The PeRFect Combination
Chapter One
As she strolled up the hill, the sun blazing down on her shoulders, Amy began to get excited. The email had told her that she had been the successful candidate to become the new assistant to Roger Federer. To Amy, this wasn't just any old tennis player. This was Roger Federer, the greatest tennis player in history! She had come to admire the tennis champion through her TV screen, watching his mastery of the sport as he darted around the court jumping gracefully and elegantly into the air and coming down with a powerful strike to absolutely obliterate his opponents.
Amy had no interest in playing the sport herself, but enjoyed watching a match (especially if the Fed Ex was playing). She had never developed the skill or agility that she knew was required. Unfortunately, she also knew that to play the game, a level of discipline was required. Amy had never been one to follow the rules. She was often referred to as sneaky, and someone once went as far as to tell her that she was manipulative. It wasn't her fault that she was beautiful! Amy knew that she had been blessed with good looks. She had got lots of attention from men who would talk about her glossy brunette hair and her sparkly green eyes. Perhaps she thought, that was why she had been picked for the job! She had been required to send a photograph – that was it! Roger had fallen in love with her!
After this thought, Amy had a new spring in her step. It was 7:05am, she was 5 minutes late, but if Roger was in love with her, he would forgive that. While she walked, she thought of ways in which she could introduce herself to the newly single Federer. What a shame about their marriage – NOT. The split had been very public. Roger's face had been plastered all over the papers. Luckily for Amy and for the rest of the world, this hadn't stopped him from playing. However, he had been more withdrawn than usual from press conferences, interviews and events.
It was now the off season. Roger would be practicing. It was well known that Roger didn't holiday. His first love was tennis. It was his wife, his mistress and his baby. Many others would call it his bitch.
Who would be meeting her at the location? Would it be another assistant? A manager? Would it be the Fed himself? Surely a man worth 65 million wouldn't spend his time meeting with nobodies like her. Although, if he did look at her picture and find attraction, she thought, maybe he would come out to greet her. Maybe he would even hug her, kiss her. More?
Amy picked up her pace. She didn't want to keep such a man waiting. She had followed the directions. They had taken her to a lake in Zurich – she knew what this would be. She was going to Roger's house. Sure enough, as she rounded the last corner, an enormous glass mansion came into view. Perched on the edge of a hillside, almost overhanging the sparkling lake, there it was. Her stomach started doing somersaults. Nerves kicked in. Pulse racing. She was going to meet the world number one.
Finally, Amy reached the front door. She rang the bell but there was no answer. Had she lost the job? Was it because she was late? Shit! She had jeopardised it all! Damn her arrogance! She followed a path around the side of the house which took her down some steps flanked with beautiful flowering bushes. It really was beautiful out here, she thought. It was absolutely silent. Just as she was thinking this, a distinctive sound came about. The sound of tennis. The bouncing of the balls. She followed the noise. It led her further down the steps, closer to the lake. Amy's heart was now beating fast. There's no way a housekeeper would be doing this, and judging by the speed at which the balls sounded like they were being hit, it was definitely someone good at tennis. She still could not see a tennis court or where the sound as coming from, but as she got ever closer, she started to hear the faint sound of soft grunting, the kind of noise you hear when you put effort into something. Those noises sounded distinctly like Federer's. Unusual, because The Fed was usually very quiet on the court, very quiet indeed. She was approaching the end of this path and she could see that it went round to the left. This was it. Before she turned the corner, she stopped. Her heart was racing, her palms sweaty and her stomach was like jelly. She quickly smoothed down her hair, licked her lips to give them some moisture and checked herself over. Then she rounded the corner.
It was him. Roger Federer. The best tennis player to ever walk the earth, grace the screens, play Wimbledon or enter her dreams (which he had done on more than one occasion). He was practicing his serve, picking up balls and delivering them quickly to the opposite side of the court with a slice of his racket. He wore shorts and an orange t-shirt. On his head, he wore a white cap which shadowed his face. Amy had entered at the side of the court. Roger was to her left and he stopped as he saw her walk in. Amy stood still. Her feet were rooted to the ground. For a second they looked at each other. He's forgotten me, thought Amy for a second.
With a dismissive strike, Roger threw his last ball up into the air and delivered it across the court. Amy's mouth had suddenly gone very dry. Oh my god, he's coming over!
Roger passed his racket to his left hand and walked slowly over to Amy, his head turned downwards. Amy's instinct kicked in, the only instinct she knew – flirt. She teetered over in her red Jimmy Choos, tossed her hair over her shoulder and pouted as she threw her hand out for Federer to shake.
"No heels please". His voice invaded her body, struck her like a weight. Deep and smooth. It was only then that she realised that he was talking to her. She quickly slipped her heels off and kicked them over to the side. She turned around and stood face to face with her idol. He regarded her coolly for a couple of seconds. He was a good foot taller than her.
"Good afternoon, Miss…"
"…Greene, Mr Federer."
"Nice to meet you, Miss Greene"
He took her hand firmly and shook it. Amy noted that he had barely broken a sweat and he smelled so good.
"You're late" he stated, the slight Swiss accent lingering on his tongue. Amy felt dumbstruck. Was this how he was going to be? A taskmaster? Was this the discipline of the sport?
"I would have been turned away from Wimbledon if I had been late". Clearly, he took the game seriously off the court too. How could she come back from this? Flirt.
"My sincerest apologies Mr Federer". Amy fluttered her eyelashes and broke an enormous grin. She even pushed her breasts up slightly so that they brushed his chest. Roger seemed to be oblivious. Uh oh! What if he is gay? Maybe that is why he split up with his wife!
"Can I do anything for you Mr Federer?"
Roger narrowed his eyes for a few seconds. He seemed to be assessing her capabilities. He brushed his gaze over her from top to bottom, lingering on her legs.
"Get changed." She liked the sound of this instruction. She gave a little curtsey and flicked her hair over her shoulder.
"Right away Mr Federer". She picked up her heels and headed towards the house.
15 minutes later, and Amy was back on court. She stood on the opposite side of the court to Roger and she thought for a second that there may have been the faintest glimpse of a smile at the corner of his lips when he saw her in workout gear. There is hope yet, she thought. She couldn't help but remark on his beauty. His hair hung around his face in loose curls, his eyes were deep set and dark. His shoulders were a thing of beauty, broad and sturdy. I wouldn't mind my legs being wrapped around those, she thought.
She felt strange in her workout gear. Her breasts were squashed tightly against her chest – Roger had insisted that she wear two sports bras. The fabric of the top he had provided for her was soft and thin. It slid around on her skin and it was at least 2 sizes too big for her. The last time she wore trainers was when she did PE in school. Her life since then had generally consisted of parties, seeing friends and living at home with her parents. So how, she thought, was she stood here, opposite the best tennis player in the world? She felt a fool. How was she going to flirt with Roger Federer swamped in baggy clothes?
"Throw the balls above my head" he instructed. Amy did as she was told. She threw the ball as hard as she could at Roger's head, except, that's not where the ball went. Ok, maybe she hadn't attended enough of those PE sessions at school. The ball went five feet over Roger's shoulder. Roger tracked the ball with his head, but his feet did not leave the ground. He shook his head and raised his racket ready for another. Amy obliged and threw another ball. This time it didn't even make it over the net. Amy felt mortified. How could she perform like this in front of Roger Federer? Roger walked over to the net.
"Try throwing like this". He took a ball and proceeded to demonstrate the perfect overarm throw. Amy nodded.
"Yes, Mr Federer". She returned to the baseline and Roger took up his position with his racket raised. He bent his knees and lowered his back. His racket twirled in his nimble fingers as he waited for the ball to come his way. Amy remembered how Roger had shown her the throw. She straightened her back, looked forwards, bent at the elbow and threw the ball as hard as she could. It flew over the net like a bullet, straight at Roger Federer, catching him right between the legs. He let out a strangled cry and fell to his knees. Amy ran over to him on the other side of the net where he kneeled, his hands clutching his racket, his knuckles white.
"Mr Federer, are you ok? I'm sorry!"
Roger's face was buried in his arms. He made no sound. Amy could see the newspaper headlines – 'Federer Retired', 'Tennis Balls meet Federer's Balls', 'Federer is no more'.
"Please get up!" she pleaded. Roger let out a soft groan and brought his head up to gaze across the court. His breathing was heavy and laboured but he wasn't crying or screaming. Amy had a sudden idea.
"Would you like me to check you over Mr Federer?" In her head, this was a perfectly reasonable expectation. After all, she had made the shot. Roger didn't react. Instead, he slowly got to his feet. Amy got the impression that she wasn't needed and so made her way back to the other side of the court, and as she did, she saw Federer slide his hand down the front of his shorts discreetly. This stirred up a mixture of feelings deep inside of her. What would it be like to be that hand? However, these feelings were quickly replaced by those of embarrassment and regret.
Finally Roger spoke, through gritted teeth "enough training for today I think."
