Page 103 of Summer After Summer

It’s because of the myth—the qualifier one. Every once in a while, someone comes out of obscurity to take it all, winning ten matches instead of seven. It’s never happened at Wimbledon in the women’s draw. But like an elusive win by one of those famous baseball teams, it’s only a matter of time before someone breaks the curse and wins.

I’m determined to be that person.

I’m turning twenty-six this year, and it feels like my last chance to make it. So, I went to Matt in January and asked him what I had to do. Was it possible to turn my career around? He told me that it was, and we made a plan. I’ve carried it out to a T, practicing smarter, sleeping as much as possible, and praying to the injury gods that I stay healthy.

And then, the night before my first qualifying match against a woman I’ve beaten several times already this year, I go to a patron’s reception and walk right into someone. Hard.

“Ouch,” I say, feeling shaken by the impact.

I wasn’t looking where I was going, trying to get across the room to where Matt is waving me over, and the person I’ve run up against is tall, solid.

“It was my fault,” he says, and now I’m shaking. Because I know this voice. I know this man.

“Fred?” I say slowly as I look up, praying that he has a voice doppelganger.

But no, it’s him. Those deep blue eyes, that dark hair with the slightest curl to it. His face is tanned, like that of someone who spends a lot of time in the sun. His cheekbones are sharp, his features chiseled, and he’s wearing an exquisitely tailored blue suit that fits his thin, athletic frame perfectly.

“Olivia,” he says, his voice slow and measured, “did I hurt you?”

What a question to ask.

“No, I’m fine.”

“I’d feel horrible if I did anything to keep you from winning tomorrow.”

He smiles, and his teeth are whiter than I remember. I check his hands—no ring, but the nails are manicured. Fred at twenty-eight has changed in some fundamental way from Fred at twenty-three. I’m not sure how I feel about it.

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

“My company sponsored this event.” There’s a slight British tinge to his voice now, his Boston accent buried under the Queen’s English.

“Your company?”

“The company I work for, rather. I’m the vice president of shipping for de Keurig.”

I know the name. It’s one of the biggest shipping companies in the world, swallowing up its competitors in splashy deals that are spread out over the business press.

I didn’t know Fred worked there when I agreed to attend this event. I’ve heard only the barest of whispers about him since we broke up five years ago. That’s been deliberate. No googling. No checking for his name on Facebook or Twitter. I didn’t want to know if he’d found someone to replace me.

“I’m impressed,” I say. “Congratulations.”

He smiles modestly. “It’s not as impressive as what you’ve done.”

My heart picks up. He’s been following my career. He must’ve known I’d be here. He could’ve avoided me, but he chose to attend.

And then it occurs to me: maybe he’s the reason I was invited to this event in the first place.

I shake the thought away. “I haven’t done anything yet.”

“Of course you have. You’re going to do great.”

“Thank you. How long have you been in London?”

“Three years. Since I graduated.”

“You finished early?”

He picks a glass of champagne off a waiter’s tray. “Do you want?”

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