The American Princess - Best Love Story Ever (27 page)

"My racquet's killed as many mice as
theirs."

Brad grabbed her, swiveled her around, and
put his hand over her mouth. "The largest racquet head the other
guys could make was mid-sized. So that's what they made and
promoted—ow!" Somehow, she'd managed to bite his finger. "A smaller
racquet head is less efficient than a larger one. How can its
fifteen percent less hitting surface, and a twenty-five percent
smaller sweet spot, be better?"

"I don't care. I like my racquet!"

"That's because you're used to it. If you
play with an over-sized racquet for a week, you'll never go back to
mid-sized. Besides, you have no choice."

"You're going to make me?" Her emerald eyes
lit up, and Brad was their target.

"You have no choice, because in a game where
consistency is paramount, where unforced errors are what win or
lose matches, you can't give yourself that great a handicap, and
expect to win. When the guy with the best ground strokes in the
men's game, and, come to think of it, the best girlfriend."

"You mean Brooke?" She messed his hair.

"Who else? Where was I? ...Oh yeah. When
Andre uses a racquet head with 110 square inches, why would you
choose one with only ninety-five squares?"

"I went with you and your seven inches.
Following your logic, I should trade you in for a nine inch
guy."

He took a step toward her, and she scurried
behind the love seat. "What you need is an incentive." He handed
her a present that looked suspiciously like a gift-wrapped tennis
racquet. It was an oversized Head Radical Tour—Andre's weapon of
choice. The card read, "Use this racquet for a week, and you get a
dinner and me for the weekend."

"What does 'get you for the weekend'
mean?"

"That means that from Saturday morning until
Sunday evening, you get to do whatever you please with me. You have
to suffer through a racquet change, and I'm prepared to suffer
along with you. You can take your frustrations out on me."

She thought for a moment, grinned, and took a
few practice swings with her new racquet. "When the weekend comes
you'll have one consolation."

"I don't want to hear this."

"Anything that doesn't kill you, will make
you stronger."

Brad also wanted her to change her grip to
the 'western' grip, something Coach Bender had been trying to get
her to do all year. She'd refused. That kind of a change could
retard her game for months.

She knew why she needed to make the change.
She possessed serious upper body strength for a woman, strength
that gave her the ability to hit outright winners off either of her
two forehands. But her power led to too many unforced errors—her
shot was too flat. By moving her grip back on her racquet handle,
in the western style, she would add topspin to her shots for
greater net clearance, and therefor, fewer unforced errors. Fewer
unforced errors, would give her the confidence to hit her forehand
ground strokes with greater pace, for more outright winners.

"It's difficult to change something you've
been doing for years," she told him.

"Tell me about it. Changing the follow
through on my wrist and slap shots was brutal. Take it slowly.
Practice a little each day until it feels natural."

But she'd about had it with him. He was
trying to change her whole game.

"What makes you think you're such an
authority on tennis anyway? I can bagel you any time I want, and
when we play mixed doubles, it's me who carries you. Gets any
worse, and I'll need shoulder surgery."

"That is true, but it's not a nice thing to
say."

She didn't care. She was on a roll. "You
think that's not nice? It's a miracle that someone let you coach
tennis in Toronto. You don't have any idea how the game should be
played. With coaches like you, it's no wonder a Canadian has never
won a singles Grand Slam title."

He grinned at her. "That's why I only coached
beginners," he said. "They didn't know how to play tennis
either."

"Good thinking. Ruin their game while they're
still young. 'If ignorance is bliss you must be the happiest man
alive.'"

Brad laughed, and moved her gold wafer
against More Fun's polka dot, but she shoved his hand away. "Who
said 'The course of true love never did run smooth?'"

"I don't know," Betty-Jo said, "but it would
run a whole lot smoother if you'd leave my grip alone!"

He looked glum. "B-J, it has to be
changed."

"I double-dog dare you to make me!"

"A single dog dare I think I could live with,
but your double-dog dare upsets me."

"Then I triple-dog dare you!"

"Is that your final dog dare?"

"I quadruple-dog dare you!"

"Your quadruple-dog dare has forced me to ask
you my beauty spots'..."

"Don’t you do it!" If you were smarter than
you appear to be you’d listen to Will Rogers. He said, 'never miss
a good chance to shut up.'"

"Tawny Cat," Brad said, "don't get your
panties in a bunch over this grip change thing."

"And don't you 'don't get your panties in a
bunch' me—'cause you know I'm not wearing any!"

Brad laughed. "My roommate the mule," he
said. "Luckily for you, I'll always love you just the way you
are."

"Mule, eh! Well as far as I'm concerned you
can goose a moose or sleep with a sheep! I'm sleeping in the weight
room tonight!"

"So what am I supposed to do—take matters
into my own hand?"

"What part of, 'as far as I'm concerned you
can goose a moose or sleep with a sheep,' did you not
understand?"

He gave her a solemn look, and an
unreciprocated hug. Then he made a bed for her on the mattress in
the weight room.

Betty-Jo made it through one lonely night,
but by the second evening, the western grip was staring to appeal.
She had discovered that, without Brad, she no longer felt like a
fairytale princess—she missed him terribly.

When he listens to me, my worries evaporate.
I need him to snuggle up to. I need his touch and his smell. Until
now, I had no idea how much.

"Okay, Brad. I'll use the western grip for a
week. Now hold me, kiss me, and love me."

"One night without you felt like forever,"
Brad said, "but I can't."

"What do you mean, but you can't!"

He adjusted her black velvet choker, and
produced his Tom Cruise grin. "Last night, for no good reason, you
ruined my evening. So now, you have to apologize. Something simple
like, forgive me Brad, for I have sinned. It's been," he checked
his watch, "twenty-nine hours since I last made love with you."

"You'll pay for this," she said, but her
threat lacked conviction.

He put his arms around her and kissed
her—forcefully, possessively. "What's your bear's name?"

"I Love Only You Bad Brad. Now please! Please
do me."

* * *

So Betty-Jo's game had been given what it
needed to take a quantum leap forward, and she and Brad, if
possible, were more in love than ever. Everything was perfect,
except for one thing—Venus.

What
Price Fame?

Betty-Jo attributed the large crowd at her
disastrous professional debut to her unique ambidextrous forehands,
but Brad and her fans knew better. Although she dressed in baggy,
unattractive tennis wear, there was that bounce of hers that
couldn't be disguised. So it came as a surprise to Betty-Jo, when
Brad told her it was time for them to have a chat about sex appeal.
He lit a candle, sat on their love seat, lifted her skirt, and
eased her onto him.

"Mmm," he said, "Karezza with you is
fabulous. It's a brush with heaven." Then he set the timer on his
watch.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm setting my watch for your ETA."

That, I do not believe. "You're setting your
watch for my arrival time?"

"We mandarins are busy people."

"You mandarins, especially you, Mr. Mandarin,
are deranged!"

"Time for us to chat."

"I hate heart-to-heart talks with you, when
I'm being your concubine. You have an unfair advantage when you're
in me."

He grinned at her. "It's also difficult for
me to argue with you when I'm doing my mandarin thing—but we have
to talk. Women's tennis needs help. People only watch women's
tennis because the women's final is sandwiched between the men's
semi-finals."

"Wrong. People watch women's tennis because
women play great tennis."

"Great tennis? Twenty years ago, Bobbie Riggs
played Margaret Court on mother's day. Riggs must have been close
to a hundred, but he still trounced her. That gives you some idea
of the caliber of women's tennis."

"He was fifty-five, and the old piglet should
have quit while he was ahead. Billie Jean easily avenged the
Mother's Day Massacre in the Battle Of The Sexes."

"Granted, what Billie Jean did to Bobbie
wasn't pretty. Nevertheless, relative to men's tennis, the women's
game is tedious. Nobody wants to watch women play tennis solely for
their tennis prowess. But in a few sports, women have figured it
out. They dominate at mud wrestling."

I don't believe he said that. "Try slapping
yourself! Although I doubt that slapping will cure idiocy."

"Another major sport for women is the wet
T-shirt contest. Have you ever seen a wet T-shirt contest for
men?"

This boy has lost it. "I know what your
problem is," she said, with barely contained anger.

"You do?"

"You're a fool on the lunatic fringe!"

"You can't say that."

She glowered at him. "And why not?"

"Cause this is a no name calling zone."

"That's fine by me. As long as it's also a no
fool zone!"

He laughed, and toyed, through her blouse,
with her eager polka dots. She scowled at him. "In some sports,
women recognize that grace and beauty are unique and desirable
gifts, that they can include in their package. Those women dress to
display their feminine charms. Like it or not, women are hot."

"They don't do anything for me."

"In figure skating, women are the feature
attraction. That's because women's figure skating is where the
yummy is."

"The yummy?"

"Some men can do a quadruple toe loop. So
what? It's more fun to watch an attractive woman attempt a triple,
praying, as she spins through the air, that she won't land on her
enchanting tush."

"God willing, you'll end up on your
enchanting tush in your next hockey game. Maybe that would knock
some sense into that numbskull of yours. In your case, the ass and
the brain are obviously connected."

That got a grin out of Brad. "That's a nasty
thing to say to your favorite and only lover."

"If the shoe fits, or the ass and the brain
connect."

He grinned again. "Figure skating was a
marginal sport in America not long ago. And why shouldn't it be?
How many Americans figure skate?"

"Not many."

"Now it's the number two sport for
television, surpassed in the ratings only by football. Men who
never watch figure skating stop what they're doing to watch
Katarina Witt."

"The pigs heading for the trough."

Brad looked forlorn. "I can't understand your
attitude. The Lord, in His wisdom, made men stronger than women—so
to balance things out, He made women sexier. Female figure skaters
realize this, and play it for all it's worth. They dress in
skintight outfits—and half the time, they wear skin tones that make
it look as if they're wearing almost nothing at all."

"With your X-ray vision it shouldn't make any
difference to you what they wear."

"So they're out on the ice, freezing their
heinie off, and taking nasty falls, without padding or protective
head gear. Why?"

"Because they've taken so many falls they're
already brain dead."

"Cute, but wrong. They recognize that their
audience wants to see the throws and jumps, performed by women who
dress to accentuate their beauty. Their audience wants to enjoy the
female form in motion. You, Tawny Cat could be the tennis
equivalent of the maid who stays to steal a kiss'."

"What are you talking about?'

"There's a jingle.

Here's to the maid who steals a kiss,

And stays to have another.

She's a boon to all mankind—

"That's the kind of woman you could be—'a
boon to all mankind.'". But you go out of your way to hide your
beauty and sex appeal. There's also a jingle for your type:

Here's to the maid who steals a kiss,

And runs to tell her mother.

She's a foolish, foolish lass,

For she'll not get another.

"You are just so full of verbal diarrhea!"
Betty-Jo tried to pull away from Brad, but he held himself inside
her. "Anyway, I'm not like that! I've stolen more than a few kisses
from you."

"True. But you do nothing to bring beauty or
sex appeal to women's tennis. You go out of your way to hide your
sexy self under some of the worst looking tennis wear on Tour. Soon
tennis wear manufacturers will be paying you not to wear their
products."

"I can tell I've really been priming your
pump!" She threatened him with her eyes.

"Tennis is a sport that's steeped in
tradition. Change comes at a glacial pace. But women's tennis could
be the most popular of all sports because, more than anything, men
love to watch attractive women run. They can't get enough of that
Baywatch rhythm."

"And you're Baywatch's number one
cheerleader."

"I'm your number one cheerleader." He swatted
her behind for emphasis. "Fortunately for women's tennis, men don't
get many opportunities to watch women run. Sexy you, could bring
Baywatch to women's tennis."

She hugged him and licked his ear. "I am hot.
Aren't I?"