Page 1 of Ace My Heart

CHAPTER ONE

Quarter Final Curse

Dear God, pardon my French, but please don’t let me fuck this up!I prayed fervently, rocking back and forth, my hands between my knees so I didn’t have to watch them shake.

My mother would kill me if she knew I routinely swore at God. Then again, she’d probably just be happy that I was speaking to him at all.

She’d be full of smug, pious words if she were here:I told you, Melanie, didn’t I tell you? It’s the curse! You haven’t been going to Church enough. When was the last time you went to confession? Probably not since school! God will forgive your sins if you confess, and he’ll lift the curse. But you’ve turned your back on the Lord, so of course he’s going to punish you.

I’d always imagined that if God wanted to curse me, he would do something truly biblical, like give me syphilis, or send a plague of locusts to munch on the pot of basil I was slowly murdering on my windowsill.

But why would he curse me at all? I hadn’t turned my back on him. I still had faith. I just didn’t think that worshipping God meant listening to some ‘celibate’ dude in a black dress tell me how to behave.

I continued pleading with Our Heavenly Father. I had a drought I needed to break.

God, if you’re listening to me, I’ll do anything! I’ll come and light candles this Sunday. Hell, I’ll even go to the nearest church after the match and light them straight away. I’ll try my best to stop swearing. I’ll go and visit Mum more often. Please don’t let me lose another quarter-final!

I stopped short of offering to swear off sex; it was a hollow promise anyway. How can you swear off something that you haven’t indulged in for months?

My sex life was another drought that I was waiting to break, but I couldn’t exactly pray to God about it. I mean, what would I say?Dear God, please send a big throbbing man with a big throbbing penis in my direction?

“Are you ready?” a stern voice wafted above me. I was in full-fledged panic attack by then, and for a second, I thought it was God talking back to me. Well, close enough, at least in his opinion.

It was my coach, Steve Herbert. He wasn’t exceptionally tall, but he was all lean muscle. His grey hair was cropped as close to his skull as possible without using a razor, and his blue eyes stared down at me, filled with expectations. He looked more like an Army drill sergeant than an ex-pro tennis player turned coach.

He could see the freak-out happening behind my eyes. He slapped me.

“Ow!” I shouted, putting a hand up to my face where I could feel the stinging outline of his palm. “That wasn’t very nice, Steve!”

He chuckled at me without a scrap of humour, “I’ll be nice to you when we’renotat the Australian Open. Right now, you’re paying me to help you win. If that means slapping you out of hyperventilating, I’ll do it.”

I stood up and walked shakily over to the mirror in my change room, inspecting my cheek for damage. There was a bit of a red mark, but nothing serious, and in a few minutes I would be red all over anyway. Melbourne in January was always scorching.

And just like that the tremors in my hands returned. Melbourne in January meant Australian Open. Australian Open meant me competing. Competing meant the curse.

Steve strode up behind me and gripped me by my arms, shakingme enough that my teeth clanked together. He was just slightly shorter than me, but Christ he was strong.

“Listen to me Melanie Black, you’re going to go out there and you’re going to smash the crap out of Gordana Slavonisovich. You’re a better player than her, and you deserve to beat her!”

“But the curse!” I wailed without thinking. I knew the second the words left my mouth that it was the worst thing to say to Steve.

“This is why I forbade your mother from coming down here to watch! All this shit about curses and turning your back on Jesus. You’re the only one who has the power to determine whether you win or lose! Now go and warm up. You’re going to beat Slavonisovich. You did last time you played her!”

“That wasn’t a quarter,” I muttered under my breath. Thankfully Steve didn’t hear me. I moved over to the treadmill and set it to a jog.

All warmed up, I checked the strings on my racquet: a Martel XIV Pro that I was trialling at this tournament as my previous endorsement deal had just expired. Martel was the bee’s knees on the professional tennis circuit, and they didn’t have any Aussies on their sponsorship books. I planned on being the first one.

Now all I had to do was go out there and smash Gordana and I would be one step closer to a lucrative sponsorship deal with Martel. I was decked out in all their gear at no small expense to myself. But if it all worked out it would be so worth it. If I could just win my quarter-final. And that was abigif.

I hadn’t won a quarter in the last five tournaments. I’d made it to the quarters every time, and every time something happened that would fuck it up: a twisted ankle; coming up against my hoodoo player, Katinka Norieva; getting stuck in my own head; losing my confidence completely; etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.

I was about to drown under a tidal wave of ‘I just don’t have it anymore’. If I didn’t win this, I may as well just pack it all in and move home with Mum, marry some good Catholic boy she stalked for me at church and start popping out the rugrats.

That thought shuddered me out of my depression better thananything else could have, and it came at just the right time, as the bell went off inside the change room to let me know it was time to head out onto the court.

I gritted my teeth, adjusted my purple skort and strode past Steve. He nodded approvingly at the steel in my gaze and followed me into the tunnel that would lead me out onto Rod Laver Arena; my first ever match on the famous court.

The screams of the crowd echoed down the tunnel as I made my way closer to the harsh sunlight reflecting off the blue Plexicushion playing surface. The adrenaline kicked in then, and the blood in my veins pumped faster. I stepped out of the tunnel, blinded temporarily by the Melbourne summer sunlight and deafened by the roaring spectators.

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