Opposites Attract

crowd couldn’t resist. Some cheered him; some cheerfully cursed him. He’d given them the sweat they had come to see. And the show.
    Ty had taken the championship in seven frenzied sets. That night Asher had given him both her innocence and her love. For the first time in her life she had allowed her heart complete freedom. Like a blossom kept in the sheltered, controlled climate of a hothouse, she took to the sun and storm wildly. Days were steamier and more passionate—nights both turbulent and tender. Then the season had ended.
    Now, as Asher practiced in the early morning lull on court five, the memories stirred, sweet and bitter as old wine. Fast rides on back roads, hot beaches, dim hotel rooms, foolish laughter, crazy loving. Betrayal.
    “If you dream like that this afternoon, Kingston’s going to wipe you out of the quarterfinals.”
    At the admonishment, Asher snapped back. “Sorry.”
    “You should be, when an old lady drags herself out of bed at six to hit to you.”
    Asher laughed. At thirty-three, Madge Haverbeck was still a force to be reckoned with across a net. Small and stocky, with flyaway brown hair and comfortably attractive features, she looked like an ad for home-baked cookies. She was, in fact, a world-class player with two Wimbledon championships, a decade of other victories that included the Wightman Cup and a wicked forehand smash. For two years Asher had been her doubles partner to their mutual satisfaction and success. Her husband was a sociology professor at Yale whom Madge affectionately termed “The Dean.”
    “Maybe you should sit down and have a nice cup of tea,” Asher suggested while tucking her tongue in her cheek. “This game’s rough on middle-aged matrons.”
    After saying something short and rude, Madge sent a bullet over the net. Light and agile, Asher sprang after it. Her concentration focused. Her muscles went to work. In the drowsy morning hum the ball thudded on clay and twanged off strings. Madge wasn’t a woman to consider a practice workout incidental. She hustled over the court, driving Asher back to the base line, luring her to the net, hammering at her by mixing her shots while Asher concentrated on adjusting her pace to the slow, frustrating clay.
    For a fast, aggressive player, the surface could be deadly. It took strength and endurance rather than speed. Asher thanked the endless hours of weight lifting as she swung the racket again and again. The muscles in the slender arm were firm.
    After watching one of Asher’s returns scream past, Madge shifted her racket to her left hand. “You’re pretty sharp for three years off, Face.”
    Asher filled her lungs with air. “I’ve kept my hand in.”
    Though Madge wondered avidly about Asher’s marriage and years of self-imposed retirement, she knew her former partner too well to question. “Kingston hates to play the net. It’s her biggest weakness.”
    “I know.” Asher slipped the spare ball in her pocket. “I’ve studied her. Today she’s going to play my game.”
    “She’s better on clay than grass.”
    It was a roundabout way of reminding Asher of her own weakness. She gave Madge one of her rare, open smiles. “It won’t matter. Next week I’m playing center court.”
    Slipping on a warm-up jacket, Madge gave a hoot of laughter. “Haven’t changed much, have you?”
    “Bits and pieces.” Asher dabbed at sweat with her wristband. “What about you? How’re you going to play Fortini?”
    “My dear.” Madge fluffed at her hair. “I’ll simply overpower her.”
    Asher snorted as they strolled off the court. “You haven’t changed either.”
    “If you’d told me you were coming back,” Madge put in, “we’d be playing doubles. Fisher’s good, and I like her, but . . .”
    “I couldn’t make the decision until I was sure I wouldn’t make a fool of myself.” Slowly Asher flexed her racket arm. “Three years, Madge. I ache.” She sighed with the admission. “I don’t remember if I ached like this before.”
    “We can trade legs anytime you say, Face.”
    Remembering, Asher turned with a look of concern. “How’s the knee?”
    “Better since the surgery last year.” Madge shrugged. “I can still forecast rain though. Here’s to a sunny season.”
    “I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you.”
    Madge hooked her arm through Asher’s in easy comradeship. “Naturally I expected you to travel six thousand miles to hold my hand.”
    “I would have if . . .”