Page 11 of Long Shot

A waitress smiled at her. “Bonjour, table for one?”

Mac looked past the server confusedly. “Hi, how are you?” Scanning the room, her throat tightened.Where is the to-go section?She knew there was one – she’d looked it up in advance to avoid precisely this situation. The sitting at one of these immaculate tables in full tennis gear and shoveling down a Babs-approved breakfast was mortifying enough to turn her stomach.

“Would you like a seat?” The waitress repeated, trying to intercept Mac’s gaze.

“Um, could I see a menu?” Mac kicked herself mentally for not just asking for what she needed.

The waitress nodded. “Of course, mademoiselle.” She passed Mac a laminated menu from the hostess’s stand. Mac scanned the a la carte menu, trying to settle on something before drawing any more attention to herself.

As Mac contemplated, the server directed a nice couple to a table in the back. When she moved, Mac clicked her tongue. A display window filled with prepackaged meals revealed itself.

When the server returned, Mac smiled. “I think I'm settling on the chia pudding from the a la carte menu.” She pointed over to the display case.

“Is that all, miss?” The waitress gestured to the spread of golden brown pastries, danishes, and fruit bowls arranged down a long table. Mac’s mouth watered at the sight, having missed the entire buffet section in her scan of the place.

Shaking her head, Mac smiled. “No, thank you. This is my training diet. Can you charge this to Barbara McConnell’s room?”

The waiter’s face lit up. “Of course. Good luck in your matches.”

“Thanks!” Mac rubbed the back of her neck. With the plastic bowl in hand, she headed out of the lobby and into the streets of Paris. It would take about fifteen minutes to get to Stade Roland Garros where the courts were – just enough time to scarf down the meager breakfast while dodging impeccably dressed Parisians.

Mac swallowed her anxiety.Does anyone here just go to the grocery store in pajamas?

From the looks of it, no. But Mackenzie tried to shake off the feeling of intimidation growing in her bones as she lifted her hand to hail a taxi. Several cars zipped past her before one finally spotted her. With her racket bag slung over her shoulder, Mac jogged up the slowing cab and slid into the backseat. “Stade Roland Garros, please.”

The cab driver nodded, pulling out from the curb to the main road smoothly. As the car started moving forward, Mac turned her head to gaze out onto the streets. It wasn’t her first time in Paris, but every trip she had taken before this was bare bones. Ofcourse, taking the public transit was a great way to get to know the city, but it wasn’t great for preparing for a major match.

As the car juddered down the cobblestone streets, Mac’s heart started to race as if she was already in a match. Winning three matches in a row – what it would take for Mac to qualify for the French Open – was no easy feat. Especially considering it was just the entrance test for the rest of the Grand Slam.

Taking a deep breath, she tried to settle her mind. Just as she let out a long exhale, a text from her mom popped up on her phone.

This is what you’ve trained for. Don’t get too in your head. Deep breaths, and if you need me, find me in the stands. Love you <3

Mac chuffed at the text.She always knows when I’m losing it.

The taxi ground to a halt in front of Court Suzanne Lenglen. Reaching forward, Mac passed the driver the fare and a tip. “Thank you.”

She hopped out of the car with her racket in tow, only sparing a second to take in the impressive stadium before her. Lenglen was the world’s first recognized No. 1 player in women’s tennis, holding the title from 1921 until 1926. Over the course of her career, she won eight Grand Slam singles’ titles. Hastily, Mac made her way toward the player entrance.

As she walked, a handful of black SUVs hurtled down the ramp to a private player entrance in the underground parking garage. Some players needed the private entrance for security reasons, while others simply preferred it.

But Babs had all but required Mac use the public entrance.

“It’s closer to your daily routine. You don’t get driven into a private garage in a cushy, black SUV. You come to practice,sweaty from your run across town. Now, I won’t make you run through the streets of Paris on the morning of the most important match of your life, but you can walk in like a normal player,” Babs had argued.

And as annoying as it was, Mac knew she was right.

She could still envision Babs’s wink as she added, “Besides, next season, you might be too famous to take the public entrance. Enjoy it while you can.”

The thought made Mac giddy, even all these weeks later. With her tennis rackets slung over her shoulder, Mac crossed the tree-lined paths toward the heavy glass doors of the entrance. Inside, a receptionist greeted Mac. “Bonjour, how can I help you?”

Mac cleared her throat and stepped forward. “Good morning. I’m checking in for my qualifying match.”

“Name?”

“Mackenzie Bennett, USA.” Mac bit her lip, her mind already running away with anxiety. A part of her feared she’d be turned away, laughed at and forced out.

But after a moment of scanning the system, the receptionist nodded. “Very well. Ms. Bennett, you are locker number 54. If you qualify, your locker may be reassigned for the tournament.”

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