I pinched the top of my nose. This was a dream come true. An offer I couldn’t refuse. And yet it felt all kinds of wrong because even though I’d tried to tell Amanda that there was nothing going on with me and Marcus, it felt like she didn’t want to hear it. Maybe the truthdidn’tmatter as much as I thought it did in this scenario? As long as nobody was getting hurt, perhaps it was a case of neither confirming nor denying it? It might not sit well with me, but as long as I didn’t have to out-and-out lie, it could be a win/win situation – Marcus could get back on side with his sponsors, and I’d get to have the career break I’d dreamed of.
‘Now go get that story, Ava!’ enthused Amanda.
Chapter Eight
On day two of the tournament, the players’ lounge was a hive of mostly strenuous activity, and it seemed to be getting busier by the second. The Rolex Monte-Carlo Masters was a tournament for men only (no idea why – seemed odd) and Patrick had explained that because Marcus was currently seeded at number twelve, he’d be playing the first round, but that the top eight seeds got a “bye” straight into round two. I’d spent the morning in my hotel room watching YouTube videos about the rules of tennis – I thought I understood the basics now, at least, although I was still confused about the ‘advantage so and so’ bit. And don’t even get me started on the tie break.
Feeling like an imposter, a familiar feeling if ever there was one, I busied myself with pretending to write notes and trying not to stare as players I recognised fromDeucewarmed up with their trainers, some pounding away on the treadmills lined up against the far wall, others doing lunges and twists and intense-looking routines involving weights and medicine balls. Marcus was currently sweating away on a static bike, looking to all intents and purposes like he’d already done a full workout.
‘Won’t this tire him out before his match?’ I asked Patrick, trying not to stare at Marcus’s substantial thighs, which were shimmering with sweat as he pedalled away at a rate of knots, his head down, his breath coming in audible short bursts. Not that I’d ever even attemptedthis level of difficulty on a bike, static or otherwise, but if I had, there was no way I’d have been able to play a two-to-three-hour tennis match afterwards. Were these people even human?!
‘Believe it or not, this is only a warm-up,’ explained Patrick in his French lilt. ‘The absolute last thing we want is an injury – that could mean Marcus having to take months off the circuit to recover. A good warm-up ensures that his muscles are nice and stretchy before he starts, giving him less chance of pulling something if he slips or falls. For Marcus, cardio work also helps him to feel switched on mentally. See how he is totally focused on the exercise?’
He had his headphones on again and I wondered what he was listening to – what his pre-game soundtrack was. And I tried to imagine what was on his mind as he frowned gently to himself, pushing through the last few minutes of his workout.
‘Is he thinking tactics?’ I asked.
Patrick nodded. ‘He will most likely be running through the work we did in training yesterday. And the preparation he has done on his opponent himself. Marcus’s game is very adaptable, in that he can shift and change it mid-match if he needs to.’
‘And that’s not something everyone can do?’
‘Absolutely not. Some players, they plug away at what they’re good at – it might be a strong forehand, or a powerful serve. If they’re consistent enough, they hope that their opponent will make a mistake eventually, and that they will win the point by default.’
‘But Marcus doesn’t do that?’
‘Not generally. If he feels like a match is not going well, you can see him making adjustments to his technique. His entire game plan can change in the blink of an eye.’
Marcus slowed down and stopped pedalling, the whir of the machine quietening as he came to a complete halt. He sat upright, pushing his headphones off his ears so that they hung around his neck. Grabbing the towel from the bike’s handlebars, he rubbed athis face and neck, simultaneously sliding off the bike and launching into a set of deep hamstring stretches. He didn’t look nervous, exactly, but I thought he seemed more closed-off than usual. Patrick had told me that the tournament was only one tier below the Grand Slams in terms of available ‘points’, which in turn affected world ranking. There was a lot at stake.
I watched him carefully as he approached us, approximately thirty minutes before he was going to have to walk out on to Court Rainier III in front of several thousand people, the majority of whom, according to Patrick, would be supporting his opponent, Dominic Griffiths, a very popular young Australian player. I unexpectedly felt a whole range of emotions for Marcus, the main one being worry that he wouldn’t do well and I’d have to witness him kicking off in real time, which I wasn’t sure I could stomach. Suddenly, I understood what he’d meant when he’d said it was just him by himself out on court – that no matter how well supported he felt by his team, during a match it was down to him and him alone to make every single decision.
‘Getting what you need?’ asked Marcus, approaching me and nodding at my notepad.
‘Just getting started,’ I said chirpily.
He nodded. ‘I should go and get ready.’
He was standing very close to me all of a sudden, so close I could feel the heat rising off his body; could see a tiny drop of sweat hanging off the edge of his left eyebrow, which for some bizarre reason I wanted to catch between my fingertips.
‘Good luck,’ I said, and then instantly regretted it. Was it bad luck to say good luck, like it was to actors about to go on stage? Was there some other ritual for tennis players that I should have known about? Presumably it wasn’t ‘break a leg’ – that wouldn’t be the desirable outcome, and also it was entirely possible and far too close to the mark.
I waited for Marcus to snap at me.
‘Thanks,’ he said, flinging his towel around his neck and nodding at Patrick.
Okay, good, I hadn’t said the wrong thing.
Patrick slapped him on the back. ‘You’ve got this. If you play like you did yesterday, Marcus, it will be a breeze for you. Remember what we talked about – take risks, come into the net. Don’t be afraid to push him to the baseline and really use the power of that forehand.’
Marcus nodded. ‘Got it.’
He hesitated for a second.
‘There’ll be cameras out there. You might be photographed in my box. With my team,’ he said to me.
While I was still undecided about whether or not I wanted to go along with Dean’s fake romance plan, Ihadspent a bit longer than usual choosing my outfit that morning. Funny what the prospect of appearing in the gossip pages did for your inability to like a single item of clothing you’d packed. In the end I’d blatantly copied the women staying at Marcus’s hotel, and had opted for black jeans, a white vest, a baby-blue cable knit tied nonchalantly around my shoulders and the loafers I was glad I’d decided to bring with me to Monaco, even if they had added a good few pounds to the weight of my luggage.
‘Not a problem,’ I said, surprised, in hindsight, that he’d managed to consider me at all when surely he should be focusing entirely on the game ahead. I’d read that tennis players were inherently selfish and Marcus had certainly seemed that way initially, but perhaps there was much more about him to learn.
