Authors: Jennifer Iacopelli
“15–Love,” the chair umpire called and Penny grabbed the ball out from beneath her skirt as she and Indy changed sides, Penny beating her to the net and walking past her without looking up. She went straight for the baseline and waited for Indy to collect herself. She did so quickly enough, Dom’s between-point routine training taking over, a few breaths, forget about the last point and move on to the one ahead.
Penny didn’t want to forget the last point though, so ignoring the fleeting pain in her ankle and what it might mean, she piggybacked the previous serve almost identical to the last one, right into the body, as hard as she could. Indy tried to pull her hands in in time to return it, but again, it was a mishit, barely making it to the net before bouncing away harmlessly. The pain wasn’t there this time, but still, she kept all emotion off her face. Indy wasn’t a master of the mental game yet, but they knew each other pretty well, well enough for the other girl to read her face during the match.
“30–Love,” the chair umpire said, and the crowd started to murmur uncomfortably. Six straight points for one player, especially to start a match, always created a certain uneasiness with fans. Would the match be a boring blow out, one player totally dominating the other?
“Come on, Pen,” a voice shouted out through the murmuring of the crowd and the noise increased in apparent agreement. Maybe they’d be cheering for her after all.
It was time to switch it up a little bit, keep Indy on her toes. The next serve, off speed with some major spin on it, arched high through the air and kicked out wide, making Indy lunge desperately, but the ball was beyond her before she could get there. Again, no pain and she let herself, at least on the inside, breathe a sigh of relief.
“40–Love.”
Penny finally looked across the net. Indy’s face was crinkled, not in fear, but in confusion, like her body wasn’t doing what she needed it to do and she couldn’t figure out why. She pursed her lips. Maybe Indy was feeling the pressure, those nerves that haunted her back at OBX and early in Paris creeping up again. Whatever it was, Penny was more than willing to take advantage of it. The last serve she put straight down the center of the court, going for the white T, the same way Indy had with her service game. A little bit of anything you can do, I can do better, played through her head as the ball skidded off the white paint, past Indy’s racket, and then whizzed just by the ear of the baseline judge.
“Game, Miss Harrison. Miss Harrison leads, two games to love.”
“Yeah,” she let herself say, pumping her fist, letting her fingernails dig into the palms of her hand. The pain was back, this time a quick pulsing ache that centered in her ankle and fanned out through her foot and her calf. She moved to the other side of the court, tossing a leftover ball back to the ball boy as the crowd applauded politely. But there was a buzz in the air now, not electric, but radiating disinterest, conversations about other matches coming up that day or plans for lunch before the next match starting up between the fans.
As she settled in to receive Indy’s next serve Penny pushed the pain down and refocused. There was no way she was going to let a little bit of pain make any difference in this match.
June 24th
Indy shuffled her feet over the smooth, short grass court deep behind the baseline and blocked back Penny’s forehand, a high arching lob toward the other side of the court. She twisted her body around just in time to watch Penny run forward and, with a swinging volley, bury a short winner cross-court. No chance for her to even move in the ball’s direction before it bounced again.
“Game, Miss Harrison.” Indy let her head fall back, the sweat beading on her forehead, spilling down her temples. The chair umpire had to be tired of saying that, like when you say a word over and over again, it starts to lose its meaning. Miss Harrison was starting to become something else. She wasn’t the girl on the opposite side of the court anymore, her friend, the sister of the guy she was falling for. “Miss Harrison” were two words standing in her way and just refused to budge. “Miss Harrison leads the second set, 5-0.”
She knew Penny was tough, knew she was a great player. She’d seen it on her first day at OBX. Her serve had been taken apart thoroughly that day, but Indy figured she’d come a long way since then. She’d put in the time, the effort, she’d moved beyond raw talent to a more polished game, making shots instead of just hitting the ball. So why in the hell was the result the same?
She hadn’t managed to hold serve even once during the first two sets, let alone even attempt to break Penny’s serve. That was supposed to be her strength and it was failing her. There wasn’t anything different about what she was doing. Her serves were hard and well placed, but she couldn’t get them past Penny with any consistency. Her opponent would anticipate the location, the speed, everything. Was Penny just that much better than she was?
The question had plagued her for forty minutes or so and it was keeping her brain whirring; the only thing stronger than her nerves was the confusion. The only answer she’d managed to come up with was “yes.” Penny Harrison was just that much better than she was, bum ankle and all. She’d underestimated her friend’s abilities or maybe overestimated her own. Dom would know, but she couldn’t ask him during the match as coaching wasn’t allowed for players on the court. Even if she could, she wouldn’t. Dom Kingston was pretty low on the list of people she trusted these days. But really, realistically speaking, it was just too late. Penny wasn’t going to blow this lead, no matter how much her ankle hurt. Indy knew the other girl was trying to hide the pain in her ankle, but it was pretty obvious to everyone how much it hurt, grimaces flickering over the normally stoic poker face, if ever so briefly. That only made it worse. Penny Harrison, on one leg, was wiping the floor with a full-strength, top of her game, Indiana Gaffney.
The crowd had long since stopped paying attention. Mostly, it had thinned out, spectators wandering off in search of a more competitive match up and so the umpire didn’t even have to ask for quiet as Penny stepped up to the baseline to serve out the match. A brief thought of withdrawing flickered through her head. Just walking up to the chair umpire and ending the suffering. It would help save Penny’s ankle for the next round and it would just bring an end to this shit show of a match. It just wasn’t the effort she’d want to give, even though she’d put everything into it. She’d dropped Jasmine for this. Her performance in the singles tournament was supposed to convince sponsors that she was who they wanted to sign for their tennis lines, to represent their brands to the public, and she’d gone out and embarrassed herself.
Indy faced the wall behind her baseline, straightening the strings on her racket. Briefly, she caught the eye of a line judge who kept her face blank, but Indy could see the emotion flicker in her eyes, pity, disgust, annoyance, boredom, or maybe nothing. Maybe she was just imagining it. She shook her head, trying to clear it of the insane amount of negativity that had seeped in while taking the beating of her life.
She turned away and stepped up to the baseline. Penny was ready and waiting across the court. Indy nodded that she was ready to go and Penny nodded back, then just like she had the entire match, she served perfectly, a laser beam into her hands. The placement was almost impossible for Indy to return effectively, her long arms a disadvantage as she had to draw them into her sides and try to get the racket face at a decent angle to hit the ball. She just barely managed it, but Penny anticipated a weak return and had moved up toward the net, easily dunking a soft volley across the court to win the point.
“15-Love.”
Huffing out a breath of annoyance, Indy moved to the other side of the court, waiting for another serve. She just set herself into her crouch and waited for Penny to choose a ball. Penny didn’t delay either and Indy appreciated her willingness to put an end to this misery.
Another serve, this one straight up the center of the court and Indy didn’t even have time to flinch toward it before it nearly took the head off the line judge behind her. Penny’s brow furrowed at her and Indy shrugged, moving again to the other side of the court.
“30–Love.”
The next serve was exactly the same and Indy lunged for it, tossing her racket at it for good measure, but it didn’t do any good. The fans who were left groaned a little and some people let out disappointed whistles. There was one sure fire way to piss off a tennis crowd and that was if they thought you weren’t trying. Her eyes stung, tears gathering in the corners, but she pushed them down. Screw them. She was trying.
Indy felt the weight of Penny’s eyes on her, but she didn’t meet her gaze. She just waited for the final ax to fall. A spinner, up and away, completely beyond her reach.
“Out,” the line judge called and Penny raised her racket into the air, challenging the call.
“Miss Harrison is challenging the call at the far service line. The ball was called out.”
Indy had a good enough view of it as it spun by her. She was pretty sure it had clipped the line, so she made her way toward the net as the remaining fans clapped in rhythm, waiting for the replay to make the call. Penny was already standing at the center of the court, just beneath the umpire’s chair, hands on the net, eyes trained up at the video screen.
The large replay screen at the end of the court showed a graphic version of the ball traveling over the net and just scraping the edge of the service line before bouncing away. It declared the shot, IN, in bright, white letters.
“Game, set, match, Miss Harrison, 6-0, 6-0.”
Indy walked the final few feet to the net and held her hand out to Penny, who took it and squeezed it. She finally looked the other girl in the eye and nodded once before pulling away. She didn’t want her pity. She just wanted to get the hell off this court. She touched the umpire’s hand in what barely qualified as a handshake and moved over to her chair, shoving her racket into the bag and hauling it over her shoulder. She draped her towel over her shoulders and walked straight to where the security guard was waiting for her. Caroline was right beside him, her lips pressed firmly together in a tight line.
“Don’t start,” Indy muttered as the guard led them from the court grounds where, over the PA system, she could hear Penny giving a post-match interview.
“I did not say a thing,” Caroline shot back. “You have a press conference. Be gracious. Talk about how well Penelope played.”
“I think that’s pretty obvious,” Indy said as they approached the door to the media room. She set down her bag and nodded to the media relations official who introduced her to the crowd of reporters. It was mostly faces she didn’t recognize, though she saw Harold Hodges, the man who’d interviewed her a few months ago mixed in with the sea of unfamiliar faces. He gave her a nod as she took her seat in front of the microphone, lights lining the sides of the raised dais, blinding her just a little, and waited.
“Indiana, your first match at Wimbledon, how did it feel?” the first reporter asked.
Indy picked a little at the white cloth covering the table in front of her. “Well, obviously I was excited and nervous. I wish it had gone better, but I can’t wait to get out there again.”
“Do you think nerves played a factor in how you played today?”
“No. I think Penny Harrison was the major factor behind how I played today. She was incredible.”
“You and Penny are friends. What was it like playing against her in the biggest match of your career?”
“It sucked,” she said, painting a fake smile across her face. “She’s really good in case you guys didn’t realize.”
“How do you think you’ll fare in the junior tournament?”
“The goal coming here was to win it and that’s still the goal.”
“What will you take with you from this match today down to the junior ranks?”
“That I’m really glad Penny doesn’t play juniors anymore.”
They all laughed and Indy nodded to the media coordinator who said, “Any other questions for Indiana?”
“Did the news breaking of your controversial relationship with Penny’s older brother and agent, Jack Harrison, have anything to do with your performance today?”
Indy leaned forward in her chair and stared directly into the reporter’s eyes. “Fuck you.”
She stood up and grabbed her bag and made her way down from the dais and out to the hall where Penny was waiting with Jack and Dom.
“Good match,” Indy mumbled, trying to slip by her, but Penny caught her arm.
“Wait.”
Yanking free, Indy shook her head. “You beat me. Let’s just leave it at that.”
“Indy…” Penny trailed off and she felt her shoulders stiffen at the tone. She could hear pity in her voice. Penny felt bad for beating her, for winning, or maybe just for winning the way she had.
“Don’t,” Indy said, cutting her off. “Just don’t.”
She marched down the hallway, Jack, not far behind her. She could feel him following her, but she refused to turn around. She went straight for the locker room, but he caught up to her before she could go where he couldn’t follow.
“Just go be happy for your sister,” she bit out before trying to push past him.
“Indiana,” he said again, his fingers circling her wrist and squeezing. “I am happy for Penny, but that doesn’t mean I can’t be there for you. What that douchebag asked was totally out of line.”
Indy shook her head and tried to pull away, her pulse thrumming in her neck when his grip tightened. “Let go of me,” she whispered.
Jack’s hand fell away and he took a step back, staring at her, his eyes wide. He swallowed roughly and then looked away from her, his feet carrying him down the hallway away from her. Indy watched him go, stopping halfway down the empty corridor to punch his fist into the wall. At the sharp crack of bone against the wooden paneling, she turned and slipped into the locker room where she’d be just another wildcard who lost to a top seed in the first round and not the girl who’d managed to alienate pretty much every single person she cared about in the span of just a few days.