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CHAPTER ONE

Quarter Final Curse

D ear God, pardon my French, but please don’t let me fuck this up! I prayed fervently, rocking back and forth, my hands between my knees so I didn’t have to watch them shake.

My mother would kill me if she knew I routinely swore at God. Then again, she’d probably just be happy that I was speaking to him at all.

She’d be full of smug, pious words if she were here: I told you, Melanie, didn’t I tell you?

It’s the curse! You haven’t been going to Church enough.

When was the last time you went to confession?

Probably not since school! God will forgive your sins if you confess, and he’ll lift the curse.

But you’ve turned your back on the Lord, so of course he’s going to punish you.

I’d always imagined that if God wanted to curse me, he would do something truly biblical, like give me syphilis, or send a plague of locusts to munch on the pot of basil I was slowly murdering on my windowsill.

But why would he curse me at all? I hadn’t turned my back on him. I still had faith. I just didn’t think that worshipping God meant listening to some ‘celibate’ dude in a black dress tell me how to behave.

I continued pleading with Our Heavenly Father. I had a drought I needed to break .

God, if you’re listening to me, I’ll do anything! I’ll come and light candles this Sunday. Hell, I’ll even go to the nearest church after the match and light them straight away. I’ll try my best to stop swearing. I’ll go and visit Mum more often. Please don’t let me lose another quarter-final!

I stopped short of offering to swear off sex; it was a hollow promise anyway. How can you swear off something that you haven’t indulged in for months?

My sex life was another drought that I was waiting to break, but I couldn’t exactly pray to God about it. I mean, what would I say? Dear God, please send a big throbbing man with a big throbbing penis in my direction ?

“Are you ready?” a stern voice wafted above me. I was in full-fledged panic attack by then, and for a second, I thought it was God talking back to me. Well, close enough, at least in his opinion.

It was my coach, Steve Herbert. He wasn’t exceptionally tall, but he was all lean muscle.

His grey hair was cropped as close to his skull as possible without using a razor, and his blue eyes stared down at me, filled with expectations.

He looked more like an Army drill sergeant than an ex-pro tennis player turned coach.

He could see the freak-out happening behind my eyes. He slapped me.

“Ow!” I shouted, putting a hand up to my face where I could feel the stinging outline of his palm. “That wasn’t very nice, Steve!”

He chuckled at me without a scrap of humour, “I’ll be nice to you when we’re not at the Australian Open. Right now, you’re paying me to help you win. If that means slapping you out of hyperventilating, I’ll do it.”

I stood up and walked shakily over to the mirror in my change room, inspecting my cheek for damage. There was a bit of a red mark, but nothing serious, and in a few minutes I would be red all over anyway. Melbourne in January was always scorching.

And just like that the tremors in my hands returned. Melbourne in January meant Australian Open. Australian Open meant me competing. Competing meant the curse.

Steve strode up behind me and gripped me by my arms, shaking me enough that my teeth clanked together. He was just slightly shorter than me, but Christ he was strong.

“Listen to me Melanie Black, you’re going to go out there and you’re going to smash the crap out of Gordana Slavonisovich. You’re a better player than her, and you deserve to beat her!”

“But the curse!” I wailed without thinking. I knew the second the words left my mouth that it was the worst thing to say to Steve.

“This is why I forbade your mother from coming down here to watch! All this shit about curses and turning your back on Jesus. You’re the only one who has the power to determine whether you win or lose! Now go and warm up. You’re going to beat Slavonisovich. You did last time you played her!”

“That wasn’t a quarter,” I muttered under my breath. Thankfully Steve didn’t hear me. I moved over to the treadmill and set it to a jog.

All warmed up, I checked the strings on my racquet: a Martel XIV Pro that I was trialling at this tournament as my previous endorsement deal had just expired.

Martel was the bee’s knees on the professional tennis circuit, and they didn’t have any Aussies on their sponsorship books. I planned on being the first one.

Now all I had to do was go out there and smash Gordana and I would be one step closer to a lucrative sponsorship deal with Martel.

I was decked out in all their gear at no small expense to myself.

But if it all worked out it would be so worth it.

If I could just win my quarter-final. And that was a big if.

I hadn’t won a quarter in the last five tournaments.

I’d made it to the quarters every time, and every time something happened that would fuck it up: a twisted ankle; coming up against my hoodoo player, Katinka Norieva; getting stuck in my own head; losing my confidence completely; etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.

I was about to drown under a tidal wave of ‘I just don’t have it anymore’. If I didn’t win this, I may as well just pack it all in and move home with Mum, marry some good Catholic boy she stalked for me at church and start popping out the rugrats.

That thought shuddered me out of my depression better than anything else could have, and it came at just the right time, as the bell went off inside the change room to let me know it was time to head out onto the court.

I gritted my teeth, adjusted my purple skort and strode past Steve. He nodded approvingly at the steel in my gaze and followed me into the tunnel that would lead me out onto Rod Laver Arena; my first ever match on the famous court.

The screams of the crowd echoed down the tunnel as I made my way closer to the harsh sunlight reflecting off the blue Plexicushion playing surface.

The adrenaline kicked in then, and the blood in my veins pumped faster.

I stepped out of the tunnel, blinded temporarily by the Melbourne summer sunlight and deafened by the roaring spectators.

Why had I been worried? This was my home crowd! As my eyes adjusted to the sunlight, I gazed around the court, waving at the fans.

“Marry me, Mel!” someone screamed. I laughed, blowing a kiss in that direction.

‘Black’ll Smack Ya!’ signs were held aloft all over the place. But one banner caught my eye, and I had to chuckle to myself when I saw it. ‘ Smash ‘em Smellie!’

There were only two people in this world who called me Smellie, and while I’d known they were going to be in this crowd, seeing the banner gave me a boost of confidence that I hadn’t known I needed. I blew a kiss in that direction too, hoping that Brad and Amanda would know it was for them.

Smellie was my high school nickname. Not because I reeked or anything; some dickhead kid back when we were thirteen called me Smellanie once as a joke, and it just kind of stuck.

I figured owning it was better than acting all hurt by it, and even though I’d been out of school for four years now, Brad and Amanda still used it as a sort of badge of honour, for being the friends who’d stuck with me the longest.

And now they were about to watch me in my first ever Australian Open quarter-final. I had to win this one .

Slavonisovich was serving first. I got into position as the crowd quieted to watch the match.

I knew I was a better player than Gordana. I just had to pretend that this wasn’t a quarter, or convince my brain that there was no such thing as a curse. Not easy when you’ve been raised by a highly superstitious Catholic.

I took a few deep breaths and I was in the zone. Nothing existed for me at that moment except for the court and Gordana Slavonisovich.

The sun was murderously hot as Gordana served to me, and I smashed it back over the net into the far corner of the court. She didn’t make it in time and the ball bounced away. The crowd applauded as the umpire called, “Love fifteen!”

Well, that was a good start. But it was far too soon to discount the curse. I had to keep my head in the game.

It wasn’t long before the sweat was dripping into my eyes, and I wiped it hurriedly away with the sweatband on my wrist. I was up three games to one, and I was settling into my groove.

Gordana was up to serve. She tightened her white-blonde ponytail and bounced the ball in front of her a few times. Just before she served, I heard a voice in the crowd, “You can do it Smell!”

Thanks Brad , I thought as I rallied Gordana. His shout had stoked the fire inside me. I just hoped they didn’t kick him out for it.

The sun continued to pound down on us as Gordana and I fought with each other across the court. She began to flag a little as the first set was called: I won six-four. A lot of the northern European players had difficulty handling the Australian heat.

But I wasn’t about to start relaxing any time soon. I still had to win another set. And I was feeling the heat too, although as an Aussie I was better acclimatised. I towelled off and adjusted the strings on my racquet. The Martel XIV Pro had been working really well for me so far.

“Just keep working,” I told it under my breath as I swapped ends with Gordana.

She shot me a look of hatred as we passed each other.

I flinched. Sure, we were competitors, but that was a look you’d give your mortal enemy.

I glanced up to the coach’s box to see Steve shaking his head minutely out of the corner of my eye.

D on’t get riled by the Russian , that look said.

I smiled grimly at him to let him know that I wasn’t biting. Well, not literally biting, anyway.

If she wanted an enemy, I would give her one. I would pound her right into the Plexicushion.

I rallied and volleyed and served like my life depended on it, concentrating only on smashing the ball at Gordana with enough force to break her bones if it hit her.

It took me a couple of seconds to register when the umpire called the match – I’d won in straight sets!

As my surroundings slowly came back into focus, the roar of the crowd increased in volume. I walked towards the net in a daze and clasped Gordana’s hand over the net.

“Congratulations,” she said in her matter-of-fact Russian accent. There was no trace of the hatred I had seen earlier as I thanked her with a tired smile.

And then it sunk in. I’d broken the drought! I’d beaten the curse! I’d won my first Australian Open quarter-final!

I leapt into the air, punching at the sky. I probably looked like a massive tosser, but I didn’t really care. The crowd was screaming; they loved seeing an Aussie get up in Melbourne.

A bunch of dude-bros in the front row were wolf-whistling at me. “We’ll help you celebrate, Hot Stuff!” one of them shouted drunkenly as they all thrust their hips in my direction. I rolled my eyes but couldn’t help my grin. I’d won a quarter-final, even drunk jerks couldn’t ruin my high.

I did on-court interviews with Wolf Sports and Channel Four. I spouted something about working on my focus and keeping my cool, before escaping to the change rooms for an ice bath.

Steve was waiting for me, grabbing me and swinging me around before returning me to the ground. “I told you there’s no such thing as a curse!” he laughed at me.

I smiled back wickedly. “Maybe it’s just that God finally answered my prayers,” I teased, not truly believing it.

Steve rolled his eyes and then got serious.

“Okay Mel, you’re into the semis, there’s no time for you to be complacent now. You’re up against Norieva. We need to talk strategy later over dinner.”

I grinned fiercely at him. “Of course. Now get out so I can freeze my tits off in peace.”

I sank into the ice water, trying not to wince. I thought about how Brad had clutched at his balls when I described to him the sensation of first getting into an ice bath.

“Oh jeez, Mel, why would you do that to yourself? I think my testicles have gone into hiding just thinking about it!”

I chuckled, glad that Brad and Amanda had been able to use my family passes. I wondered idly as my body started to go pleasantly numb if their presence had made a difference to my game today. Maybe.

This could be the tournament you win, Mel , I reminded myself. Katinka Norieva next, and then who? Probably Saturn Phillips – she hadn’t missed a final for ages. It would take some sort of miracle for me to beat her. But hey, if I could believe in curses, I could believe in miracles, right?

I climbed out of the ice bath and hopped straight into a hot shower, rinsing the sweat out of my hair and enjoying the warmth.

Julie the physio was oiling up my back when Steve walked in. I was naked except for the towel over my arse, but it didn’t really matter because Steve had been my coach for six years now; he’d seen it all, and it really didn’t interest him.

“So, Norieva,” he began. I grunted – not much else I could do when I was face down on a massage table.

“Her volley is her biggest weakness, so you need to focus on your short return. She’ll be getting you moving around a lot. How’s your ankle?”

“It’s fine,” I mumbled into the vinyl as Julie’s fingers moved lightly over my right ankle, the one that I had rolled in the first of my cursed quarter-finals, to check for any swelling.

“Mel, I’m so proud of you; that was a convincing win. You keep up that sort of form and you’ll have no problems with Norieva.”

“Thanks Steve.”

I relaxed and let Julie work her magic on me, riding the high of my win. I wasn’t about to let myself start worrying about the next match. Yet.

I wasn’t cursed. Now that I’d won I felt very blasé about the existence of the curse in the first place.

It had just been a drought, a drought that was broken now. I wondered when I’d get time to work on breaking my other drought.