New fic: Double Ace, Andy/Miranda, R

 

Miranda puts on her coolest expression, but inside, her heart is pounding. Her palms are sweaty. Two more points, only two more…

*Thwack!*

The opponent reaches for it, and misses. An ace, only her second of the whole match! Miranda claps, trying not to assume anything but getting caught up in the excitement in the box. Everyone is cheering from this section of the grandstands, and the noise is overwhelming.

They change sides, and this time, Andrea will serve from the ad court. Miranda hopes she’ll go down the T, since that always seems to throw her opponent off—

*Thwack!*

The ball rockets forward, right down the center of the T. In that second the game is over, the championship won. Chaos breaks out around her, but Miranda just smiles, breathing out in overwhelming relief and joy. She has watched so many of Andrea’s matches with different results; quarters, semis, that final at Indian Wells in March when she had been so close, but none of that matters now.

Andrea has won Wimbledon. And Miranda feels as though her chest will explode with happiness.

The crowd noise is deafening—Andrea has shaken her defeated opponent’s hand and bounds back into the court, hands up and waving. Everyone loves her, adores her even, and why shouldn’t they? She is the American darling here; model pretty, fit, and brilliant. Her smile is blinding as she turns toward her family box, where Miranda sits one row in front of her brother and parents. They are jumping up and down, screaming her name, and then Miranda watches in disbelief as Andrea does the unthinkable and starts climbing into the stands. She is breathless, both thrilled and concerned for Andrea’s safety—what if someone were to hurt her? But no one does, and she climbs until she reaches her family. She falls into her parents’ arms, then embraces her coach. Miranda feels as though she has won too—why is that, she wonders? But then the thought is knocked from her brain when Andrea’s ecstatic face turns toward her. For that moment, Miranda is stunned. She has never seen so much emotion pouring from her dear, dear friend, and it brings tears to Miranda’s eyes. Andrea lunges forward and grabs Miranda, and while the girl’s sweat has soaked her cornflower jersey (color chosen by Miranda, of course) and she smells as most athletes do after great exertion, Miranda holds on as if she is the most precious thing in the world.

---

Inside the club, Miranda sips champagne with Nigel. Andrea is off in the locker room changing now that the awards ceremony is complete. Andrea has done a number of interviews and has a press conference to attend, but after that, she’ll join her family and friends here. Then they’ll go off to a celebratory dinner, although Miranda isn’t sure she’ll attend.

She is, after all, a hanger on of sorts; most of the people here have known Andrea for much of her life, while Miranda has only been in the picture for the past 18 months. And that was only because she saw Andrea on the courts at her first major, the Australian, when she made it to the quarters seemingly out of nowhere. She’d been in the top 200 for most of her career, but at 25, she’d dumped her coach and changed her training. At the Australian, Miranda had been entranced by her play, and when they’d met at a party after Andrea’s eventual loss, Miranda had introduced herself. Andrea had little idea who Miranda was, which was refreshing rather than irritating. Miranda had immediately talked about doing a feature on athletes and their personal style, and wouldn’t Andrea like to be a part of it? She remembered the words spilling from her mouth as though she’d been thinking of it for ages, which she hadn’t. Andrea thought it was “kind of a cool idea. For someone who doesn’t really have any style, that is.” She’d been so self-deprecating and modest—Miranda found her utterly charming. And she did have style, Miranda assured her, a quietly classic sense of fashion, judging by what she’d been wearing during the tournament.

They’d kept up an email correspondence for months, until Miranda attended the French Open, where Andrea again made the quarterfinals. Miranda had a seat in Andrea’s box then, which Miranda found very sweet considering they hadn’t seen each other in ages. Nor had that Runway feature come to pass; Miranda had scheduled it in the calendar although no one had known it yet.

More emails flew between them, and when Andrea made the semis at the US Open, her career really began to heat up—she was no longer a flash in the pan, but a late bloomer on a major run. Her ranking improved, and Miranda gave her as much advice as she could on handling the pressure and attention. Miranda felt extremely protective, not as she would of her own children, but of someone very important to her who needed as much help as possible. Although she was older for a tennis player, she was still so much an innocent in Miranda’s eyes.

After much planning, the Runway athlete feature had been a success this past February, sandwiched between Andrea’s strong showing at the Australian (the semis) and the French (the semis again). The Indian Wells loss had been extremely difficult for Miranda, although Andrea seemed pleased to have made it so far. She was so positive about everything, which only made her more endearing.

Today’s win is without a doubt one of the highlights of Miranda’s year. No one deserves it more.

“Do you two have plans later?” Nigel asks, startling Miranda out of her reverie.

“Plans?”

“Yes, after the dinner.”

Miranda shakes her head. “No.”

“Why not?” Nigel looks confused.

“Well, I imagine she’ll be quite busy with the press, and her friends, naturally--”

“Miranda, when are you going to get your head out of your ass?”

Miranda stares at Nigel. “Excuse me?”

“Just take the girl to bed and be done with it. She won’t wait forever.”

All the blood drains from Miranda’s face. What on earth? “Nigel, don’t be ridiculous--”

“When’s her next tournament?”

Miranda answers automatically, although her mind is racing a thousand miles a second. “The Bank of the West, in a few weeks.”

“Will you be there?”

“Of course, it’s in Stanford. Why wouldn’t I?”

Nigel continues. “And the next?”

“Toronto, but I don’t see what that has to do--”

“Are you going to that?”

Miranda swallows. She doesn’t want to answer. “Yes. You know I am.”

Nigel leans closer. “Listen, Miranda, I adore you, but you’re an idiot. Go after her now, because there are a lot of vultures circling around, and everyone knows she’s nuts about you. If you don’t want her, leave her alone for heaven’s sake so she can find someone else.” He nudges her chin with a gentle fist. “I’ve never known you to be so blind. You’ve really got it bad, haven’t you.”

Miranda just blinks at him, holding her champagne glass and wishing it was whiskey.

“You want another drink?” Nigel asks, reading her mind.

“No,” she croaks. “I mean yes.”

“Right.”

Nigel disappears toward the bar, and Miranda glances around, hoping no one overheard them. He was joking, of course. Andrea isn’t interested in her, nor is Miranda interested either. It makes no sense at all. They have so little in common, when it comes right down to it. Besides, neither of them is a lesbian, at least Miranda doesn’t think so. Andrea’s never dated anyone during the time they’ve known each other, has she? No, Miranda would know. But still, it’s just not possible—

At that moment, Andrea emerges from a crowd of people, wearing a little red dress and a sparkling smile. She is searching for something, or someone, and when her eyes meet Miranda’s, they fasten on her as though she’s found what she’s looking for.

Miranda starts to tremble. She really could have used a few more minutes to process this whole thing. She does not have that luxury, because moments later, Andrea is hugging her shaking body, while Miranda tries not to blush.

“I did it,” Andrea tells her once they separate. “I’m so happy you were here. I couldn’t have done it without you.”

Miranda opens her mouth to tell her how silly that is, how she did it all on her own. How she deserves every accolade and cheer and pat on the back for all her achievements. How Miranda is proud of her, and how happy she is for the win.

But Miranda says nothing, unable to speak.

After a few seconds, Andrea’s smile fades. “Miranda, are you all right?” She reaches out for Miranda’s arm tenderly, her face filled with concern.

Miranda inhales, and the world clears a bit. In front of her is the sweetest, kindest face in the universe. Nigel might be ridiculous, but apparently he’s right. “You look so lovely,” Miranda says. She wants to cringe; she sounds like a lovestruck teen.

Andrea’s eyes widen. She looks down at her outfit. “I do?”

“Not the dress,” Miranda says, unable to stop herself. “Just you.”

Andrea’s lips part in surprise, and suddenly Miranda is drawn to the thought of kissing her mouth, over and over. Her throat is dry. But Andrea’s smile returns, and her grip tightens on Miranda’s arm.

“You’re lovely too, Miranda,” Andrea says. “I’ve always thought so.”

“I think—I think I need to talk to you. Later, I mean,” Miranda stutters, totally out of her depth. “About something. Important.” She feels foolish.

Andrea’s fingers slide down and take Miranda’s hand firmly. “I would love that,” Andrea says, and Miranda sees that she knows, and that she’s happy. That she’s been waiting. Relief floods Miranda, and she smiles and grips the fingers in hers tightly. Andrea says, “Come to dinner with us. I know you were going to skip it, but I want you with me.”

“I wouldn’t miss it.”

It suddenly occurs to Miranda that they are standing in a crowd of a few hundred people, all of whom have eyes for today’s winner. Miranda sighs and steps back, allowing room for the media professionals to move in and claim a few moments of Andrea’s time. “Go on,” Miranda says. “I’ll be here.”

“Promise?” Andrea asks, searching Miranda’s face.

“I promise.”

---

Miranda attends the dinner. She speaks little, struck by Andrea’s beauty, and the love she gives so freely to her family and friends. She does not ration her affection, which is remarkable to witness for someone like Miranda.

Earlier she thanked Nigel, but didn’t say much of what had transpired; it feels too dear to speak of, especially since she isn’t totally certain her message has been received. But Nigel just patted her on the back with a grin. “Good show. Took you long enough.” He’s off to the airport now; there’s a magazine to be run, after all. Miranda will stay for tomorrow’s men’s finals and head home on Monday. So will Andrea.

Tonight, she has to wait. But not for long.

When dinner is finished, which takes many hours because there is much celebrating to be done, she rides with Andrea in the limo back to her hotel. She follows Andrea up to the roof suite, an indulgence for someone who has been careful with throwing her prize money around. But the room has been comped for today’s tournament winner, and Miranda is looking forward to seeing it.

Once inside, Andrea drops her small bag by the door. She looks tense as she stares at Miranda. “You’re staying, right? You won’t run away from me anymore?”

There, Miranda thinks. There is her answer. Her chest loosens, and she tilts her head. “I won’t run.”

Miranda wonders how awkward this encounter will be, considering she is a novice at lesbianism, and she knows nothing of Andrea’s sexual history, but then Andrea is in her arms kissing her, devouring her with her generous mouth. Miranda’s body seems to dissolve into liquid, heat racing through her veins as their clothes fall away in a path to the bed. They collapse together on the mattress, and Miranda can’t help but be astonished at how much she wants Andrea, her touch, her lips, her eyes, her whole body. It is a body that is vastly different from hers; yoga has kept Miranda lithe, but Andrea is muscle and sinew and softness. For a few minutes she simply stares before using her hands and mouth to learn it all.

Andrea holds her in her arms as though she does not ever want to let go. When she comes, she whispers Miranda’s name with such tenderness that Miranda has to hide her tears in dark hair. She does not think about how much she had to lose without even knowing it, nor does she wonder who could have swept in and stolen Andrea away from her. Instead she tells Andrea that she loves her, and decides that this is her life now, and nothing--not tournaments, or magazine deadlines, or the press or anything else--will keep them apart.

Andrea cries then, and tells her, “You made every dream of mine come true today, Miranda. You were there with me when I won, and you’re here with me now. This is all I want, win or lose. Just you.”

Miranda holds her close, and kisses her.