Game. Set. Match. Read online

  It had been a long time since she’d played at an elite level. High school tennis definitely didn’t count. The last major championship she won was over a year ago. She was crowned the West Coast Regional 16 & Under champion just a few weeks before her mom got really sick, too sick to even fight her on pulling out of Nationals.

  Indy was back now and really, she’d put this off for too long. Watching Penny Harrison kick ass in Madrid was the tipping point. Indy knew her mom wouldn’t have wanted her dreams to be put on hold forever. She wouldn’t have wanted them to be put on hold at all.

  Swallowing back the lump in her throat—one that just wouldn’t go away no matter how much time passed since her mom died—she reached for the door handle and stepped into her new life.

  “Welcome to OBX,” said an older African American man dressed in a dark suit as she stepped through the main entrance. He put down his newspaper and stood from behind a reception desk at the center of the large atrium. Shining, grey speckled tile lined the floor and there was a large wall of windows up on the second level. “I’m Roy Whitfield, head of security. You must be Indiana Gaffney. The night security guard told me to expect you this mornin’.” His accent was a little jarring to her ears. Despite the beaches and warm sun, the distinctive twang in his voice was a stark reminder of just how far away she was from home.

  “Indy,” she said, “just Indy.”

  “Well then, nice to meet you, Indy. Running a little late this morning, darlin’? Was that Teddy Harrison I saw you walking with?”

  “I, um, I guess so. I don’t know. I was lost,” she stuttered. Was that who he was? Teddy Harrison, twin brother of Penny Harrison, the one the tennis world called, “the normal Harrison” because he was only headed to a full athletic scholarship at Duke and not racing up the rankings of the pro tour?

  Roy nodded. “Hmm, alright then.”

  “I’m supposed to meet Coach Kingston…” She trailed off as Roy’s attention was drawn behind her.

  “Ah, speak of the devil.”

  Indy couldn’t help but smile when she turned and saw her new coach striding toward them from the other end of the atrium. Dom Kingston was tall and tan, his dark hair a little too long and graying at the temples. As a player he had won both the US Open and the Australian Open, twice.

  “Indiana, happy to have you here, finally,” Coach Kingston said, shaking her hand firmly. His dark brown eyes met her blue ones, letting her know without a doubt that he meant it.

  “Thanks.” It meant a lot that he hadn’t given up on her and had enough faith in her abilities to bring her on. She’d basically called him up out of the blue, hoping the old cell phone number she had for him was still good. It was and it turned out he was thrilled to hear from her, even after so much time had passed.

  “Have a little trouble with the clock this morning?” Dom asked, raising his eyebrows.

  Indy laughed nervously and shrugged. “Yeah, the Eastern time zone and I aren’t friends yet, and then I got lost.”

  “Teddy Harrison was nice enough to show her the way,” Roy cut in, his mouth turning down unhappily. “Funny, him being on campus so early.”

  Dom pressed his lips into a thin line and hummed. “Indeed.” Then he shook his head and focused back on Indy. “You should start getting used to time changes. Success on tour is half talent, half being able to adjust to new time zones, and here at OBX we have a policy: on time is fifteen minutes early.”

  “It won’t happen again,” she promised, a twinge of excitement shooting through her at the thought of being on the pro tennis tour and that Dom saw her living that life one day.

  “See that it doesn’t. Now, Roy, would you be kind enough to show Indiana to the locker room and then drop her off at the training courts?” Roy nodded and Indy quashed down the stab of disappointment that Dom wouldn’t be taking her around himself. He must have read it on her face. “I’ve got a lot of paperwork to catch up on this morning. It all piled up while I was in Spain. You’re in good hands with Roy.” He strode to a side staircase near Roy’s security desk, then turned back. “Welcome to OBX, Indiana. I’ll see you out there in a little while. Roy, when Penny gets in, tell her I’d like to speak with her.”

  “Will do,” Roy said as Coach Kingston climbed the stairs and let himself into his second-floor office. “Now, Indy, come on, girl. We’ll get you set up with a locker and then off to practice. I’ve been here since the day OBX opened its doors. You have any questions or need anything at all, you can come to me.”

  He led her down a hallway off the atrium. OBX had state-of-the-art indoor facilities, both for training and recovery, a full spa, video analysis rooms, and indoor courts. She’d seen it all before, but that didn’t make it any less impressive. Then, at the end of the hallway, a large mahogany wall littered with small brass plaques caught her eye. It stretched from the edge of the locker room door all the way to the exit that led to dozens of practice courts.

  “The Title Wall,” Roy said when he saw the direction of her stare. “Walk past this every day, Indy, and it’s easy to stay motivated.”

  Indy squinted at the plaques, catching names and dates any tennis fan would be familiar with, incredible athletes who came through the doors of this training facility just as she had with the same dreams and aspirations.

  The newest plaques were still shiny and bright, not faded like some of the others. They were all less than a year old.

  Penelope Harrison – Australian Open Junior Girls

  Penelope Harrison – OBX Classic International Invitational Penelope Harrison – French Open Junior Girls

  Penelope Harrison – Wimbledon Junior Girls

  Penelope Harrison – US Open Junior Girls

  Penelope Harrison – Madrid Open

  “It’s been a good year at OBX.” Mostly for Penny Harrison, she added in her head.

  “A very good year.”

  “I’ll be up there soon.” She was already picturing her name on a brass plate with a huge tournament name next to it.

  Roy’s eyes twinkled at her. “You win a tournament, Indy, and that’s where it goes, up on the Title Wall. Come on now. Let’s get you out to the training courts. Workout’s started and Coach D’Amato hates tardiness.”

  “Lead the way,” she said, giddy at the thought of her standing in the center of OBX’s main court, holding a trophy aloft as the crowd cheered her victory.

  ***

  Indiana’s breath came heavy and hard. A knot crept up her throat, choking her as she scrambled to keep up with the dozen or so other athletes racing back and forth, sideline to service line, sideline to alley line and then finally sideline to sideline. Assistant Coach Giulia D’Amato watched them like a hawk as their sneakers pounded from ad court to deuce court and back again.

  “All the way through.” The smooth Italian accent echoed off the hard court. “Do not stop, run through the line. Andiamo!” The tiny woman barked orders like a drill sergeant.

  Their feet skidded to a halt near the fence that surrounded Courts 11-15. According to Roy, these were the training courts for all non-ranked players. Right now, however, they were being used for torture.

  “This is insane,” she mumbled under her breath. As soon as she stepped onto the court, fifteen minutes later than Coach D’Amato had expected her, the entire group, the Junior Elite Girls as Roy called them when he dropped her off, was instructed to complete fifteen “Einsteins.” Nothing had ever winded Indy so fast, not the drills her former coaches made her do, not even the matches she’d played as a junior. She thought she’d kept herself in decent shape, running, lifting weights, swimming, along with the fitness program her high school tennis coach put together, but apparently it wasn’t enough.

  “Eccellente,” D’Amato called. “Take some aqua and then rackets for serving drills.”

  They jogged to the fence behind the far baseline to grab some water. It seemed no one walked anywhere at OBX. Everything was done at a run. Indy’s one consolation was that most of
the girls looked as out of breath as she felt. That was her first goal then, step up her conditioning so she could surpass these girls purely on an endurance level.

  They drank greedily from their water bottles and stood in a cluster, waiting for Coach D’Amato to call them back to practice.

  “Why does she call them Einsteins?” Indiana asked the girl next to her. Shorter than Indy, the girl had a natural tan to her skin and her long dark hair was pulled back in a sleek ponytail. She was one of the few not panting and strikingly pretty in an exotic sort of way, the exact opposite to Indy’s blonde hair and fair skin.

  The girl rolled her almond shaped brown eyes. “Einstein’s definition of insanity, doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results. She makes us do one for every minute anyone is late.”

  “Sorry,” Indy muttered and the other girl’s cool façade wavered a little.

  “It happens. Just don’t let it happen again.”

  “I’m Indiana Gaffney, by the way, but everyone calls me Indy.”

  “Jasmine Randazzo. Welcome to OBX.”

  It took Indy a moment to realize why she recognized that name, but then it clicked. Jasmine Randazzo was the daughter of John Randazzo and Lisa Vega, serious tennis royalty, and founders of this school. Jasmine wasn’t quite as tall as she looked on TV and her frame was a lot slighter.

  “Oh you’re…That’s so cool.”

  “What?” Jasmine frowned.

  “That you’re…” Indy began, but then realized her mistake. “I’m sorry. You probably get that all the time, your parents being who they are.”

  “Whatever, they’re my parents.” The girls standing near them buzzed. Clearly Indy’d said the wrong thing.

  “Right and you’re totally following in their footsteps. You played in Madrid last week.”

  Jasmine shrugged. “The Spanish Federation asked me to play.”

  “Wow.” Indy smiled. “That’s such an honor.”

  “Whatever, it’s not that big a deal. Besides, the competition wasn’t all that great.”

  “But didn’t you lose in the first round?” The words slipped out before Indy even fully thought them. The girls around them gasped. “Shit, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

  “Whatever,” Jasmine said and stalked away, racket in hand. Silently, the others followed her, like little drones trailing their queen bee, most of them without enough guts to meet Indy’s eye, except the last two, a short blonde and a tall redhead, who stared at her hard, then tossed their heads and giggled together as they walked away.

  Indy pursed her lips. Her stupid mouth, it always got her in trouble, but it wasn’t like she was wrong. Jasmine had lost in the first round.

  “Andiamo ragazze!” Coach D’Amato called. “Girls, line up for serves. Indiana, you first.”

  Indy caught the ball the coach threw in her direction before moving off to the side to observe.

  “Power it up the T,” Coach D’Amato said.

  She bounced the ball a few times until she felt comfortable, tossed it in the air and put everything she had into firing the ball up the middle of the court. Her serve wasn’t quite at the level it had been a year ago, but it felt really good to just let it fly.

  Indy stood tall as someone let out a whistle and another added a “Whoa.” She turned, let her eyes linger on the line of girls behind her and smirked.

  Coach D’Amato cleared her throat, drawing Indy’s attention back around. “Again.”

  She obliged, grunting with the effort of her serve. It had been clocked at speeds averaging between 100 and 115 miles-per-hour, sometimes more. It was the most dominant part of her game and what convinced her mother she could become a professional tennis player. When she started playing big junior tournaments a few years ago she’d never been broken on serve. It’s what caught Dom Kingston’s eye at a regional championship and the reason he’d invited her to train at OBX.

  Five more serves and the line behind her buzzed, the worker bees getting agitated.

  “Grazie, Indiana. Jasmine, next.”

  Jasmine just rolled her eyes. Indy ignored her and moved to the back of the line. She watched as Jasmine hit solid, steady serves. Indy recognized the technique from Jasmine’s mom, Lisa Vega, two-time French Open champion. Her serve was good, really good, and suddenly Indy couldn’t wait until she and Jasmine went head-to-head. Tennis royalty or not, to prove to everyone she was the best, Jasmine Randazzo was who she had to beat.

  Chapter 2

  May 14th

  A beam of sunlight shining through her window warmed her cheek. Penny Harrison pressed her nose into the sheets and inhaled. The fresh scent of the laundry detergent her mother used was a reminder that, for the first time in four months, she was home for more than a couple of days.

  “Penny.” Her brother Jack’s voice carried up the stairs and into her bedroom. “Delivery for you.”

  She rolled out of bed, feet landing on the plush carpet, a welcome change from the tightly woven, thin carpeting found in most hotel rooms. She curled her toes into it, relishing the comfort before standing.

  When she got downstairs, both her brothers were in the kitchen. Jack, her older brother and more recently, her agent, was digging through the fridge. Her twin, Teddy, was sitting atop the central island, shoveling a spoonful of cereal into his mouth. Beside him was a long, white box wrapped with a bright blue ribbon.

  “You want some?” Teddy asked, his mouth full of the sugary crap he called breakfast.

  “No thanks.”

  Penny pulled the ribbon free of its bow and folded it up neatly. She lifted the lid of the box to reveal a dozen long stem roses. There was a note tucked inside the sea of petals.

  To many more victories.

  –Your friends at Nike

  She breathed in the aroma of the fresh-cut flowers. Nike was upping their game. They’d been dangling a sponsorship deal since the end of last season when she swept the junior Grand Slams, but they’d backed off earlier this year after she’d lost in the quarterfinals of the Australian Open. Penny wrinkled her nose. Lost was a bit of an understatement. She’d been pounded, losing in a double bagel. A total embarrassment and something she swore she’d never let happen again.

  “The flowers are a nice touch,” Jack said, pouring himself a glass of orange juice.

  “A car would’ve been a nicer one,” Teddy quipped.

  “I already have a car,” Penny said, tucking the note back inside the box and then pushing his legs out of the way to find a vase under the island.

  Teddy smiled, his dimples appearing, making him seem far more innocent than he’d ever been. “Yeah, this new one could be for me.”

  “Dream on, little bro,” Jack said.

  “Whatever. Speaking of cars though, can I borrow yours today?” he asked, turning to Penny.

  “Nope. I’m going to OBX,” she said.

  “What? Why?”

  “I have to train. The French Open is in less than a month.”

  “Yeah and you just won Madrid almost a million dollars. You’re not going to take a day to enjoy that?”

  “I did,” Penny said. “When Jack and I stopped over in New York to talk to potential sponsors I took the whole afternoon off and went shopping.”

  “Whoa, jump back. You’re a real wild woman, Pen.”

  “I try. Why can’t Mom or Dad drive you?”

  “Mom’s doing some tutoring thing and Dad’s working. Please? I’ve already walked it once today.”

  “What do you mean?” Jack asked, narrowing his eyes.

  Teddy smirked. “I stayed over at OBX last night.”

  “Did you? Who was it this time?”

  “Katie Nelson.”

  “Ugh, you’re disgusting, Ted,” Penny said, looking up from arranging her flowers.

  “Katie didn’t think so. In fact…”

  “Don’t finish that sentence,” she said, reaching for the bowl of car keys on the counter. “Take my car.”

  “
You’re the best, Pen.” Teddy jumped down from the counter and took the keys from her, then strode out the room and probably back to bed. His training session wasn’t until the early afternoon.

  “So Nike,” Jack said, taking the card from the box. “Looks like your win in Madrid made them rethink their pullback after Australia.”

  Penny wiped some of the last sleep from her eyes. “Looks like it.”

  “You know this isn’t just an outfitting deal, Penny. They want you to be the new face of their brand. You can’t go into a major tournament and bomb out again. Things have to be different at the French Open.”

  “I know that,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest. They’d had this conversation a million times since January. “I’m not playing in Rome or Brussels to focus on the French. I’ll be ready.”

  Jack slung an arm over her shoulder and squeezed. “I know, but I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t remind you.”

  Rolling her eyes, Penny shook her head. “What was I thinking hiring my brother as my agent?”

  “You were thinking that your big brother is brilliant and that he’d always do what’s best for you, even when that means kicking you in the ass. Now go get dressed.”

  Penny stood tall and saluted him. “Sir, yes, sir.”

  “Brat.”

  Twenty minutes later, she climbed into Jack’s car and they sped down Ocean Trail toward OBX. Pulling into the parking lot, Jack navigated into her designated spot.

  Reserved for Penelope Harrison

  World #33

  The sign was updated after her run to the quarterfinals at the Australian Open as well as some decent finishes in a few other tournaments. Now, after her win in Madrid, she’d popped into the top twenty for the first time in her career. Rankings were the result of complicated math. They were determined by a points system that reflected the results, good and bad, of each player at every tournament. Some tournaments were worth more than others and Grand Slams were worth the most. When Dom recruited her, convincing her parents to move their family from Chicago to this tiny town on the North Carolina coast, he promised she would someday be a top twenty player. Now, here they were, just a few weeks away from the French Open where she could hopefully push into the top ten.