Title:
Six Love Author's Notes: I've seen so many story-lines
used for Spashley that don't think I was capable to find a new one.
Though, I don't think this one was used yet. If I'm wrong than
please, correct me. And oh this is my first Spash-fic so bare with me
...
Author: Norita
Rating: PG 13 for now, but will differ
in the future
Summary: Meh. Spashley as pro-tennisplayers. That's
all you need to know
Couple:
Ashley/Spencer
Disclaimer:
Sadly I own nothing ...
Read
and Review
please!
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"Silence please."
I look up in the sky, locate the sun and blink at its brightness. I re-adjust my cap one last time, and bring my gaze to my feet.
One. Two. Three bounces on the ground, before I hold the ball tightly as it rests, in my hand. I look ahead and give my opponent one last deadly glance. I see her clutching her racket firmly in between her hands. She's slightly jumping up and down.
Anxious.
She knows this will be the last point of this match. She knows that she won't win this match. She knew, before she even stepped on the court.
I position myself. Toes pointed towards the right net post and the left shoulder pointed at the left post. I've probably been in this position over a million times. But I always need to think it over. It has to be perfect. It's as simple as that. I finally initiate my serve by tossing the ball in the air. I look up following the course of the object and when it finally downs to the apex of its trajectory, I firmly hit it with my racket. It falls right in the middle of my strings. The so-called sweet spot. I know that this will generate the perfect balance between power and touch. I know that this ball won't return, once I hit it. I know that this will be the last point of the match.
And I 'm right. My opponent leaps to the ball. She knows she won't return it. But she tries to touch the ball with her racket-frame anyway. You could call it sort of honor-savior. But she knows she won't touch it.
And she doesn't. Ace. My ninth this match. I hit eleven yesterday. I mentally note to myself to work an extra hour on me serve later that evening.
Everything just has to be perfect.
"Game, set and match Ms. Carlin, two sets to love; 6-1,6-2."
I sprint to the net, shake my opponents hand and tell her she played a good match. She firmly nods her head and gives my an impish smile. Her face is stricken with a sense of reality. Not disappointment, nor exasperation. She knows we're from different leagues.
She already lost the match earlier on, in the locker room. She was secretly stealing glances when I was doing some last-minute exercises with a certain intensity. They're good for nothing. They won't improve your level of play, nor will they help you concentrate on the match to come. Simply good for nothing.
Well, almost nothing. It's great for intimidation. The match starts well before it begins. Just ask my victim of the day.
I move towards the umpire and proceed to shake her hand too, before I return to the middle of the court. I twirl around a little, while waving to the crowd. Cheers roar through the stands, while a large part of them give me a standing ovation. They love me. Who doesn't love the best player of the world?
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I sit in a large chair, in front of the 30 or so journalists gathered from around the world. Cold air hits my shoulders as I sit back and await the questions. Press conferences have become as normal in a day as my breakfast. After every match, win or lose, I get to sit in front of these reporters and answer the same questions every single day. Tiresome? Maybe. Boring? No, just part of my life.
"Congratulations Spencer. How do you feel on making yet another final?"
How does it feel to wake up, yet another morning? Finals are a part of the routine. I always attain them.
"Oh it's nice of course. I feel blessed to have the chance to play another final, and to fight for another tournament-victory. Every final I play is different. It's always special."
It's the same thing I said last week. And the week before that. My answers have become as predictable and monotone as the questions that are shot at me.
"At 4-1, 40-30, you hit an impressive volley from in-between your legs. How does it feel to be capable of doing things with the ball that very few people can do on a practice court, let alone in the middle of the match."
It was at 5-1, 15-0, at 1.17 PM. I hate it when they ask things, without even checking the facts correctly. How can he forget when I hit that genius shot? And it felt good. So fucking good. It felt good to hear the crowd gasp at its perfection. To see my opponent bow her head out of desperation. To taste the sweetness of victory coming closer and closer.
"It was … nice. I got a bit lucky I guess." I shrug faking indifference.
"Do you feel that, the success you have right now is due to your mother?"
Ah, the mother-question. My mom makes an appearance, at least once while my interviews . Paula Stevens, now Paula Carlin. One of the greatest players in tennis-history was my mother. Surely she was the one that forced me into this world, right?
Wrong.
I'm sure she would've liked it, but I wanted this life myself. Was my success due to my mom? Hell, no. I was the one who was pouncing against balls at 6.00 AM under the blistering sun. I was the one who ran 8 miles every evening, before going to bed. I was the one who gave up her childhood to become the player I am today.
I attained my own success. My relatedness to the Great Paula Stevens was only worthy for a good story in the tabloids.
"I owe my mother a lot, and tennis is one of those things. She was my biggest hero growing up, and she still is now. I would've never become the tennis players that I am today if it wasn't for her."
I lie so easily, and it doesn't even scare me anymore. I wonder if they really fall for these answers, or just pretend they do so they can write unabashedly about this wonderful fairytale.
"Your next opponent has been having a nice week. Do you think she can do some damage tomorrow?"
She might if I turn up in a wheelchair.
"I haven't seen her play, nor do I know who I'm playing. So I don't know."
"She's a qualifier. She's ranked 153rd in the world, but she's been having an amazing run this week."
That's about to come to a crushing end tomorrow.
"Well, that's nice for her. It's good to see some new names in the game, just to change the pace a little. I'm sure she's had an amazing week, and she'll take this experience into the rest of her career."
Journeywomen. Once and awhile, they'll have a string of good luck for a couple of matches and reach the final of a big tournament. They're ecstatic, everything falls perfectly into place for them.
And then they get crushed. Namely by me. They'll call that week the best of their lives, and hope they'll continue their success afterwards. But, you'll never hear of them again. They're catapulted right back into reality.
By me.
I like that.
"She firmly believes she can win this tournament." A old familiar British journalist says from the second row.
I try hard not to right out laugh out loud. I'm a tennisplayer. I'm the best. A rolemodel. I need to be respectful. I need to play along the rules of tennis-etiquette. So I keep a straight face.
"She does?"
"Yes, she believes she can end your winning-streak and hegemony. She said that she's going to be the one to push you off your throne."
I laugh. I can't help it. Usually, I'm stoically calm. Poker-face on the court, poker-face off the court. Champions don't know any emotions. But for a teensy moment, I'm a 22 year-old girl again. An amused one.
"Well, that's good for her. I like a challenge."
Even if it isn't one.
"Do you think, she could be a threat in the near future?"
"Well, we'll see about that tomorrow." I smirk.
The moderator looks around and asks for any further questions. When he sees that no one has anything to ask anymore, he ends the conference.
I'm quick on my feet and casually walk towards the old British journalist from earlier on. He notices me and gives me a sly smile. He's always present at my press conferences. I don't know his name, though. I've just accustomed to call him 'Old English Guy'.
I like him.
"This girl, you're talking about. What's her name?"
He chuckles lightly, sensing my curiosity and maybe a hint of anxiousness.
"Davies. Ashley Davies."
