Life of a Pro

Heather sat staring out the window of the plane as it soared 15,000 feet somewhere over Colorado (or so the pilot had said, but she only half heard). She was on her way to Racine, Wisconsin for the 9th stop on the Women's Professional Beach Volleyball Tour, and she was having a banner year. She and her new partner had won 6 of the first 8 events, and even though the money still paled next to the pro men's tour, she was definitely making enough to train full-time for the third straight year.

She played with the lettuce in her salad, but she didn't bother to eat any. She pondered her odd mixture of anticipation, nervousness and excitement over this particular site, but she didn't want to put her finger on just exactly why. The money at the Racine tournament wasn't unusually high: $25,000 split among all winners, 1st place splitting $7,500, and the event had no prestige value. This year's event was only the second at Racine, so it lacked enough history to mean much.

She put down her plastic fork on the tray and took a distracted sip of her V8. Maybe discouraging her boyfriend, Jack, from coming on this trip was a mistake after all. She had been so subtle about it he didn't even realize that she had softly talked him out of joining her at this particular event.

In the spring, he had asked if she would like it if he started coming with her to the tournaments, and she was thrilled. But as the Racine tourney drew closer, she became increasingly apprehensive and started to play up reasons why he shouldn't come to this one. It was such a small event on the tour really, and nothing — nothing — was in Racine, she said. When the work schedule at his computer consulting company required that he work that weekend, she hid her relief and assured him it was OK if he didn't come.

Now she wasn't so sure.

Finally she let her mind dwell on the real reason this tournament was giving her competition-seasoned heart vexations. It wasn't the tournament at all. It wasn't Emily, her partner, who was a godsend — a childhood friend, a joy to play with, and most importantly a hell of a player. And it sure wasn't Jack, with whom she was enjoying a somewhat directionless but entertaining romance.

No, her problem was who she might or might not see on the man-made "beach" in Racine. Would he be there, watching her, thinking about her, wanting to touch her, waiting to serve her —

"Are you finished, Miss?" the flight attendant coaxed gently.

Startled, she almost dropped her plastic cup of V8, which she noticed was nearly full. She put the cup down on her tray with her strewn but uneaten salad and said, "Yes, thanks." She was hungry, but the butterflies in her stomach were clearly not going to permit anything so invasive as eating.

Suddenly, she felt angry with herself, as she had so many times before when she thought about Racine and who she might see there. This wasn't right. She and Jack had been together now since last October. What was that — 9 months now? She shouldn't be playing little head games with him now.

She should just pretend that nothing happened last year in Wisconsin. Fact is, she could. There were no agreements implied or any "real" relationship established. It was just something that happened. It didn't happen all the time, but she knew that sometimes some of the other single girls on the tour had met fleeting "romance" on tournament weekends.

So the guy had written her a few times. So what. She'd never responded. She found she wanted to but just couldn't. Better that she just forget what happened. Yet she had done everything she could to make sure she wouldn't have Jack with her this weekend. Her mood grew more resigned. He wouldn't be there anyway. His last letter was in February, Valentine's Day in fact. But she hadn't heard anything since, so maybe he'd given up. Somewhere in her heart, though, she doubted it. What scared her, though, was that she hoped he hadn't.

Last year's Racine weekend was so bizarre. She had just caught her then-boyfriend and forever jerk Allen cheating on her the week before — some bimbo personal trainer he had met at the gym. At 24 with a budding volleyball career, Heather knew she wasn't ready for any real commitment and she'd let Allen know that up-front. But that didn't mean she was out dating other guys either, so she was pretty hurt and disappointed when she found this girl's g-string in his bed.

Still, to her credit, she had a great tournament that weekend in Racine. Went undefeated and won the championship pretty handily with Emily fairly early on Sunday. She never let other things in her personal life — least of all men — interfere with her profession. That's why serious relationships weren't really an option for her now.

Dammit then, why can't I get John out of my head, her mind's voice yelled at her. How ironic it was that John and her boyfriend had the same name — at least their given names. No one ever referred to Jack as John, though. Except that one time when she and Jack were together and he was kissing her just the way she loved between her legs, and she began thinking about Racine... Luckily, she was able to weasel her way out of it with some bullshit story about how sometimes she liked to think about Jack with his full name. She never did call him John again though.

Ah yes, last year at Racine, John had certainly kissed her. She never thought twice about why she didn't actually start dating John after that weekend. In addition to the obvious problems of her career and their respective locations was the simple fact that everything about that weekend just wasn't conducive to a "normal" relationship. The whole experience was just too bizarre. Even now when she thought on it, she felt an unbearable mix of excitement and shame, and then more embarrassment when she recognized her own excitement.

Oh, how John charmed her and made her laugh until she cried at the post-tournament party. In fact, for a fan of the sport he had remarkable self-composure. None of that star-struck awkwardness you usually see in fans — especially male ones. She knew that she was very highly regarded by the men in the stands as much, if not more, for her beauty and physique than her skills as an athlete. Occasionally, a rude fan — usually half-drunk or worse — would say something about her tits or her ass, but most of the time the guys had trouble even looking her full in the eyes.

So from that perspective, John stood out almost immediately. He seemed so relaxed when he approached her at the party, which was held at a local bar and was open to the public. He struck up the usual conversation with her about the tournament and volleyball in general, but it was clear that he was not a true follower of the tour or the game. In a way, that actually helped, because she found it easier to relate to him as just herself and not as Heather Jowens, volleyball star.

What started out as a typical two-minute fan-meets-star conversation turned into a 4-hour discussion about everything from the rigors of being on tour to the personal specifics of her relationship with Allen, men, and sex. The last subject seemed to come up more and more as the evening wore on. She was surprised that even though she was flirting with him a little bit (the beer was loosening her mood), he never seemed to take the bait to come on to her. That was really unusual, as she knew she was in good shape and men never failed to reassure her that she was pretty. She liked that about him, and it made her want him a little bit, too.

Looking back on it now, she thought, he played me like a violin. He seemed to know exactly what buttons to push and when. He was a good-looking, well-built, funny, intelligent man who was showing her a tremendous amount of attention — and she could tell it had nothing to do with her semi-celebrity status. That insight would prove to be accurate. She hadn't even noticed at the time that they spoke very little about him; he seemed so totally absorbed by her that it just didn't come up.