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Oh. It’s a tie, I think. Between New York and San Francisco.

I think: Have you ever thought of living in Las Vegas?

I say: My two favorites also.

She smiles. Well, she says. Thanks again.

Any time.

We do the European double-cheek kiss.

Brad and I take the ferry back to Fisher Island, where J.P. is waiting. The three of us spend the rest of the night talking about Steffi as if she’s an opponent, which she is. Brad treats her like Rafter or Pete. She has strengths, she has weaknesses. He breaks down her game, coaches me up. Now and then J.P. phones Joni, puts her on speaker, and we try to get the female point of view.

The conversation continues over the next two days. At dinner, in the steam room, at the hotel bar, the three of us talk about nothing but Steffi. We’re plotting, using military jargon, like recon and intel. I feel as if we’re planning a land and sea invasion of Germany.

I say, She seemed kind of cool to me.

Brad says, She has no idea you split from your missus. It hasn’t been in the papers yet.

Nobody knows. You need to let her know your status, and tell her how you feel about her.

I’ll send her flowers.

Yes, J.P. says. Flowers are good. But you can’t send them under your name. It might get leaked to the press. We’ll have Joni send them, with your name on the card.

Good thinking.

Joni goes to a shop in South Beach and, under my directive, buys every rose in the place.

She essentially orders a rose garden transplanted to Steffi’s room. On the card I thank Steffi for the practice session and invite her to dinner. Then I sit back and wait for the call.

There is no call. All day.

Or the next day.

No matter how much I stare at it, and shout at it, the phone refuses to ring. I pace, pick my cuticles until they bleed. Brad comes to my room and worries that he might need to give me a sedative.

I shout, This is bullshit! OK, she’s not interested, I get it, but how about a thank you? If she doesn’t call by tonight, I swear, I’m calling her.

We move to the patio. Brad looks off and says, Uh-oh.

What?

J.P. says, I think I see your flowers.

They point to the patio of a room across the way. Steffi’s room, obviously, because there on the patio table are my giant bouquets of long-stemmed red roses.

Not sure that’s a good sign, J.P. says.

No, Brad says. NG. Not good.

· · ·

WE DECIDE THAT I’LL wait for Steffi to win her first match—a foregone conclusion—and when she does, I’ll phone. J.P. preps me for the call. He plays the role of Steffi. We rehearse every scenario. He throws me every line she might possibly utter.

Steffi beats her hapless first-round opponent in forty-two minutes. I’ve tipped the ferry captains to phone me the moment they see her step on the ferry. Fifty minutes after the match I get a call: She’s aboard.

I give her fifteen minutes to reach the island, ten minutes to go from the dock to the hotel, and then I phone the operator and ask for her room. I know her room number because I can still see my damn flowers sitting dejectedly on the patio table.

She picks up the phone on the second ring.

Hi. It’s Andre.

Oh.

I just wanted to call and make sure you got my flowers.

I did.

Oh.

Silence.

She says, I don’t want any misunderstandings between us. My boyfriend is here.

I see. Well, OK, I understand.

Silence.

Good luck with the tournament.

Thank you. You too.

Yawning canyon of silence.

Well, goodbye.

Bye.

I fall on the couch and stare at the floor.

I have one question for you, J.P. says. What could she possibly have said that would put that look on your face? What scenario did we not rehearse?

Her boyfriend is here.

Oh.

Then I smile. I take a page from Brad’s positive-thinking playbook: maybe she’s sending me a message. Obviously her boyfriend was sitting right there.

So?

So she couldn’t talk, and rather than say, I have a boyfriend, case closed, leave me alone, she said, My boyfriend is here.

So?

I think she’s saying there’s a chance.

J.P. says he’ll fix me a drink.

THE TOURNAMENT PROVIDES a small measure of distraction. Sadly, the distraction lasts only a few hours. In the first round, against Dominik Hrbaty, from Slovakia, I can think only of Steffi and her boyfriend enjoying or awkwardly ignoring my roses. Hrbaty whoops me in three sets.

I’m out of the tournament. I should leave Fisher Island. But I stick around, sitting on the beach, plotting with J.P. and Brad.

Steffi’s boyfriend probably showed up unexpectedly, Brad says. Plus, she still doesn’t know you’re divorced. She still thinks you’re married to Brooke. Give it time. Let the news come out. Then make your move.

You’re right, you’re right.

Brad mentions Hong Kong. In light of my performance against Hrbaty, clearly I need another tournament before we head into clay season. Let’s go to Hong Kong, he says. Let’s not sit around anymore thinking and talking about Steffi.

Next thing I know I’m settling into a seat on an airplane bound for China. I look at the screen at the head of the cabin. Estimated flight time: 15 hrs, 37 mins.

I look at Brad. Fifteen hours and thirty-seven minutes? To obsess about Steffi? I don’t think so.

I unbuckle my seat belt and stand.

Where are you going?

I’m getting off this plane.

Don’t be ridiculous. Sit down. Relax. We’re here. We’re all packed. Let’s go play.

I ease back into my seat, order two Belvederes, swallow a sleeping pill, and after what feels like a month I’m on the other side of the earth. I’m in a car being whisked along a Hong Kong highway, looking up at the soaring International Finance Centre.

I phone Perry. When is the news of my divorce going to break?

The lawyers are hashing out the details, he says. Meantime, you and Brooke need to work on the statement.

We fax drafts back and forth. Her team, my team. Lawyers and publicists have a go at it.

Brooke adds a word, I delete a word. Faxes and more faxes. What began with faxes ends with faxes.

The statement is about to be released, Perry says. It should be in the papers any day now.

Brad and I run down to the lobby every morning, buy up all the newspapers, then sit over breakfast and scan every page, looking for the headline. For the first time in my memory I can’t wait for newspapers to report about my private life. Each day I say a prayer: Let this be the day that Steffi learns I’m free.

Day after day, it’s not there. It’s like waiting for Steffi’s call. If only I had hair, so I could pull it out. Finally, the cover of People carries a photo of Brooke and me. The headline reads: Suddenly Split. It’s April 26, 1999, three days before my twenty-ninth birthday, almost exactly two years after our wedding.

Reborn, renewed, I win Hong Kong—but on the flight home I can’t lift my arm. I rush from the airport to Gil’s house. He examines the shoulder, grimaces. He doesn’t like the look of it.

We might need to shut everything down and skip the entire clay season.

No, no, no, Brad says. We have to be in Rome for the Italian Open.

Please. I never win that thing. Let’s forget it.

No, Brad says. Let’s go to Rome, see how the shoulder does. You didn’t want to go to Hong Kong, right? But you won, right? I see a trend developing.

I let him drag me onto a plane, and in Rome I lose in the third round to Rafter, whom I just beat at Indian Wells. Now I really want to shut it down. But Brad talks me into going to play the World Team Cup in Germany. I don’t have the strength to argue with him.

The weather in Germany is cold, dreary, meaning the ball plays heavy. I look at Brad with murder in my eye. I can’t believe he’s dragged me to Düsseldorf with a sore shoulder. In the middle of the first set, down 3–4, I can’t take another swing. I quit. That’s it. We’re going home, I tell Brad. I have to get my shoulder right. And I have to figure out this thing with Steffi.