Here is the first chapter of my fic "Serving for Love". Hope you guys don't laugh; it's my first tennis fan fiction. Comments (good or bad) are greatly appreciated.
Disclaimer: I don’t own any tennis players and anything that happens here is purely fictional and is not meant to be taken seriously.
A/N: This is sort of an AU (alternate universe) fic as Lleyton is not engaged with Bec and was never involved with Kim. (I have no problem with the two ladies; just it’s easier for the story)
Serving For Love
“Damn it,” Elena Dementieva cursed when the green tennis ball hit the net. It was only two weeks before the US Open and her serve still haven’t improved much. She will never win a slam at this rate. She closed her eyes and could imagine the audience laughing at her and that witch Mary Carillo criticizing her service game. It wasn’t her fault she wasn’t blessed with a serve like Roddick’s or Venus Williams’.
“Fustrated?” Her coach, Olga Morozova, asked as she stepped out from nowhere.
The blonde tennis player nodded, sighing. “I don’t know why my serve is still so bad.”
Olga patted her on the back. “Don’t worry too much. Just relax. Here, have some lemonade.”
Elena shook her head. “The US Open is only two weeks away and I’m not getting any younger. I feel like this is the last chance I’ll have to prove I’m worth something.”
“But you are
already worth something. You are ranked number five in the world. That’s a huge accomplishment.”
,” the blonde emphasized frustratingly, “I mean win a slam.”
Olga shook her head. “Child, if you base worthiness on winning slams then many players are not ‘worthy’. Kim Clijsters haven’t won a Grand Slam. Are you saying she’s not a good player?”
Elena sighed. She knew her coach had a point. “Still…I want to have a good serve like Roddick.”
Her coach laughed. “Roddick? His service game is inhuman. You will get better at your serve, trust me.”
“Come on!” Lleyton Hewitt shouted to himself as he hit a lob over the head of his coach, Roger Rasheed.
Roger smirked. “Looks like a case of the pupil beating his master. You are definitely ready for the US Open.”
The 24-year old blonde looked up from his sweat-contained towel. “And Roger?”
“Well, let’s not go that far,” his coach said half-teasingly.
Lleyton sighed. “I don’t know what happened. I used to have a winning record over him. Now he beats me 7 times in a row.”
“Eight,” Roger corrected him.
Lleyton gave his coach a dry look. “Thanks,” he replied sarcastically.
“Come on, Roger is like God. You can’t beat god.”
“So you’re saying with Roger around, I can never win a slam ever again.”
Roger shrugged. “You can always hope for an injury.”
“Thanks, mate,” Lleyton said dryly and headed back into his huge house by the waters of Australia.
Two weeks passed and Elena was on the plane with her coach to Flushing Meadows, New York. Although she had practiced on her serve, she wasn’t still confident on her abilities. She would thank her lucky stars if she even made it past the first round.
“Don’t stress too much. You’ll do fine,” her coach assured.
She leaned back on her chair, closing her eyelids. She soon fell into a deep slumber.
Lleyton looked around the airport and almost laughed out of amusement. In Australia, he was like God; everyone wanted his autograph and fell on their knees when they met him. Here in America, no one even knew who he was. He then saw a young teen running towards him. Maybe someone does know me
, he thought to himself.
“Are you Andy Roddick?”
The blonde’s face fell then shook his head. “No. I’m Lleyton Hewitt.”
The teen’s brows crinkled in confusion. “Who?”
“Lleyton,” the number 2 player in the world repeated.
“Okay…whatever,” the teenager muttered and left.
Lleyton shook his head and waited for his coach and entourage. Roger went to the restroom and the others were hungry and had to get something to eat before they “bloody die” as they so eloquently stated.
One brunette looked at him with an astonished expression. She walked up to him, her mouth gaping open. “You’re…you’re…”
He nodded. "Yes I’m-"
“Andy Roddick! Can I have your autograph?” She pulled a post-it pad and a pen out of her purse.
“I’m here to check in to my room,” Elena told the receptionist as she arrived at the hotel.
“Elena Dementieva,” the blonde tennis player replied.
“Okay, you have room 805. Here is your key. Enjoy your stay,” the receptionist said with a smile.
“Thanks.” She retrieved the key and turned to her coach. “You get into your room and I’ll meet you later to practice.” Her coach nodded and went to speak to the receptionist for her room.
Elena took the elevator and headed to her room. She sat down on the bed and sighed. It was a long plane ride and she was exhausted. She jumped up when she heard the door knob turn. “You?” she asked, clearly confused. The man standing in front of her was none other than Lleyton Hewitt.
“What are you doing in my room?” the Australian asked. He thought hotels give mints under their pillows not tall blondes.
room? Excuse me, but I got here first,” she insisted, folding her arms across her chest.
He shook his head. Maybe blondes were ditzes. Holding up his key card he said, “I have a key.”
She held up hers. “So do I.”
Lleyton sighed. “Okay, obviously the hotel lady made a bloody mistake and gave us the same room. Let’s just go down there and fix this mess, okay Devonara?”
“Okay, okay. Dementievo.” He didn’t really give a rat’s ass if her name was Demented or Dementovo. He just wanted his own room.
“Dementieva! With an ‘a’.”
“Whatever. Let’s go fix this.”
She sighed. “Fine.”
So what do you guys think?