Page 1 of Risky Match
1
BLAKE
TWO YEARS AGO
Standing in line to enter the gala, I’m still bloody mad at my manager, Noah. I can’t believe he forced me into attending tonight.
This is the Champions Dinner at Wimbledon. Yes, I scored a ticket, which makes me the envy of the tennis world. But it’s for the winners. I’m not one. I bloody lost. I have no right to be here.
Would he listen to reason? Absolutely not! He practically shouted that I had no choice because I’m the top-rated British player. Otherwise, he claimed the press would have a field day with me, insinuating that I’m a sore loser with no manners and probably worse.
Finally, I relented and agreed to attend under protest.
After a shower and a double whiskey, I put on my custom tux and got into the car Noah sent for me. On the ride to the venue, I plotted a survival plan for the evening, which primarily consists of smiling at everyone, avoiding conversations about losing, and escaping as early as possible.
As I stand in line, the only thing left to do is wait my turn to enter and hope this awful evening ends early.
Ten minutes later, I finally reach the entry and display the ticket on my phone. The attendant scans it and grants me admission.
It’s showtime, so I throw my shoulders back, straighten my cuffs, and walk into the crowded, dimly lit grand ballroom.
Unfortunately, the first thing I hear is the lyrics toWe Are the Champions. My stomach clenches. That’s the last thing I needed, but I tune it out and press on.
My eyes take a moment to adjust to the light from purple and green towers surrounding the perimeter of the room. The stage at the front displays a giant neon Wimbledon logo between two equally large tennis racquets. Below the stage, a dance floor is nestled amongst a sea of tables. Each table is set for ten with white linens, white flowers, and glowing white candles. The white, purple, and green décor is the epitome of Wimbledon tradition.
The evening will feature extravagant food, fine wine, dancing, and tales of the spectacular shots that led to victory. It's a befitting celebration for the winners and dignitaries at the conclusion of the summer Grand Slam tennis tournament at Wimbledon.
Galas like this are a rare chance to mingle with VIPs, players, and guests. I usually enjoy them while dressed in a tux, and smelling of my favorite woody cologne. It’s a welcome change from taking selfies and signing autographs when I’m covered in sweat and worried whether my deodorant is working.
But tonight is different. I don’t deserve to be here, so I’d rather be anywhere else. Unfortunately, tradition and respect require my presence and the pretense of enthusiasm for the evening. Fulfilling my duty, I’ll oblige one more time. Next year, I’ll earn my invitation.
As I make my way through the crowd, I’m repeatedly stopped by well-meaning individuals who want to commiserate withme about my Wimbledon loss. Others stop me for selfies and tell me to keep my chin up. My jaw tightens more with each conversation, but my brittle smile stays in place as I promise to do better next year.
When I thought it couldn’t get worse, an elderly lady steps in front of me and pats me on the shoulder, saying, “Laddy, winning isn’t everything. We know you tried. Don’t worry, we still like you.”
My fists clench at my sides as I try to hide my disappointment and dejection. Not knowing how to respond, I simply say, “Thank you,” and walk toward my table.
Comments like that fuel the self-doubt that’s creeping into my head. I know everyone means well, but each of these encounters is a sad reminder that I not only let myself down, but I also let them down.
I should fire my manager. Why I gave him a second chance after the business fiascos escapes me. I’d have thought he would be more accommodating to my preferences after that. But no. Noah still insisted I suffer through tonight. He worried it would look bad if I didn’t show up. I hate to tell him, but it will look even worse when everyone realizes how irritable and depressed I am.
This was an enormous mistake, but I’m stuck now.
Reaching my table, I push down my annoyance and exchange pleasantries with those around me.
At this point, the festivities proceed according to a pre-prescribed agenda. The photographers arrange traditional combinations of people for photos. Speeches are made. Congratulations are offered. Then the dancing begins.
If I didn’t know better, I’d think it was a wedding reception. But here it’s the winners and runners-up who pose for photos, raising trophies instead of flowers. The speeches are to congratulate the winners and present them with covetedhonorary memberships to the All England Club, which is the venue for the Wimbledon Championships. And instead of a bride and groom sharing a first dance, the men’s champion joins the women’s champion for a twirl around the dance floor.
The evening proceeds in a slow-motion blur as I count down the minutes until I can sneak away. I check my watch and the corners of my mouth upturn slightly. It’s almost time. Once a few more people leave the tables for dancing and mingling, no one will notice if I disappear.
Ten minutes later, I take a last sip of my wine, say goodnight to the only remaining couple at my table, and stand to leave.
As I turn around, I’m stopped by Chris Chadsworth, the CEO of my shoe sponsor, WheelCovers. Once he spots you, there’s no escaping his bigger-than-life persona.
Chris isn’t the typical, clean-cut American CEO. He doesn’t wear dark suits, nor does he sport a serious demeanor. Instead, he demands attention with his forceful, booming voice and unique style. Tonight is no exception. His shoulder-length wavy blond hair hangs against his purple satin tuxedo jacket. And no one will miss his black, sequined sneakers with the company logo on top. Saying he has a presence is an understatement.
“Blake, I was looking for you. There’s someone you need to meet. Come this way.”
