Romance of My Dreams

Enjoy this Anthology excerpt from one of the stories—“Game, Set, Love Match” by Chelle Martin
Adaggio Johansson eyed his opponent across the net as he wiped the sweat from his brow and tossed the towel back to one of the linesman. Not surprisingly, it was a hot and humid day in New York for the U.S. Open Men’s Semifinal Match.
So close, so close, he thought, looking at the scoreboard to confirm what he already knew. Two more points. Just two more points, then on to the final. Your first Grand Slam. Adaggio drew in a deep breath before letting the air escape slowly through puffed cheeks. It was a relaxation technique, but whoever had developed it had apparently never been in a tennis semifinal before. His legs ached from going five sets today, another five with his previous opponent. He couldn’t afford to lose now; he’d worked too hard. He would prove he was better than his 25th seed ranking. The Brazilian, Enrique Cortez, would not advance to the final.
Serve to his backhand, he told himself. Then set it up for a shot down the line. Adaggio positioned himself at the baseline and tossed the ball up… Rrrrrinnnng!… and powered a 120 miles per hour serve at his opponent’s backhand. Whose bloody mobile phone is ringing?
The distraction threw Adaggio’s aim off. The ball landed within the service box, but not where he had hoped to place it. The Brazilian fired a beautiful return, forcing Adaggio to alter his course. Instead of hitting to Enrique’s backhand, Adaggio directed the ball cross-court. Phones were supposed to be turned off, dammit. This time his opponent hit to Adaggio’s backhand, but Adaggio managed another cross-court return. Then, as Adaggio tried to dash back to the center line, his foot slipped, giving him a slow start toward his next intended position on the court. Voice an objection. The Chair had to have heard the ringing. Enrique fired a shot down the base line. Adaggio would have to swing on the run and hope for the best. But as he slid into position and tried to get under the ball, he heard a popping noise in his right knee. A moment later he was on the ground in pain.
No! This can’t be happening, Adaggio told himself. Breathe, breathe. He rolled over and motioned for his trainer. In a moment, Benito Suarte, was hovering over him.
“’Daggio,” he said, “what happened? Where’s the pain?”
“What happened is a bloody mobile phone. Didn’t you hear it? I’ve got to finish, mate. I can do it on the next point.”
Benito tried to straighten Adaggio’s leg, feeling along the area surrounding his knee. Adaggio cried out in pain most everywhere he touched, and the area was swelling rapidly.
“Think you can stand?” Benito asked, offering his shoulder for support. With one agonizing move, Adaggio was up on his feet. He could still hear the mobile phone ringing in his mind. Could see the ball traveling full speed down the baseline. Could hear the popping noise. The crowd was one huge murmur of speculation. Off to his right and a few rows back, a loud argument erupted. Adaggio scanned the crowd. Was that where the phone had gone off? Shooting pain returned his attention to the court.
“Let me see you walk,” Benito said.
Adaggio tried placing his weight on the injured leg. One step. Two steps. The swelling made the area stiff, numb. He hobbled, nearly fell. Benito didn’t have to tell him the prognosis.
“I’m sorry, my friend,” his trainer finally said.
A lump worked its way up Adaggio’s throat. He nodded to Benito, who assisted him to the Chair.
The dreaded question hurt his ears. “Will you be withdrawing, Mr. Johansson?”
“Yes,” Adaggio replied through teeth gritted in both anger and pain. He then smashed his racquet on the court, breaking it. “And I want you to find the person who cost me the match.”
* * * *
Marilee Webb froze as a man appeared out of nowhere, produced a camera and clicked away, the film advancing automatically with a whirring noise. She threw her arms up in protest, but she couldn’t protect herself from the disparaging comments being flung at her from all directions.
“Look what you’ve done!”
“How could you be so stupid?”
“Don’t you know you’re supposed to turn your phone off during the match?”
“You’ve ruined his chance at the championship. Maybe his whole career.”
“Way to go, lady!”
The last one obviously coming from a fan of the Brazilian player.
Where is Suzanna? How long does it take her to make a trip to the ladies room? And why did she leave her bag with me? With a phone in it yet! Marilee shifted uneasily in her seat, wishing her friend would hurry up and come to her rescue.
She felt like a criminal. And why shouldn’t she? She was being treated like one. Her replies came as fast as the questions, but the excuses sounded lame, even to her.
“The phone isn’t mine,” she said.
“I didn’t know it was in there.”
“If I didn’t know it was in there, how could I know it was on?”
“I’m sorry.”
The last two words she must have uttered a dozen times while trying to fight her way over the spectators in her row. She stepped on several pairs of feet, doused a man with his drink, and fell into a woman’s lap before nearly stumbling into the aisle in her haste to get away. Suzanna could find her own way back to the hotel, she thought. Marilee’s hands shook as she clutched both her and Suzanna’s bags and made a run for the center court exit. Once in the promenade, she didn’t stop until she reached the parking lot and her blue BMW. But her troubles didn’t stop there. She dropped the keys twice in trying to hit the remote to unlock the door.
Marilee could picture an angry mob trailing behind her, carrying torches and wielding baseball bats. Well…maybe tennis racquets. Poor Adaggio. Was he all right?
The remote chirped twice, and the locks clicked open. Duh, Marilee. If he was all right, he wouldn’t have had to leave the match. And he had looked right at her. Like an animal in pain. A sleek, muscular, animal. Oh, geez. How could she think of him in that way under these circumstances? She didn’t want to think of him at all. She didn’t want to think of the cell phone ringing. She didn’t want to think. She just wanted to lie down in her hotel room and wait for Suzanna to get back so she could… Well, she’d think of something.
Marilee tossed in the bags, slid behind the wheel, locked the doors, revved up the engine, and didn’t look back.