Not Quite 30-Love

#IWantThatMan, #PreCrisis

#IWantThatMan, #PreCrisis

The rising sun appeared through the c***k in my curtains. Four hours sleep, ninety degrees and one hundred percent humidity, not the perfect combination for my first jog around New Haven. The numbers were not going to improve, and I needed to run. I needed the time on my own. I needed the struggle for breath. The time for ideas to germinate.

A quick study of the map the concierge gave me. Turn right on Church Street after exiting the Omni, past the town green, take a left on Elm, and back via Crown. ‘It’s a grid. You can’t make a mistake,’ he said. But, to my quote Dad, ‘Your other right, Katie.’

Setting the FitBit to ‘run’ mode, I inhaled the thick stale air. Might as well get used to it. I had allotted myself a precious thirty minutes, and within seconds my body put up its familiar resistance. First a niggle in my left knee, then a twinge in my back and a shot of nerve pain on the side of my right ankle. Five minutes later, they were all gone.

Halfway through, my hair was stuck to my head and sweat stung my eyes. At this point, it would have been just my luck to run into Petrov. My BFF Jen says women shouldn’t sweat, they should glow. She never sweated when we ran together. I would wring water out of my ponytail, while Jen looked the same at the end as at the start of the run.

Running past the Yale library, which looked a bit like Notre-Dame cathedral in Paris, I thought of Dad – he loved old buildings. Was he okay? He and Mum were so vague. ‘We’re fine, Katie.’ Mum had no credibility after keeping that tumour secret from us, a few years ago. Thank God it was benign.

Shit, which way… York, Broadway or Park Street? The concierge told me to look out for a theatre. I saw a sign for Yale Repertory Theatre and was back on track.

Later that morning, James suggested I try to watch some tennis during the day, rare for people working in the game. My eye was on Petrov vs Dimitrov later that afternoon. Throughout the day, the monitors showed the matches progressing. When Petrov’s match went to court, the sponsors had arrived in the party tent for the evening’s session.

‘Welcome Mr and Mrs Shaw, are you going to watch some tennis or take some refreshments first?’

Mr and Mrs Shaw decided on refreshments and chatted to me. Petrov was already up 6-0, 3-0 over Dimitrov. The match would be over soon, no point trying to watch today.

Minutes later there was a massive roar from the crowd. Then another and another. Anna from sponsorship came over and excused herself. She whispered in my ear, ‘Petrov is imploding out there on court. He got a bad call and he’s just spraying balls everywhere. Dimitrov is going to take the second set.’

The noise from the crowd kept rising, and all the sponsors were deserting the tent and taking their seats. Everyone wanted to watch the train wreck in action. We watched via the monitors. Trying not to show emotion, glancing at each other. For some inexplicable reason, I was willing Petrov to win. At the same time, he did not seem to care.

The crowd booed their disapproval. In less than forty minutes since he had lost the service game at 3-1, the match was over, with Dimitrov the victor 0-6, 6-3, 6-0.

James would be in his office, so I hurried in that direction. His bellows arrived before me. I did not dare to go in, but everybody around the office could hear what he was saying.

‘What kind of a joke is that? People paid good money to see that i***t tank a match. I want him fined,’ James said.

‘We’ll be looking into it, James. But let’s not jump to any conclusions. He could have just had a bad day.’ I recognised ATP supervisor Paul Sand’s voice.

‘A bad day, a bad day. My sponsors will be out for blood,’ James was yelling louder. ‘The players want to get paid, don’t they? Let’s see how happy they are if the money dries up.’

James blasted out of the office and slammed the door. Paul was left inside. Nobody looked up. James had always seemed a silent assassin. This bluster was an entirely new experience.

I made my way to the interview room and snuck into a corner. Glancing around the room at the journalists present, there were several familiar faces, including Tim Waters, the arsehole media manager I worked for in Sydney. Memories flooded back. ‘Katie, you forgot the mic flag in the interview room’, ‘Katie, are you sure you have a degree in marketing?’ ‘Katie, only an imbecile would do it that way.’ f**k you Tim, I thought, but was distracted from further hateful thoughts by Petrov’s entrance. You didn’t have to be a mind reader to establish Petrov was pissed off.

**

Q: ‘Mr Petrov, do you think you played well today?’

A: ‘No, I play like crap.’

Q: ‘What do you think you have to do to improve?’

A: ‘Not play like crap.’

Q: ‘Yes, but more specifically?’

A: ‘I have to hit the ball over the f*****g net and between the lines. Is that specific enough for you?’

**

I followed the throng of journalists out of the room and felt a tap on my shoulder. It was Tim, the arsehole.

‘Katie Cook, what are you doing in a dive like New Haven?’

Without acknowledging the slur, I told him about my new role.

‘What brings you here?’ I asked.

We made our way into the hallway as he explained he was researching a piece on the dominance of Russian tennis players. Focusing on their hunger, desire and the communist training methods. I nodded and smiled politely as he rambled on about the interviews he had secured. My ears pricked when he mentioned Petrov.

‘His parents virtually sold him to agents at ten. I’m likening it to child slavery.’

Not wanting to seem over interested, I wished him luck with his research and explained that I needed to welcome some sponsors. He smiled and shook my hand. He put his hand on my back and said, ‘If you ever want to come back and work the tournament in Sydney again, your job’s there.’

I twisted back, looked him square in the face; he smiled. Nothing about his comment seemed sarcastic.

‘Thanks Tim.’

The conundrum of people in this sport continued to baffle me. That week working for him was hell. He treated me like a clumsy i***t. Now he’s complimenting me? Hopefully the truth of my competency was somewhere in the middle of those extremes.

**

Tim: Probably still a dickhead.

**

Back at the party tent, James made an appearance. He smiled and chatted with our sponsors. He did not acknowledge me. After fulfilling my duties in the tent, I went back to my desk and was buried in work for maybe an hour, when a clipped deep voice announced himself.

Nikolai Petrov wanted to pick up the loser’s prize money. Don’t look, don’t look, don’t look, I chanted to myself as he exchanged pleasantries with Julie.

‘I want to speak to the tournament director to say goodbye.’ Had I mentioned to Julie that Nikolai was cute?

‘I’m sorry Nikolai. I don’t know where James Petersham is,’ said Julie as she looked towards me. ‘Katie’s his assistant, maybe she can help you?’ Yep, it seems I did.

I looked up, and felt the rush of red from my chest to my face. He turned in my direction and looked at me. I fixated on trying to remember how to stand up. My movements were stilted and alien-like as I walked over to Nikolai, one foot in front of the other, kept breathing, kept smiling, and said, ‘I’m sorry, but James Petersham is unavailable at the moment.’

The words came out, but each one took seconds longer than it should have. English was his second language, not mine, but you would not have known it. ‘Okay, tell him thank you for a great tournament, Katie.’

In an attempt at regaining composure, I managed to stick my hand out. He grabbed and held it tight. His hand was twice the size of mine, and his grip was crushing my fingers. He was over a foot taller than me. My eyes level with his chest. His body cast a shadow over mine. There was a scent coming from him, a mix of designer body wash and arrogance that made me giddy. He dropped his head and shoulders to meet my gaze. His eyes were the clearest green. They were emerald – not hazel. Green like the Cartier panther with long thick black lashes framing the stones. Piercing, literally stunning. I was transfixed, staring, hypnotised – making a complete d**k of myself. The memory of every man I had worshipped or kissed flashed through my mind and then melted away. He released my hand and strode out the door. As soon as he was out of view, the entire office laughed. The ground would not swallow me up. The only choice left for me was to join in.

**

Nikolai: TROUBLE.

**