Page 5 of Risky Match (Royal Spies #1)

Not wanting to reveal I had another panic attack, I say, “Fine. Let’s get started. I need a win here. Let’s not waste any time.”

“Have you forgotten that you won the Wimbledon Junior’s title at seventeen.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“It’s still impressive. More importantly, you’ve won each of the other three Grand Slams multiple times in the last fifteen years. Very few players can say that.”

“That may be true, but winning the men’s singles title at Wimbledon would mean everything to me.

For some reason, since my junior’s win, grass court tennis has been my nemesis.

That’s changing now. We need to solidify a bulletproof plan and implement it.

I’m not going to let the press or my past losses distract me this time. ”

“Your game is perfectly suited to grass, but you don’t have much time to transition from clay at the French Open to grass here. Hell, you only play on grass about five weeks a year, and two of those are at Wimbledon. It’s a tough adjustment for everyone.”

“I know. There’s not enough time to get comfortable on this surface. But someone wins each year. This time it will be me.”

“The transition is as much mental as physical. You know what to do. You psych yourself out. That’s one reason I recommended the sports psychologist. She’s helping you mentally prepare, which I believe will make the difference.”

“And it’s why I insisted we arrive here much earlier than usual. I’m not taking anything for granted, particularly given my recent panic attacks. When the matches start, I’ll play every point as well as I can. In the end, I plan to hold up the trophy,” I say, slamming my fist on the desk.

“I know. Calm down. We’ve got this.”

Clenching my fists, it takes everything in me not to scream. Calm down, my arse. I’m not having a panic attack now. I’m merely focused on winning. Even if I were having an attack, doesn’t he know I wouldn’t be able to control it by merely calming down ?

I know he wants to help, but he’s never experienced what I’m dealing with. It’s futile to try to explain. Instead, I simply say, “Good. What’s on the agenda for today?”

“I’ve mapped out a strategy for your workouts and court time that should have you peak at the right moment. Give me a second to pull up the spreadsheet.”

While I wait for his computer to boot, I try to push away my negative thoughts.

The problem is that I almost dread this tournament each year for fear that I’ll fail again.

I’m sick of answering the same questions year after year and seeing the headlines that suggest I’m not as good as the players who have won all four Grand Slams. Or even worse, they imply that I always choke at this tournament.

This year I’m determined to overcome the obstacles one way or another.

Pointing to the screen, Josh says, “Here we go. Look at this. I’ve divided each day into four parts.”

As I’m about to ask a question, Josh’s mobile phone rings.

“Hello. It’s Josh.”

He listens and then responds, “I’m not going to tell him. That’s your job. I’m putting you on speakerphone.”

“Who is it?” I ask, frustrated by the interruption.

“It’s Noah. He has an update for you.”

I can’t imagine what my manager wants that can’t wait.

“Hey, Noah. We’re in a meeting. Let’s talk when you arrive for the tournament.”

“No, this can’t wait. It’ll impact your schedule.”

Scheduling hassles are the last thing I need now. Rubbing my neck to relieve the building tightness, I ask, “What do you mean?” I ask.

“Your clothing sponsor insists that you play mixed doubles as well as singles this year.”

“No!” I bark.

“No isn’t an option. You will play mixed doubles,” Noah commands.

Who the hell does he think he is? He works for me.

At this point, I’m pacing the room, attempting to control my response. Josh doesn’t need to hear what I really want to say to Noah. That will happen after Wimbledon and in private.

For now, I count to ten—twice, and finally bite out, “They can’t make me do that.”

“Unfortunately, they can. There’s a clause in your contract that says they can make this request at one Grand Slam event per year. If you don’t comply, you’ll be in breach of contract, and they will sue you. They will also terminate their sponsorship deal with you.”

What is Noah good for if he can’t properly manage my schedule and contracts? He’s supposed to protect me from these distractions.

“Noah, I’m not playing doubles at Wimbledon, period. They can pick another tournament—just not this one. Tell them.”

“I already tried. That’s when they pointed to the contract and mentioned calling their lawyers.

You don’t want the bad publicity, and you don’t want to lose a sponsor that pays you millions per year.

Your contract is up for renewal. They’ve made it clear that the renewal depends on you playing doubles at Wimbledon. ”

What a cocked-up mess. I continue pacing, weighing my options. Then a solution pops into my head.

“Fine. I’ll play in the first round.”

Noah is grating on my nerves. We’ve been going through this song and dance for years. I’m tired of it. Soon I will take the plunge and hire a new manager who negotiates tighter contracts for me. That can wait until after Wimbledon though.

Noah adds, “And you’ll play to win . There are sizable monetary incentives the further you make it in the doubles bracket. They also have a penalty if you lose in the first round. In other words, you must play your best.”

“Shite. I don’t need this hassle. I was willing to play one round, but no more. I’m going for a run. When I get back, I expect to hear how you found a way out of this mess. Fix it!”

“Don’t you want to know who your partner will be?” Noah asks.

“NOOOO!!!! I don’t give a flying flip who the sponsor wants me to partner with. It’s not happening.”

I storm out, slamming the door with a loud bang.

Is the universe against me? Why am I always screwed at Wimbledon?

I’ve been plagued with ridiculously tough draws, innumerable rain delays, twisted ankles, back spasms, and even the stomach flu once.

Why do these things always happen here? Not that I want them to happen at the other tournaments, but it’s uncanny how many things go wrong here.

Now it’s an unreasonable sponsor insisting I play doubles. I don’t have time for relationships, not even a working relationship with a doubles tennis partner.

It’s not going to happen. I can’t let it.