Читать книгу Match Pointe - Indigo Bloome - Страница 18

Given his recent form, it was only to be expected that Ivan should have a smooth run through to the semifinals of Wimbledon. But he met a glitch in his comfortable winning streak when playing against a young, up-and-coming Australian who took everyone by surprise. This opponent proved a worthy competitor, pushing Ivan into extensive rallies and forcing him to hit winners even he was a little shocked to have executed. The Australian’s tenacity and self-confidence certainly captured the eye of sports commentators, and there were lengthy discussions about whether he had the skill and drive to become the next big drawcard of the tennis world.

The crowd was thrilled with the five-set marathon, which, after many hours, saw the top seed proceed to the final – just as the bookmakers, including Caesar, had predicted he would. Although Ivan was pleased with his performance and eventual win, there was no doubting his thirty-one-year-old body felt the additional strain of such a challenging match. It ensured his personal physiotherapist was more than occupied for the next thirty-six hours leading up the final.

In keeping with the noble traditions of Wimbledon, the atmosphere at the gentlemen’s championship final was cordially electric. Ivan’s opponent was the twenty-six-year-old Swede Stephan Nordstrom.

Nordstrom had never been in a final at the All England Club, even though he had convincingly won the Australian Open earlier in the year, his first ever grand-slam victory. His form could be erratic and nobody was sure whether he was a one-slam wonder or set to settle in for the long haul, given that his win had occurred when the world’s Number One was absent from Melbourne Park. One thing was certain, however: the truth would be discovered by the end of the day.

There was not much time for Eloise to dance for Ivan before the final, as his coach took complete responsibility for orchestrating his every movement before he walked onto centre court. Eloise did her best in the twelve minutes she had been allocated, but she could tell he was distracted by nerves as he prepared to defend his Wimbledon title for the third time. His coach seemed as nervous as Ivan, so she assumed this tournament meant more to them than any of those he played leading up to it. After all, the Championships at Wimbledon were the most prestigious of all the grand slams – the slam all players dreamt of winning the moment the game of tennis took their lives hostage.

Right in the middle of Eloise’s performance, the coach opened the door, declaring that her time with Ivan was over.

Ivan looked a little flustered as he walked over to her. ‘Thank you, Eloise. Unfortunately my time is running out. I have a ticket for you, should you be interested in watching the final.’

It was unusual enough for him to speak to her after she danced for him, let alone offer her a ticket to one of his matches.

‘Thank you, Ivan, that is very thoughtful. Bonne chance.’

And with that she was immediately guided away so his coach could have final words with him before the match.

It was a warm, sunny day so Eloise wore a tailored emerald dress with mid-length sleeves that came to just above her knees, pairing it with court shoes and a matching handbag. She had changed her outfit when she found a guide to sartorial standards included with her ticket. It amounted to ‘No riffraff, please, we’re Wimbledon’. Apparently short skirts, bare midriffs, jeans, trainers, bomber jackets and sleeveless tops were all deemed inappropriate attire. She also opted to wear her hair in a sensible low braid, just in case her unruly flowing curls were deemed unacceptable and she was refused entry. She would hate to cause a scene and any embarrassment to Ivan.

Even after reading the sartorial guide, Eloise was surprised at the formal attire of some of the people bustling around the Wimbledon members’ enclosure. As she attempted to blend in, she felt like she was walking around inside a Burberry catalogue.

Staring at her ticket to ensure she was in the right place, she suddenly heard a vaguely familiar voice calling from behind her.

‘Elle, over here! Eloise?’

Elle? Only one person had ever called her that. She turned around and came face to face with Liam’s warm eyes and friendly smile.

‘My goodness, hi! I didn’t think I’d ever see you again!’

‘The universe works in mysterious ways! How are you?’

‘I’m really well, thanks. How about you?’

‘Same, although I’d prefer to be playing in the final.’

‘You play?’

‘I do.’ He laughed.

‘I’m sorry, I had no idea.’

‘No need for apologies, you didn’t ask and I didn’t say. Besides, most people hadn’t heard of me before yesterday. If Borisov hadn’t had the stamina and experience to last five sets in the semis, I’d be playing Nordstrom on centre court today. But that’s how the cookie crumbles.’

‘You played Ivan?’ She was astonished.

‘Yeah, you know, world Number One, presumably the person you are here to watch,’ he said with a cheeky grin.

She wasn’t sure how to answer, and thought it best to keep their conversation focused on him. ‘You certainly take losing well.’

‘I gave it my all on the day, that’s as much as I can expect from myself. It was a strong effort but he’s a great player – obviously. It’s just a game – admittedly a game I would have loved to win – but I had a good run, and made it much further than I’ve done here before, so I can’t complain.’

She remembered his positive attitude from when she met him in the pub, but still found herself shaking her head in surprise. ‘I wish I could be more like that.’

‘I know my day will come; I didn’t reach the Wimbledon final this year, but maybe next year, who knows?’ His high-voltage smile was on full display. ‘Hey, are you going to be around later? I’d love to catch up with you, but right now my coach is waiting for me in the stands. We need to be able to analyse my opposition in detail.’

‘Oh, sure, of course, I’d love to catch up. Sounds great!’ Spending some time with someone other than herself sounded like too good an opportunity to miss – especially someone like Liam.

‘Excellent!’ He pulled a card out of his back pocket and handed it to her. ‘Call me after the match and I’ll see if we can find something more potent to drink than an untouched pint – I have the next week off so I can let loose.’ His grin exploded into a heartfelt smile.

‘Sure!’ Eloise looked down at the card. ‘Noah?’

‘Yeah, that’s me. Liam Noah Levique. Not using my real name makes it easier for me to stay incognito when I meet beautiful strangers, and my nan always called me Noah, so it sort of stuck as my tennis name.’

‘Well, that makes sense. I’m not great at the whole tennis thing but at least I’ve heard of Noah Levique. You really did give Ivan a hard time.’ She knew more than anyone how flustered and aching Ivan had been after such a brutal match. Noah had put up a mammoth fight.

‘And I hope to do it again, only next time I’ll win.’ He winked at her as a flustered man began approaching from the stands. ‘Gotta go – see ya, Elle! Call me. Tonight!’ He held his forefinger and thumb to the side of his face as once again he jogged away from her with the boundless energy of an excitable puppy.

Eloise held the card to her chest and couldn’t help but smile as she considered the amazing coincidence that Liam was actually Noah Levique, a professional tennis player – and obviously a good one at that. Never in a million years …

She heard the polite announcement asking everyone to find their seats as soon as possible and settled in to watch her first ever professional tennis match.

The young woman next to her was dressed in blue, with her face covered in blue and yellow zinc.

‘Who are you going for, Russia or Sweden?’ the woman asked, in an American accent.

‘Russia – how about you?’ Eloise asked with a smile, given the answer was so obvious.

‘Who do you think? Sweden – of course. With him in the game, tennis has just got a whole lot hotter. He could do me any time!’ With that she screamed and waved her arms in the air as Stephan Nordstrom was introduced and walked onto centre court for his first Wimbledon final.

There was something overwhelmingly charismatic about Stephan Nordstrom, everyone else in view almost diminished as he took centre stage. Eloise felt a strong attraction seed in her belly. And suddenly she had far greater interest in the match about to be played. Like the rest of the crowd, she watched in absolute awe as the two players shook hands and commenced their first game.

Today, on centre court at the All England Club, it was abundantly clear that each player wanted this title as desperately as the other. And by all accounts, they would fight to the death to have it.

Eloise could barely sit still in her seat. The pangs of guilt were like shards of glass penetrating her skin as she found herself continually drawn to Nordstrom more than Ivan; it was difficult not to be. Her remorse deepened when she caught herself spontaneously clapping as Nordstrom sent a backhand winner flying down the line after an epic rally, almost knocking out a linesperson as the ball continued its destructive path.

Nordstrom’s response was electrifying as he pumped his fists into the air and released what sounded like a lion’s roar. Ivan continued on smoothly, undeterred by the Swede’s momentum on the other side of the net, maintaining his trademark cool, calm and collected persona while the fifth set climbed into double digits. Both players remained supreme professionals in front of an utterly engrossed crowd. Decorum was apparently everything at Wimbledon, and the umpire’s reminders of ‘Quiet, please’ felt like a restraining order on a ball of energy. Not one person could tell which way the match would go and all were literally sitting on the edge of their seats, gasping at the force and stamina behind each point.

The battle of the titans was won in four hours and fifty-three minutes … by first-time Wimbledon champion Stephan Nordstrom. Both players collapsed in sheer exhaustion before hauling their tortured bodies to the net to shake hands with each other and the umpire.

Stephan stripped off his shirt, flaunting his bronzed and superbly defined chest and abdominals, pumping both clenched fists high in the air and unleashing another almighty roar to the global audience. The power of his voice reverberated around the arena, causing the crowd to roar in return as he flung his shirt and sweatbands into the stands.

Eloise was as engaged as anyone, her hands becoming numb from clapping so hard. Discovering Noah had made the semifinals only added to her now undeniable interest in the game, and more particularly in its ranking system. Ivan’s failure to win didn’t result in his losing his status as Number One, but it did mean it was definitely under threat.