The Players (12 page)

“Would you like to come inside for a bit?” Paula asked as Mike pulled up in front of her apartment block.

Mike looked doubtful. “I should go back to the hotel and see if my rented tux got there all right.”

“Please. There’s plenty of time, and I do think we ought to talk.”

“Okay.” Mike parked the car and they walked inside and up one flight to Paula’s flat. Paula opened the door and they entered the living room. For a moment they stood there awkwardly without speaking.

“Can I get you a drink?” Paula said.

“No, thanks. Well, maybe a short one.”

Paula went into the kitchen and Mike took a chair, feeling clumsy and not knowing where to put his hands. He lit a cigarette. In a few minutes Paula returned carrying two drinks, handed one to him, and perched on the edge of the settee facing him.

“I want to talk about last night,” she said. “I want to tell you what happened and why it happened.”

“You don’t have to tell me anything,” Mike said.

“Yes, in a way I do. Last night is hanging over us like our own personal cloud. If there’s ever going to be anything between you and me, anything important, we have to get rid of that cloud.”

Mike stabbed out his cigarette and resisted the impulse to light another. “I guess you’re right,” he said.

Paula drew a deep breath and began to speak, keeping her eyes directly on Mike, alert for any reaction. “Last night was not the first time that’s happened to me. I tell you this so you won’t think it’s your fault. Since my divorce from Eric I have been to bed with three other men. Before you. The experience was the same with each of them—I simply could not complete the act, however much I wanted to. I never saw any of them again afterwards. Two of them did call me again, thinking, perhaps, that I was some sort of challenge to their manhood, but I couldn’t bear the thought of seeing them again. I was too humiliated, and besides, they didn’t mean that much to me in the first place. With you it’s different, Mike. Maybe because of the way we were in New York, and the letters we wrote to each other, but you were … you
are
by way of being something special to me. That’s why I wanted so much for it to be good with us, and why it was especially bitter for me when I failed again.”

“Paula, you’re being too critical of yourself,” Mike said.

“Please don’t stop me. I have to get these things said now, or I may never do it. You see, I think there’s still hope for you and me. I don’t want to let it get away. Mike, I am not a frigid woman. That sounds odd, I suppose, after last night, but really I’m not. I have all the normal, healthy sex urges that every well-adjusted woman does. If anything, I have more of them. And ten years ago I enjoyed sex about as much as the law permits.”

Paula rose and walked across the room to the window. She looked out into the gentle Chelsea afternoon for a minute before she went on.

“My husband and I had a supremely active sex life at first. Then it began to go bad. In a hurry. One day Eric could no longer make love to me. It seems now that it happened in one day, but of course it must have taken longer. I felt awful, as though I had let him down. When I tried to talk to him about it he became furious. I told him I would do anything I could to help him.”

She turned from the window to face Mike. “That, as things turned out, was a serious mistake. Eric took me at my word, and he began to ask me to do things for him. And to him. And there were things he wanted to do to me. And I tried. I really tried for the sake of whatever it was I thought he and I had together.

“His actions became more and more bizarre until …” Paula hugged herself and shuddered as though from a sudden chill. “Until I felt so utterly debased and degraded that I shriveled inside when he touched me, even during his more normal periods. You simply wouldn’t believe some of the things …”

“I might,” Mike said quietly. “You’d be surprised at some of the stories a reporter gets to hear.”

Paula smiled at him. “I’m sorry,” she said. “That sounded rather like ‘nobody knows the trouble I’ve seen,’ didn’t it.”

“That’s all right,” Mike said. “Nobody
does
know, but some of us might understand if you give us a chance.”

“I shan’t go into clinical detail,” Paula went on, “but some of the things Eric wanted to do in the bedroom were better suited to the bathroom. Since we’ve been apart I’ve read enough books on the subject to know that such deviations are not all that uncommon, but knowing it intellectually and accepting it emotionally are two entirely different things.”

Mike stood up suddenly and walked across the room to take the empty glass from Paula’s hand. “Let me fill this for you,” he said.

“No, please, I’ve had enough for now.”

“Is there anything more you want to tell me?”

“Just one thing. I want to go to bed with you, Mike. Now.”

“As an experiment?”

“Maybe that’s partly it. Mostly it’s just that I want you so damn much I ache. I daresay that’s a hell of a thing for a woman to confess to a man.”

‘That all depends. Are you very sure that’s what you want? This isn’t just therapy?”

“It’s what I want. I mean if … if you want it too. I can’t make any promises, you know.”

Mike stepped forward and took both of Paula’s hands in his own. He said, “There’s just one promise I’m going to insist on.”

“What’s that?”

“No more talk.”

Paula pressed her cheek against his chest. “No more talk,” she said.

They went into the bedroom and undressed. There was not the urgency of the night before, yet the room crackled with suppressed excitement. Soon they lay side by side in Paula’s bed under a pale blue sheet. Their bodies touched at several points, but Mike made no move toward her, sensing that this time Paula must be allowed to set the pace.

Gradually Mike could feel the tension leave Paula as her muscles relaxed one by one. Her breathing became deeper and she stirred gently, moving closer to him.

Paula rolled a little to one side and reached over to lay her hand on Mike’s bare chest He turned his head to look at her, but still did not move his body. Paula smiled at him with her eyes, and began to stroke his chest. Very slowly her hand moved lower, across his solar plexus to his flat stomach.

“You had your appendix out,” she said, her voice a husky murmur.

“When I was ten,” he said.

Paula continued to explore his body. Her growing self-assurance was transmitted to Mike through her touch. She traced an ever-diminishing circle around his navel, finishing with a gently probing forefinger.

Although Mike kept his body still, there was no disguising the fact that he was acutely aroused by Paula’s caress.

With one swift motion Paula seized the top of the sheet and peeled it down and away from their bodies. With one hand still flat on Mike’s stomach she sat up in bed, then moved so she was kneeling above him.

Mike’s breathing was harsh in his throat now as he let himself take a long slow look at the nude body of the woman. Her breasts swayed gently with her movements. The soft roundness of her belly curved invitingly into a shadow of reddish-brown hair.

Paula’s hand moved again, and Mike gasped aloud and shuddered. She continued to stroke him until he could have borne it no longer. At that precise moment Paula leaned down and placed her lips lightly against his mouth.

“Now, Mike, please.”

He moved at last, not tentatively, but with firm masculine confidence. He found Paula thoroughly ready for him.

The act lasted not more than five minutes. Had it been possible, Mike would have prolonged it, but their passion had built to such a frenzied pitch that there was no holding back from the clinging, shuddering climax.

• • •

For a long time afterward they lay together, their bodies still joined.

Paula was the first to speak. “May I say that was magnificent?”

“You may.”

“Seriously, darling, do you know what you’ve done for me?”

“Sssh.”

They lay silently for another long period, Paula making contented woman sounds and Mike feeling like the king of the world. The light that filtered in through the curtains was fading when Paula spoke again.

“If we’re going to the Savoy this evening we’d better start thinking about getting ready.”

“I don’t want to go to the Savoy.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“I’m glad. I don’t much want to go either.”

“Good. We’ll stay right here forever.”

Paula moved her mouth to his and they kissed with the deep familiarity of lovers. After a while she drew back and said, “What’ll we do if we get hungry?”

“Got anything in the kitchen?”

“Some leftover casserole. I suppose I could warm it up, if that’s all right.”

“I love warmed-up casserole.”

“Do you want some?”

“Later.”

“Mmmmm.”

“Much later.”

As Mike lay back drowsy and happy, a not-so-pleasant idea began to edge into his consciousness. It had to do with something Paula had said in the last couple of days about her ex-husband. There seemed to be some kind of a connection he should make, but before he could think more about it, Paula’s hand started to move over him again. This time Mike let himself respond fully and immediately.

They never did heat up the casserole.

It has been said that it is easier to get the Order of the British Empire than a press pass for Wimbledon. Centre Court passes were bestowed, one to each major newspaper and one each to other selected media, by an official of the All-England Tennis Club. For these two weeks of early summer this official had Saint Peter-like power to grant or deny entrance to the promised land.

Mike Wilder, holder of one of the coveted passes, gazed around the octagonal, green-roofed grandstand as he had three days earlier when he arrived in England. Today the stands were packed with upwards of ten thousand lucky seat holders and another three thousand standees who had started queueing up the night before for the privilege of watching the champion play in the opening round.

The upholstered green lawn chairs in the Royal Box were filled with minor nobility. The Queen never attended any more, but occasionally a princess would show up and set the crowd astir.

The press section was up behind the glassed-in broadcasters’ booth. Mike had put in a token appearance, said his hellos, and slipped away as soon as possible. It was his feeling that sportswriters bunched together tended to quote each other in their stories. As far as the scores and the factual on-court action were concerned, the wire services would carry complete accounts. Mike wanted to be on his own where he could try to get into the heads of the players and those who came to watch them.

The first-round match being played on Centre Court was utterly devoid of suspense. Ron Hopper, the defending champion, was putting away an awe-struck young Floridian without having to extend himself. Mike left the one-sided contest and walked through the passageway that led to the outlying courts.

The day was sunny and unusually warm for London in June. From all directions could be heard the satisfying
thwock
of racket on ball accompanied by polite bursts of applause from the spectators. The old tennis club was so efficiently laid out that twenty-five thousand people could move freely about with no feeling of being crowded. All of the spectators, from Centre Court on, maintained a traditional decorum and a sense of good manners unique in the sports world.

Mike stopped at one of the stalls set up on the lawn and bought a dish of strawberries in thick Devonshire cream. They were a little rich for his taste, but you simply did not attend Wimbledon and not eat strawberries and cream. They were the local equivalent of hot dogs at a baseball game.

Strolling along the broad paths between the courts, Mike studied the faces of the players. The tension of playing at Wimbledon was as evident on Court Fifteen as on Centre Court. Part of the special quality of Wimbledon was, of course, the prize money—more than $230,000 this year. But more important was that the winner at Wimbledon was popularly, if unofficially, recognized as the world champion.

Because of the opening ceremonies, only some forty matches were scheduled for today, all in the men’s singles. Tomorrow would be a full day with more than a hundred matches being played as the women’s singles began, as well as the men’s, women’s, and mixed doubles.

On one of the peripheral courts Mike spotted Alan Doughty playing an overweight, Latin-looking man. Mike consulted his program and saw that the other man was a Spaniard, unseeded. Doughty seemed to be having an easy time of it as he angled precise volleys out of the other’s reach.

At the sideline Hazel Doughty stood watching her husband. She looked worried. Mike noted that she kept her eyes on Alan rather than following the ball from one end of the court to the other in the accepted manner.

Mike let his thoughts stray for a moment to Paula Teal. He would have liked her to be here with him, but as Paula pointed out this morning, she was a working girl. She had made breakfast for the two of them and declined his offer of a ride to her office. At that hour of the day, she told him, the bus was a much more efficient mode of transportation up Fleet Street than private auto. They had made a date for dinner and kissed in the hallway outside Paula’s flat. Mike went away with a good feeling that was still with him.

As Alan Doughty and the Spaniard changed ends of the court Mike walked over to stand next to Hazel.

“Alan seems to be playing well,” he said.

Hazel started, then gave him a smile. “Oh, hello, Mr. Wilder. Yes, I suppose he’s playing well enough.”

Something in her voice and in the quickness of her smile struck Mike as off key. It couldn’t be the way the match was going, as the scoreboard showed Alan had won the first set 6–2 and was serving with a 3–0 lead in the second.

“Do you see something out there that I don’t?” he asked.

Hazel turned and looked closely at him, as though to assure herself that he was really interested. “No, there’s nothing wrong with his game,” she said. “There’s something else, though. Some trouble of Alan’s that he’s not telling me.”

Mike was going to ask her more, but play had started again and Hazel Doughty’s attention was completely given over to her husband’s match.

Mike wandered off and found an empty spot on a bench. He sat down and scribbled some notes in a spiral pad—quick impressions that he would type out at greater length when he returned to his hotel.

He paused in his writing to wonder again about the curious way the desk clerk had acted that morning. When Mike stopped by to pick up his mail the clerk had smiled in a familiar way and said, “I trust you and your friends got together all right yesterday.”

“What friends?” Mike had asked.

“Why, the gentleman, er, that is, I assumed you were joining friends later.”

Further questioning by Mike brought only increasingly vague responses from the clerk, who suddenly became very busy elsewhere.

Mike began putting things together. First there was the anonymous phone caller who had asked for his room number the day he arrived in London. Then the man Christy had seen watching him in the discotheque. Now there was the near miss yesterday with the murderous Jaguar and the odd evasiveness of the clerk. Taken singly these events might not mean much, but add them together and throw in a couple of things Paula had told him and it began to form a suspicion in Mike’s mind that fee didn’t much like. He resolved to pursue the matter later, but just now he was distracted by a voice that broke the decorum of tennis manners by shouting his name across a court.

“Mike! Mike Wilder! Over here!”

Peering toward the voice Mike recognized the perky blonde head of Christy Noone. She was sitting on a bench with a group of young men who all seemed to be vying for her attention. Mike gave her a modest wave, but made no move to join the girl and her admirers.

On the court between them Tim Barrett was playing an earnest-looking opponent who kept pushing his horn-rimmed glasses back up on his nose. Tim’s attention seemed to be divided between the tennis game and Christy Noone. Behind the umpire’s chair sat Vic Goukas. The scowl on the coach’s craggy face said plainly that he did not like what was happening on the court.

Mike moved along the path to the court where Milo Vasquez was playing. No wandering of attention here. So intent on his game was the dark-eyed Mexican-American that it seemed he could throw away the racket if he wanted and force the ball over the net by sheer will power.

A sudden burst of derisive crowd noise that was most un-Wimbledon-like turned heads momentarily away from the quieter matches out on the grounds. The sound seemed to come from Court One where the stands held about half as many spectators as Centre Court. Mike headed in that direction to see what had caused the disturbance.

Yuri Zenger was playing on Court One. As Mike approached he saw the Hungarian with his arms spread wide in prayerful appeal to a linesman as he pointed with his toe to a spot well outside the white chalk baseline. The linesman sat impassively as Zenger knelt on the grass and traced a circle with his finger around the spot where he was claiming his opponent’s shot had landed. His claim was plainly frivolous, since if he really felt he had a case he would appeal to the umpire, who had the power to change a linesman’s call.

The Hungarian continued his pantomime well past the point where it might have been amusing, and the crowd responded with an impatient mutter. Finally he picked up his racket and deliberately served two balls into the far seats for a double fault. A few in the crowd booed this display of contempt.

A glance at the scoreboard told Mike that Zenger was easily winning the match, and could afford to throw away points if he wanted to. However, the gratuitous humiliation of his opponent did not sit well with the crowd. Sulkily, Zenger turned businesslike and quickly won the next two points and the game.

Mike turned and started out of Court One the way he had come. Outside he was stopped by a plump young man with frizzy hair and an uncertain moustache.

“Excuse me, Mr. Wilder, I’m Cliff Willits.”

“How are you,” Mike said, wondering who the kid was and whether he was supposed to know him.

“I’m covering the Wimbledon tournament for the
San Francisco Freedom.”

“Freedom
, did you say?”

“Yes. We’re the new alternative newspaper in the Bay area.”

Oh, yeah, alternative, Mike thought. That was today’s word for what used to be called underground or radical. Young Willits had the look, all right. Bright, busy eyes, smirk of superiority.

“Isn’t this a little outside your usual coverage?” Mike asked, thinking riots and rock concerts were more the
Freedom
’s sort of thing.

The young man fell in step beside him. “You’re right, of course, but we’re not going to give Wimbledon the usual Establishment treatment.”

“I’ll bet you’re not.”

“I want you to know that I agree with what you’ve been saying for years, that organized sports are a symbol of all that’s rotten in our whole sick society.”

“Have I been saying that?”

“You couldn’t come right out with it, naturally, but some of us can read between the lines. You were the only sportswriter anybody read at Berkeley. That’s where I graduated.”

“It figures.”

“Your columns about how dehumanizing it is for persons to take part in big-money athletics really hit home with us.”

“That’s not exactly what I—”

“And the article you did for
Sportsweek
about Little League. Heavy! All those parents trying to force their old restrictive values on their children rather than giving the young people freedom to choose their own paths.”

“I’ve never liked the idea of adults manipulating kids for reasons of their own, whether it’s parental pride or politics.”

“Exactly! It’s one more example of how the decadent old force their will on the sensitive young.”

“That’s a little stronger than I had in mind.”

Willits plunged ahead, warming to his own rhetoric. “And the most sickening thing about sports is this whole Western imperialist emphasis on winning. Everybody plays only to win. Beating somebody else is the only thing that counts. Look at the football coaches who are the big Establishment heroes—Vince Lombardi, George Allen, Don Shula. They’re nothing but Patton and MacArthur without the uniforms and gold braid. It’s the system that counts, and the player means nothing. He’s only there to be exploited by the coaches and the fat cat owners.”

Mike stopped walking abruptly, and Cliff Willits nearly stumbled beside him.

“Hold it a minute, Willits. Are you relating articles and columns written by me to these half-ass ideas of yours?”

The young man apparently missed the descriptive adjective, because he went on in the same one-insider-to-another tone. “I understand that your salary is paid by the Establishment, and you can’t come right out and say these things the way we can on the
Freedom
, but you’re a good enough writer to get the meaning through.”

“Maybe I’m not such a good writer. You seem to be getting meanings out of my stuff that I never put in.”

“I don’t understand.”

“This Establishment you keep talking about; if it’s the people who are keeping me employed I can’t get all that mad at them.”

“Yes, but—”

“And this exploitation of the players you’re worried about. Professional jocks work seven or eight months a year at an average salary of $30,000. Big stars sign contracts for a million and up. The only group that’s better paid is rock musicians. If that’s exploitation I know a lot of people who’d be glad to stand in line for some.”

Cliff Willits stared at Mike as though he had just heard Joan Baez sing the
Marines’ Hymn
. “But that’s measuring everything in dollars. What about the dehumanizing emphasis our society puts on winning? They make it a disgrace to lose at anything.”

“This may finish me as a counterculture hero,” Mike said, “but I’m going to set you straight on my feelings about winning and losing. First, let me say I agree with you that losing is no disgrace. We’ve had some pretty good men who were losers. Robert E. Lee for one. Adlai Stevenson for another. They lost, but they were doing their very best to win. Not trying is the disgrace.

“On the other hand, winning is not to be sneered at. You mentioned Patton and MacArthur who are, I presume, bad guys in your philosophy. Maybe they’re not my favorite people either, but they were winners, and at the time that was considered a good thing to be, considering the alternative.”

“Okay, so maybe we needed soldiers back then, but sports isn’t World War Two.”

“No, it isn’t. But it is a job. The goal of the job is to win. A professional who does less than his best is cheating.”

“What you’re saying is that winning is everything.”

“I’ll paraphrase Joe E. Lewis and say I’ve won some and I’ve lost some, and I’ve learned one thing—winning is better.”

Willits swept his arm in a wide arc encompassing all of Wimbledon. “You can’t mean you approve of this silly circus? Here you have young people from fifty nations gathered together not to solve the world’s problems but to beat hell out of each other.”

“I’ll tell you this, son,” Mike said, softening his tone, “I’d much rather see them do it with tennis balls on grass courts than with bullets on a battlefield.”