Last Breath (20 page)

At least, that was the way it had always worked in the past.

“Can I help you?” The clerk standing in front of her wearing a short-sleeved shirt with the name of the store written across the pocket, was not much taller than she, but he was heavy-set. His shoulders strained against the knit fabric of the shirt, and the brown leather belt encircling his tan slacks was in its last notch. He wasn’t fat. Just extra-large. Football? she wondered. His blond hair was cut very short and his eyes were very blue.

“Socks,” she stammered, “I need tennis socks.”

“I know who you are,” he said as he led the way to what seemed to be endless racks of every kind of athletic sock. “Nicki Bledsoe, am I right?”

She was stunned. No one on campus seemed to know, or care, who she was.

“I pay attention to campus sports news. Have to, working here. I heard you were coming. Leave it to Coach Dietch. When she hears about someone who can do her team some good, she goes after them. What’d she offer you, full tuition?”

Nicki nodded.

“Yeah, that’ll do it. Salem spares no expense when it comes to their athletes. Of course,” pointing to a rack of short, white socks, “they do the same for their academically gifted students of which,” he said proudly, “I happen to be one.” He extended a beefy hand. “John Silver, freshman, at your service. I’m a part-timer here. Helps pay the expenses.”

Nicki shook the hand. It felt very different from the hard, callused hands of tennis players she was used to shaking. No football here. John Silver wasn’t an athlete.

Reading her thoughts, he smiled. “What am I doing in a sports shop, you’re thinking, am I right?”

Nicki felt her face flush.

“It’s okay, I get that all the time,” he said cheerfully. “But the thing is, all of the athletes are out practicing or doing, so who does that leave to work in a place like this? People like me, of course. Our idea of exercise is draping ourselves over a chair, with a good book in our hands. But listen,” he added more seriously, “just because I don’t
do
doesn’t mean I don’t
know.
Any questions you have about tennis or our equipment, you come to me, okay?” He smiled again. “That way, I can live vicariously through you, right?”

Nicki laughed. “Sure. I may need my racket restrung. Can I get that done here?”

“Absolutely. We can put your name on your tennis balls too, if you’re into that kind of thing.”

“I’m not.”

His smile became sardonic. “Well, I’m warning you, some of your teammates are.”

A stab of alarm poked at Nicki. “They’re conceited?” It wasn’t as if she’d never dealt with tennis brats before. She had, all of her life. Most of them got over it when they got older. But some didn’t.

“Overbearing is probably a better word. But,” John added quickly, “most of them are okay. They come in here a lot. If you want any tips on anyone, come to me. I’ll fill you in, free of charge. When’s your first practice?”

Nicki glanced guiltily at her watch. “In about thirty minutes. I’d better get going. It’s ten minutes back to campus, and I still have to change.” She grabbed three pairs of white socks and handed John the money. “Thanks for helping me out.”

“Any time. Knock ’em dead at practice, okay? I’d love to be a fly on the wall when Libby DeVoe welcomes you.”

“Libby DeVoe?”

John rang up the sale, stuffed the socks in a plastic bag, and handed Nicki her change. “Yeah. Head honcho on the tennis team. She thinks she’s Salem’s Martina, but she’s not as nice as the real one. Watch your back around her. Just because she’s competitive doesn’t mean she likes competition, if you get my drift.”

Nicki nodded. She knew that kind. The racket-tossing type. She’d been one herself once. She’d learned her lesson.

Apparently, Libby DeVoe hadn’t learned the same lesson.

Thanking John Silver for his help, Nicki hurried from the store and back to campus. On the way she passed a huge, old brick house called Nightingale Hall, an off-campus dorm for Salem students. Surrounded by a grove of ancient oak trees, their heavy branches shielding the house from the sun and creating ominous shadows, the house seemed to Nicki to be brooding and angry. Small wonder that its nickname was “Nightmare Hall,” a name that had been born after a suspicious death in the house, and had remained long after the mystery had been solved.

I wouldn’t want to live in that gloomy old place, Nicki thought. Still, as she returned to her little shoebox of a room, she found herself wishing again, as she always did, that she had a roommate. But the only room available when she arrived was this tiny single on the eighth floor of Devereaux, a tall, gray stone building in the heart of the campus.

Rooming by herself increased her loneliness.

She had hoped that when she arrived some of the tennis players would show up to welcome her, but none had. And Coach Dietch had insisted that Nicki take the first two weeks to “become acclimated, get used to your academic schedule. I’ll expect you at practice on Tuesday, the thirteenth.”

At least it wasn’t Friday the thirteenth.

Nicki changed into white shorts and T-shirt. Dietch insisted on whites, even for practice. “More professional,” she had said crisply.

Marta Dietch was one reason Nicki had agreed to come to Salem. The coach at State was good—but Dietch had played the professional circuit, and Nicki wanted the benefit of that experience.

Not that she intended to play professionally herself. Her ultimate goal was architecture. She wanted to design and build homes. Big homes, little homes, medium-sized homes. Maybe because she’d never lived in a house long enough to feel that it
was
home. But while she was playing tennis, and as long as tennis was footing her bills at college, she wanted to be the best she could be, and Dietch could help her do that.

Nicki’s hands were shaking slightly as she brushed her long, straight, dark hair and pulled it up into a ponytail, wondering if Dietch would make her cut it. Some coaches hated long hair, even if you swept it back and kept it out of your eyes.

When she had decided that the view in her full-length mirror was as good as it was likely to get, she reached under the bed and pulled out her favorite racket, removing it from its case with loving hands. Her father had given it to her for Christmas during her sophomore year of high school. It was the best that money could buy, and she’d known the minute he put it into her hands that it was perfect. It had, from that moment on, felt like part of her. It had earned for her a Regionals championship, and then, the title of State Champion.

When she left for college, her father had cleared off an entire shelf of a wall unit in their new, one-story retirement home. The shelves above and below it were already filled with Nicki’s rewards for working so hard at tennis. “This shelf,” her father said, “is for your college trophies.”

It hadn’t seemed to occur to him that she might not win any. Didn’t he realize how much stiffer the competition was in college?

She
certainly did.

She slid the racket back into its case, zipped the case, donned a suede jacket over her whites, picked up her gym bag, and left the room.

Her heart was hammering against her rib cage as she entered the locker room just off the tennis courts. You’re being silly, she scolded herself impatiently. You’ve done this a hundred times. You should be used to it by now. They’re just people. Imagine them in their underwear. That always helps.

In middle school and high school, when she’d entered a new locker room in a new school, ready to play tennis, there had always been one or two people who had come to greet her. Always. The friendlier girls, usually the leaders on the team, broke the ice, and the other players always followed suit. At State, the coach had taken Nicki around and introduced her to everyone. That had helped.

But not here, not at Salem. Coach Dietch was busy in her office, and Nicki thought those must be the friendlier girls in there, gathered around the coach’s desk, because no one else came forward to greet her. Everyone was tying on white tennis shoes or practicing a swing or talking quietly or brushing hair that, Nicki noticed, seemed to be very, very short.

She was
not
cutting her hair. Not even for tennis.

She had learned, long ago, not to linger in the doorway. It invited attention. So, taking a deep breath and letting it out, she walked into the room as casually as she could and began looking for her locker number. Twenty-three. There, way down at the end, on the left-hand side. Swinging her racket to make it look as if she didn’t have a care in the world, she walked between the double row of lockers to number twenty-three.

She could feel eyes on her, but no one said hi or hello, or smiled or waved. It was like walking a gauntlet. And she suddenly missed with a fierce pain the easy camaraderie of the team at State, where whites were not required to practice, long hair was perfectly acceptable, and the coach introduced new players to their teammates.

She had opened her locker and removed the new can of balls from her gym bag when three girls came out of the coach’s office. They immediately made their way to Nicki.

Ah, these must be the friendly ones. They’d say hello and introduce themselves, and then the ice would be broken and the other players would welcome her, too. Nicki breathed a sigh of relief. It wasn’t going to be so bad, after all. She should have known that by now.

“I suppose you think you’re pretty hot stuff,” the tallest girl said under her breath as the trio arrived at locker number twenty-three. The girl who had spoken had very short ash-blonde hair, broad shoulders that indicated a powerful serve, and narrow green eyes that seemed to Nicki as cold as jade.

Stunned, Nicki said, “Excuse me?” as she turned to face her teammates.

“I’ve read about you. Small town champion, from somewhere out in the sticks where the competition stinks. I always say, until you’ve played a Californian, you haven’t really played tennis.”

The two girls with her, one stocky and red-haired, the other tall and thin, laughed. They all had matching short haircuts.

The speaker smiled without warmth. “You’ve probably read about me, too. Libby DeVoe? California Junior Champion. Two years in a row.”

The tone of voice told Nicki all she needed to know. “No,” she answered coolly, “can’t say that I have.” She’d met Libby DeVoes before. They were all alike. If you let them think they could push you around, that’s exactly what they did.

Libby had plucked her eyebrows to almost nothing. She lifted what was left. “Really? You must not keep up with the tennis news, then. I personally feel that it’s important to know what’s going on in the world of tennis.”

“I, personally, prefer to concentrate on my own game,” Nicki said, turning away to place her gym bag in her locker.

“She turned her back on you,” one of Libby’s companions said in a shocked voice. “That’s really rude.”

Nicki turned around to face the speaker. “And you are … ?”

“Nancy Drew, Libby’s best friend.”

Nicki laughed. “Nancy Drew? You’re kidding, right?”

The girl’s strong-boned face flushed. “No, I’m not kidding. And this,” indicating the red-haired girl on her right, “is Carla Sondberg. Florida’s Junior Champ.”

“Two years in a row?” Nicki asked innocently, unable to resist.

“No,” Carla said quietly, “I’m not as good as Libby.”

Nicki was instantly ashamed. She shouldn’t have tarred Carla with the same brush as Libby. “Sorry,” she said.

Carla smiled. She was very pretty when she smiled. “Forget it. You’re Nicki Bledsoe, aren’t you?”

“Guilty.”

“Coach told us about you.” As Nicki moved away from her locker, Carla fell into step beside her, while Libby and Nancy hung back. “Coach expects a lot from you. She’ll probably assign you to doubles at first. That’s where we’re really weak. And you and Libby would make a great team. You’d clobber everyone.”

“I don’t
do
doubles,” Libby said from behind them. “Ever. And I’m certainly not going to do it with some minor-league player from Boonieville.”

Nicki whirled. “I’ve played in small towns and big cities and in arenas and parks and in stadiums with ten thousand people watching, and I always try to play the same way. The best that I can. But to tell you the truth, Libby, I’m not really keen on playing doubles with someone whose head is swollen to the size of a pumpkin because she takes her press clippings too seriously.”

Someone began applauding. When Nicki looked up, Coach Dietch was standing in the doorway to her office, leaning against the frame, clapping her hands. As she continued to clap, others on the team, sitting on benches or standing near their lockers, began to do the same. Not all joined in, Nicki noticed. But some did.

When the clapping stopped, Coach Dietch straightened up and said, “Well, DeVoe, I see you’ve met your newest competition.”

Libby’s face turned as ash-white as her hair, and her lips tightened into a long, thin line.

As grateful as Nicki was for the support, her heart froze in her chest. Because she knew with cold certainty that on this, her first day of tennis practice at Salem University, she had made an enemy.

Judging from the look in Libby DeVoe’s cold green eyes, a very
dangerous
enemy.

N
ICKI’S FIRST PRACTICE DID
not go well.

After living in Texas for two years, she was used to playing on an outdoor court, even in winter, but here, in the heart of New York State, January meant indoor play. Salem, like other eastern schools, had indoor courts.

Nicki walked down the long hall to the huge, domed area, by herself. But when she entered through the big double doors, a tall, brown-haired girl with shoulders as wide as Libby’s approached. She was accompanied by a shorter, stockier girl. “Hi,” the taller girl said. “You’re Nicki Bledsoe, aren’t you? I’ve seen your picture in the paper. I’m Patrice Weylen. Everyone calls me Pat. And this creature next to me waving her racket in the air like a maniac is Ginnie Lever. Actually, she
is
a maniac. About tennis, anyway.”

“Hi.” The “maniac” stopped swinging. She was short and well-built and had, Nicki noticed with relief, very long hair, caught in a thick, strawberry-blonde, French braid. So maybe there weren’t any rules about hair length.