

  ISBN 13: 978-1-60282-611-3

  This Electronic Book is published by

  Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

  P.O. Box 249

  Valley Falls, New York 12185

  First Edition: November 2011

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

  Credits

  Editor: Cindy Cresap

  Production Design: Susan Ramundo

  Cover Design By Sheri ([email protected])

  Acknowledgments

  The first tennis match I ever saw was the 1981 US Open women’s final between Martina Navratilova and Tracy Austin. I didn’t know anything about the sport or its stars at the time, but I found myself rooting for the player the rest of the crowd seemed to be rooting against. Martina lost the hard-fought match in a third set tiebreaker, but her tears afterward endeared her to the crowd and to me. On that day, a lifelong tennis fan was born.

  Lucky Loser was a labor of love for me, a chance to relive fond tennis memories while inventing some of my own. I hope you enjoy reading the book as much as I enjoyed writing it.

  Thanks, as always, to my favorite doubles team—Radclyffe and the Bold Strokes family. Ladies, you’re the best in the business. Dita, thank you for not laughing too hard when I played DVDs of classic tennis matches for research and invested myself in the outcomes as if the matches were live instead of twenty-five years old. And thank you most of all to the readers. You’re aces.

  Dedication

  To Dita. You’ve made ten years seem more like ten minutes.

  Game, set, match.

  Warm Up

  New York City

  Sinjin Smythe bounced the ball once. Twice. Three times. She needed a big serve and she needed it now.

  “Come on, Viktoriya! You can do it!”

  A fan’s cry of support for her opponent forced Sinjin to step away from the service line. She scrubbed her sweat-soaked wristband across her forehead then extended her hand to the ball boy. “Towel.” As she dried her hands on the oversized red, white, and blue cloth, she took a moment to gather herself.

  “Come on. Focus,” she said under her breath. “This is the reason you moved four thousand miles away from home. This is the reason you left college after your junior year. To play and win Grand Slam finals.”

  Only she wasn’t winning.

  She looked around cavernous Arthur Ashe Stadium, the vast arena that was the largest stage in tennis. She had surprised herself—and the tennis cognoscenti who felt grass was her best surface—by making a spirited run to the final of the U.S. Open. The lucrative New York-based event was the last of the tennis season’s four majors. The stars were out, literally and figuratively, for the prime-time final. And Sinjin, who had defeated four seeded players on her way to the championship match, was on the verge of losing in straight sets.

  She could already imagine the headlines. The British press, ravenous for a champion of their own, had spent the past few years making her seem like Wonder Woman. In a few minutes, they would stop building her up and begin tearing her down. She had played the best tennis of her life in her run to the final, giving her nation’s long-suffering sports fans hope she could translate her collegiate success to the professional ranks. Her stellar play had continued in the championship match, but her opponent had played the big points better. Too bad her hometown press wouldn’t see it that way. If she went on to lose, the loss would be chalked up to a failure on her part, not attributed to her opponent’s superior play.

  Viktoriya Vasilyeva, the twenty-year-old Russian beauty with the long blond hair and even longer line of drooling fans, had won the first set 7-5 and was up 5-4 in the second. She was a point away from fulfilling every tennis player’s dream. She was a point away from winning her first Grand Slam title.

  Sinjin tossed her towel to the ball boy and tried to avoid having her dream turn into a nightmare. The sellout crowd of twenty-three thousand, which had spent most of the nearly two-hour match either on its feet or on the edge of its seat, held its collective breath.

  Sinjin looked across the net at her foe. Viktoriya dried her racquet hand on the hem of her stylish black tennis dress as she prowled the baseline. Desire seeped out of every pore. Her will to win was nearly as intimidating as her power-packed game. But nothing—not even one of Viktoriya’s turbo-powered ground strokes—was as intimidating as Sinjin’s serve. When her serve was on, she could do anything. She could beat anyone. Anyone except Viktoriya.

  Sinjin’s flashy serve-and-volley game was built on aggression. She overwhelmed her opponents with constant pressure. She employed the same tactics now, hitting a powerful first serve and following it to the net.

  Up to the task, Viktoriya lashed a wickedly angled return. Sinjin dove for the ball but came up empty. Just like she always seemed to when she played Viktoriya. They had played each other dozens of times over the years, first in the junior ranks and now in the pros. Sinjin had yet to record a victory. Their latest encounter was no different.

  “Game, set, match, Vasilyeva,” the chair umpire said. “Vasil-yeva wins two sets to love.”

  Viktoriya’s stern game face vanished the instant the ball passed out of Sinjin’s reach. She squealed in delight and tossed her racquet high in the air as the crowd roared its approval.

  On the other side of the net—and the other end of the spectrum—Sinjin lay on her back and stared at the night sky. Chances to win Grand Slam singles titles—to etch your name in the annals of sports history—didn’t come along every day. Some players went their entire careers without ever reaching a Grand Slam final. She had made it in her first year. But she had blown her opportunity. Would it be her only one?

  Viktoriya leaped across the net and helped Sinjin to her feet. “I’m sorry it had to be you,” she said, draping an arm across Sinjin’s shoulder. Her once-impenetrable Russian accent was so slight it was almost undetectable. Years of living in the States made her sound like a native, not a visitor.

  “It sucks to make it this far and lose, but at least I lost to a better player. You deserved it. Congratulations.”

  “Thanks,
Sinjin. That means a lot coming from you.”

  Sinjin plastered on a smile she forced to remain in place throughout the seemingly endless trophy presentation. She didn’t want her dissatisfaction with her loss to detract from Viktoriya’s joy over her win. Viktoriya had finally lived up to the expectations that had been heaped on her since she was seven. When her parents had sold everything they owned to buy three tickets from Moscow to Orlando, Florida, so she could train at an elite tennis academy. She had finally made their sacrifice a success instead of a foolish gamble. She had earned the right to enjoy the moment.

  Sinjin remembered to thank all the sponsors during her runner-up speech, and she tried to look happy when a string of bigwigs presented Viktoriya with a check for a million dollars, the keys to a new Lexus, and the silver trophy most players would give an eyetooth to hold aloft. Once she reached the locker room, Sinjin afforded herself the luxury of a good cry.

  Viktoriya, showered and changed and on her way to a press conference, paused to offer a few words of consolation. “We used to dream about this when we were kids,” she said, sitting next to her. “Remember when we were at the academy and we would pretend our practice sessions were the finals of Wimbledon or the U.S. Open?”

  Sinjin nodded. “You always won those sessions, so I guess I shouldn’t be surprised you won this one, too.”

  The women’s tennis tour was as cutthroat as any big business, but some players allowed themselves to cultivate friendships, making a life largely spent on the road a little less lonely.

  Sinjin and Viktoriya had known each other since they were teenagers. Even though Viktoriya was two years younger, she had more experience as a professional. She had joined the tour shortly after her sixteenth birthday. Sinjin had completed three years of college before turning pro. While Sinjin had worried about class loads and keg parties, Viktoriya had fretted over ranking points and endorsement opportunities. Sinjin was the late bloomer. Viktoriya was the prodigy. Now she had gone from being a phenom to a champion. Sinjin was still waiting for her chance to do the same.

  Viktoriya rested her chin on Sinjin’s shoulder. “Let me buy you dinner,” she said, twirling one of Sinjin’s dreadlocks around her finger. “Would that make you feel better?”

  “I thought it was my turn to pay.”

  Grinning, Viktoriya fanned herself with her victor’s check. “I think I can afford it better than you can.”

  Sinjin dried her eyes. “In that case, let’s find the most expensive restaurant in town.”

  “How about my hotel? The room service is excellent, and I wouldn’t have to share you with anyone.”

  “Except for your parents and your agent and your coach and your trainer and—”

  “Not tonight. Tonight, the only person I want to celebrate with is you.” Viktoriya trailed her fingertips across Sinjin’s forearm, causing the fine hairs to stand on end. “I can almost feel your long, chiseled legs wrapped around me. I can practically see you with your head thrown back, your mouth open in a silent scream of ecstasy as I lick your caramel-colored skin and thrust my fingers deep inside your silken folds.”

  Sinjin took a long look at Viktoriya. “I don’t remember this being a part of our conversations at the academy.”

  “That’s because it was part of my fantasies. Will you help me turn my fantasies into reality?”

  Sinjin considered the question for a split-second. “Where are you staying?”

  *

  Sinjin slipped the key card into the lock and waited for the light to turn green. Then she opened the door and stepped into the room.

  The lights were turned down low. Soft music gently played on the stereo system.

  Viktoriya had booked a suite at the Ritz-Carlton, though not in her own name. “For privacy’s sake,” she had said, but Sinjin thought the subterfuge might have more to do with the bottle of Dom Pérignon that sat chilling in a sterling silver ice bucket. Viktoriya might be the queen of the tennis world, but in the country of her ascension to the throne, she was still too young to drink.

  Pocketing the key card she had picked up from the front desk, Sinjin looked around the suite. The expansive space included an entry foyer, two living rooms, two bathrooms, a marble tub, seven hundred thread count sheets, and a dining room that seated eight. Sinjin whistled in appreciation of the luxe surroundings. The nightly room rate was four times more than her monthly rent.

  Treating herself to a bottle of mineral water from the minibar, she waited for Viktoriya. And waited. And waited.

  Two hours later, after the ice had melted and Sinjin’s ardor had cooled, Viktoriya finally arrived. In her trench coat and black sunglasses, she looked like a Cold War-era spy.

  “I’m sorry I’m late. The press wouldn’t let me leave.” She placed two oversized shopping bags in the nearest chair and kicked off her designer shoes. A diamond-encrusted tennis bracelet circled her wrist.

  Sinjin eyed the shopping bags. “I didn’t know the press conducted interviews at Niemen Marcus.”

  “You know how it is.” Viktoriya opened the champagne and poured two glasses. She extended one toward Sinjin. “I’m so glad you stayed.”

  Sinjin drained the proffered glass then looked pointedly at her watch. “And now I have to go.”

  “Why? I just got here.”

  “That’s nice, but I have a match to play tomorrow. If everything goes well, you won’t be the only one leaving New York with a Grand Slam title under her belt.”

  Viktoriya rolled her eyes and took a sip of champagne. “No one cares about doubles. No one except for tennis fanatics and players who aren’t good enough to make an impact in singles.”

  Sinjin’s temper flared. For the doubles final, she would be partnered with Laure Fortescue, the French player who was the only other out lesbian on tour. Their finals opponents were an unseeded team who had upset the Williams sisters in the semifinals. Long shots when the tournament began, Sinjin and Laure entered the final as the favorites.

  They had nicknamed themselves the Rainbow Brigade, though one tour official, hyperaware of the assumptions casual fans made about female athletes, had asked them not to publicize the fact. Or to, as he put it, “broadcast” their lesbianism. Instead of retreating into the closet, Sinjin and Laure had smashed its doors down, opting to play with colorful gay pride bracelets on their wrists.

  They had been playing together for only a few months, but Sinjin wondered how long it would be before their commitment to singles would end their doubles partnership. Hadn’t the same thing happened to the teams of Evert-Navratilova and Graf-Sabatini?

  “I care,” she said. “So does my partner. I might not be top ten material just yet, but the last time I looked, Laure was in the top five.”

  “Not for long. When the rankings come out on Monday, I’m going to be number five and she’s going to drop to six. By this time next year, I’m going to be number one. Everyone’s going to be looking up at me, including Laure. But right now, I’d rather look up at you.” Viktoriya wrapped her arm around Sinjin’s waist and licked the side of her neck. “Mmm. If your skin is this good, I can’t wait to see what the rest of you tastes like.”

  Sinjin disengaged Viktoriya’s arm and gently pushed her away. “It might be just doubles, but it still looks good on a résumé. So if you will excuse me—”

  Viktoriya blocked Sinjin’s escape route. “I’m sorry if what I said came out the wrong way. There’s good money to be made in doubles. And a title is a title, whether it’s won on your own or with a partner. But you didn’t come over here to talk about tennis, did you?”

  Viktoriya unbuttoned her trench coat and let it fall to the floor. The sight of her toned, six-foot-two body in lacy black lingerie silenced Sinjin’s protests.

  Viktoriya smiled triumphantly. “I didn’t think so.”

  Sinjin picked Viktoriya up and carried her to the bed. After Sinjin laid her down, Viktoriya spread her legs as if she were daring Sinjin to claim her prize.

  Sinjin kisse
d Viktoriya’s full lips and moved lower. Past the perfect breasts. Over the flat stomach. Her mouth grazed Viktoriya’s mound and closed around her warm, wet center. She painted the hood of Viktoriya’s clit with long, slow strokes then flicked her tongue at the bundle of nerves at the tip.

  Viktoriya groaned deep in her throat and buried her hands in Sinjin’s hair. Her hips matched Sinjin’s rhythm as Sinjin licked and sucked her clit. She squeezed her eyes shut. “Fuck,” she said through gritted teeth as her head thrashed against the pillow. The muscles in her well-defined thighs and calves flexed and released. Flexed and released.

  Sinjin brushed her fingertips along Viktoriya’s sensitive inner thighs. Viktoriya groaned again. Sinjin loved the moment of submission, the moment of pure acquiescence when a woman she was with let everything else go and completely gave herself over to pleasure and sensation. Her once-perfect hair mussed, her skin mottled, her breath coming in short, ragged bursts, Viktoriya had reached that moment. When Sinjin reached up and gently squeezed her nipples, Viktoriya nearly launched herself off the bed.

  “Now. Take me now.”

  The hoarse whisper drove Sinjin wild.

  She slipped two fingers inside Viktoriya’s smooth walls. With her left hand, she reached down and tended to her own need. When Viktoriya’s cries of release began, so did hers. Viktoriya’s muscles spasmed around her fingers, drawing them deeper inside. Her own clit twitched and pulsed against her hand. She heaved a satisfied sigh and rolled off.

  “Now,” Viktoriya said, “wasn’t that worth waiting for?”

  *

  Laure Fortescue fiddled with her racquets. She straightened the strings, checked the tension, and rewrapped the grips. She didn’t know what was strung tighter, the racquets or her. She checked her watch for the umpteenth time. Sinjin was late. Very late. They were due on court in ten minutes. If Sinjin didn’t show up soon, they would be defaulted. Laure would rather play and get beaten love and love than lose without even taking the court.