Date: Sun, 4 May 2014 02:05:27 +0100
From: A Guy <myniftystories@hotmail.co.uk>
Subject: Rafael Nadal Is Rock Bottom, Part 2

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Rafael Nadal Is Rock Bottom



Part 2



`This is the Captain speaking, ladies and gentlemen,' the voice over the
speaker said, `we will shortly be landing in Los Angeles.  We hope your
flight with us today was a pleasant one and encourage you to fly with us
again soon.  Thank you.'

Nadal looked out the window at the approaching ground.  During the journey,
he had managed to bite all of his fingernails down to the quick, his
nervousness building with each mile the plane flew.  Something about the
way Steve had acted made him worried.  He felt like he was walking into
something that he would not be comfortable with.  But that was silly,
surely.  It was only a tennis tournament, just like any other, wasn't it?

He smiled glumly at the blonde stewardess who had been making eyes at him
for the entire flight.  He was in no kind of mood for flirting.  If he had
been, he would have chatted to her throughout the flight, making sure to
give her plenty of his trademark charm.  But there was no time for
flirting.  He had to get his head in the game and prepare for the beginning
of yet another tournament.  Only this one was more important than any
other.

Not since the start of his career had victory been more vital than it was
now.  If he managed to stay strong through this tournament and perhaps even
win the entire thing, he could keep his head above water financially.
Maybe even convince Maria to give him another chance.  He missed her.

The L.A. sun beat through the window as the plane landed on the runway,
Nadal shielding his eyes from the brightness.  A man across the aisle had
been glancing over at him throughout the flight, the distance between them
making Nadal glad that the people from the tournament had sprung for both
his own first class seat and the one next to him.  It meant he had no-one
to make awkward small talk with during the flight, his thoughts his own.
However, now that the plane had landed and everyone was starting to leave,
the man came across the aisle to Nadal.

`Are you Rafael Nadal?'

`I am,' Nadal replied, thinking it silly to pretend otherwise.

`Wow,' the man said, `I'm such a huge fan of yours.  Would you mind
terribly if I got a picture with you?'

`Sure, why not,' Nadal smiled half-heartedly.

The man took an iPhone out of his trouser pocket and stood beside Nadal,
putting his arm around his shoulder.  Nadal was a little irritated by the
overly familiar gesture, but his face betrayed nothing as he smiled and the
flash went off.  The man checked the photo and smiled broadly.

`Thank you so much,' he said, `one more thing--'

`I'm actually in a little bit of a hurry,' Nadal began, but the man looked
at him intently.

`I just wondered if you could sign this for my son?'

He held out a piece of paper and Nadal dutifully autographed it for him.
The man thanked him two more times then walked off down the aisle.  Nadal
could see him calling someone on his phone, and just as the man was leaving
the plane, Nadal heard his voice in the distance.

`Denise,' he cried, `you're never going to believe who I just met!'

Nadal smiled, thinking it nice that he had at least made someone happy,
even if he could not manage to do the same for himself.  He sighed, picked
up his suit jacket and bag, then joined the throng of passengers slowly
heading towards the exit.  He gave a final smile to the blonde stewardess,
who was carefully reapplying lipstick using a compact mirror.  She smiled
back, giving a little wave as he left the plane.

As he had no luggage to collect at the airport, Nadal immediately started
looking around for his driver.  Finally, he spotted a man holding a large
white card with `NADAL' written on it.  He waved, the driver instantly
recognising him and pushing his way through the large group of people who
had also noticed the famous tennis player.

Suddenly, several people were pushing toward Nadal and asking for
autographs, while off to his right, a group of merciless L.A. paparazzi
were advancing.  The driver quickly reached Nadal, took him by the arm and
shoved his way through the crowd, pulling Nadal behind him.  The man was
obviously used to working with celebrity clients.

`Not my first time at the rodeo,' he said, looking back and grinning at
Nadal, who was a little flustered.

They reached the car in double quick time, the paparazzi helplessly lost in
the group of people still watching them from afar.  The driver held the
back door open for Nadal and he gratefully stepped inside.  He saw
instantly that the tournament organisers had lived up to their word and
provided him with a tennis kit.  Inside a black holdall, there were clean
shirts, shorts, socks, everything to his satisfaction.  Even the underwear
provided were the briefs which he preferred.  He began to think that this
might actually be fun after all, wondering if he should change discreetly
in the car or wait until he arrived.  He decided to wait.

`Great to meet you, Mr. Nadal,' the driver's voice came through a speaker
from the front seat, `and where are we going this fine afternoon?'

The address!  In the confusion inside the airport, Nadal had completely
forgotten to give the driver the piece of paper Steve had handed him
earlier.  He quickly took it from his small bag, told the driver to lower
the partition between them and handed it to him.

`Ah,' the driver said, nodding, `I know the place well.  I took someone
there just the other day.'

`Oh,' Nadal smiled, `another tennis player?'

`No, an actor.  It would be remiss of me to say who, but someone very
famous.'

`I see.'

`Well, shall we set off?'

The driver grinned at Nadal before pressing a button on the dashboard which
raised the glass partition between them once more.  How bizarre.  An actor
going to this place, which Nadal had thought would almost certainly be a
country club, even a tennis club of some sort.  He remained stuck in a
cloud of thoughts as the car drove him to his destination.  A short while
later, he did not even hear the driver talking to him through the speaker.
Finally, he was brought back to reality by the driver nudging him on the
shoulder, having opened the back door of the car.

`Mr. Nadal,' the driver said, `I'm sorry to be so forward, but we're here,
sir.'

`Oh,' Nadal answered, turning to look out the windows, forgetting that they
were tinted.

He quickly got out of the car, carrying his own bag over his shoulder with
the suit jacket on top and the holdall in his other hand.  Well, he had
been right.  It was definitely a country club of some kind, and if not, it
was a private residence large enough to be a country club.  The driver
closed the door behind Nadal, who suddenly realised he had no tip to give
the man.

`I'm terribly sorry, but I'm afraid I have no cash with--' he began to lie.

`Do not be silly, Mr. Nadal,' the driver responded, `I have already been
amply rewarded for bringing you here today.  But thank you so much for your
kindness.'

`Thank you,' Nadal said, unsure of what to do now.

`I hope to see you again soon,' the driver said.

Then, without another word, he returned to the car, climbed into the front
seat, closed the door behind him and drove off.  Nadal had assumed that
someone from the club would have been waiting outside to greet him, but
this clearly was not their plan.  He stood on the driveway for another few
seconds, before approaching the massive front doors, which appeared to be
made of oak.

There was an intercom system on the right hand wall, and Nadal pressed the
button marked `CALL'.  He waited for a voice to speak to him, but nothing
happened.  As he stood waiting, he noticed a video camera on the wall above
the doors.  Then suddenly, a buzzing sound alerted him to the fact that the
door had been unlocked, and he pushed one of the huge doors open.

The huge doors opened into a massive entrance hall, Nadal's shoes clicking
against the marble floor.  It was well lit inside, with two massive windows
on either side of a huge staircase which stood at the back of the hall.
The surroundings just screamed wealth.  However, it did not have the
atmosphere for a country club at all.  He could hear no chatter coming from
other rooms, and there was certainly no smell of food or sound of sports
taking place.

He remained in the entrance hall for another moment or two, wondering when
the person who had obviously seen him through the video camera would
appear.

`Mr. Nadal,' a voice spoke from the top of the staircase.

It belonged to a middle-aged man, who began to descend the staircase
slowly, never taking his eyes off Nadal the entire time.  As he got nearer
to Nadal, it was clear that he was some kind of servant.  He was wearing
clothes similar to a butler's uniform, but slightly less formal.

`Hello,' Nadal said as the man reached him, shaking his hand.

`I am Eric,' the man said, `assistant to the master of the house.'

`Ah,' Nadal said, thinking this a strange job title, `and who is the master
of this house?'

`I am.'

Startled, Nadal turned to look behind him, where this new voice had come
from.  He could not believe it.  Standing just a few feet from him was one
of the most famous men in the world.

`I, I, uh--'

`No need to say anything, Mr. Nadal.  Eric, did you secure the doors?'

`I did, sir.'

`Good.  Let the fun and games commence.'