The Brat - Chapter One

By wildbearies

I don't know why I let my mother talk me into that tennis game. I knew Mrs. Weymss' grandson Rusty was an eleven year-old pain in the ass. I knew he hated to lose at anything and would throw whatever came to hand and generally create a scene if he did lose. I knew I would want to strangle the little bastard before we were halfway through the first set. I did it anyway. I had a hard time saying "no" to anyone, let alone the formidable pair of Mrs. Weymss and my mother, who were longtime friends.

I was, after all, at the advanced age of 21, one of the top-seeded tennis players in the world. I was a winner of the French Open, Wimbledon and the US Open, not to mention two-time winner of the Australian Open and New Zealand Cup. I did not have to prove anything by playing the little hoodlum. But it would make Mrs. Weymss, who came from the same little village in France as my mother, very happy. "I have the ache in my hip today, Jenny darling," she had said to me in her adorable French-accented voice, "Please just play one set with him, use up some of his extra energy."

She didn't have to utter the rest, I knew she meant, "before he drives us all crazy doing something stupid," which was a given. I gave in as graciously as I could and changed into shorts and a tee-shirt. "Okay," I said, going out into their back yard where they had a fairly nice clay court. "But if he starts throwing his racquet, I'm outa here."

My mom made a shooing motion at me. I sighed, rolled my eyes dramatically, and shooed. The kid was already outside, chopping at some unfortunate bush with his racquet. "Bloody fucking stupid bush," I heard him cuss in his somewhat high voice. God save me from pre-adolescent boys, I thought.

"Rusty," I called to him, "play you a couple of games if you want."

He turned with a smirk, waved his grass-stained racquet at me and nodded, "Yeah, sure - I'll beat yer pants off, Frenchie!"

He always called me that because he knew I hated it. "I'm not French - I'm an American," I told him for the umpty-umpth useless time. "You serve," I said magnanimously. He damn near took my head off with the first serve. "Jesus, watch what you're doing!" I snapped at him.

"Sorry," he chirped, plainly not sorry in the least. He served again, decently this time, and I aced him right back. "Shit," he said, hopping back and forth, plainly having watched John McEnroe or somebody on the telly. "C'mon," he called as I got ready to serve to him, "do something!"

"I'd like to 'do something' but your grandma wouldn't like it much," I muttered. I served him a ball that would have knocked him out if it had struck what I'd wanted to hit. He ducked and swung at it anyway, cussing loudly when his return shot went straight into the net. "My point," I trilled, smiling.

He said something under his breath that I couldn't hear and danced back and forth some more.

Within half an hour, I had trounced him thoroughly. He had long since quit dancing and hopping around, and when I announced, "Game, set and match, Rusty," in this overly sweet tone of voice, he glared at me and proceeded to chop the nearest unlucky flowers down with his much-abused racquet.

"Stupid little brat," I muttered and went inside.

"I heard that!" he shouted after me, "someday I'll make you eat those words, Frenchie!"

"You and what army, you rude little creep," I said under my breath, and, putting on my most winning, innocent smile, went inside. I told the two ladies I had beaten the pants off Rusty and that he was engaged in killing the hydrangeas with his racquet. While Mrs. Weymss and my mom bustled off to save the flowers, I went self-righteously to take a shower and change. That should be the last time I should have to play tennis with Rusty Crowe, I thought smugly. In fact, I hoped never to see him again.

Sometimes things don't go quite the way we plan them.

Less than 6 months later, my tennis career came to an abrupt end when I ruptured my Achilles tendon because I'd tried to go back to playing a full schedule on a leg that was still healing from knee surgery. My balance and elasticity were off, and as a result, I almost crippled myself permanently. When I healed from that, having spent six months not playing tennis and realizing there was a whole other world out there that could be even more fun and challenging, I enrolled in pre-med courses. Because I had excellent SAT scores, I got into pre-med at Baylor College in Texas with virtually no trouble. I then did my medical school there, moving to Johns Hopkins in my second year as a result of excellence in what I'd found was a field I loved - orthopedics. Specifically, sports-related injuries, which I was more than familiar with. I interned at a prestigious program in California, got a fellowship to study with the top orthopedic surgeons in the world at Silver Grove Hospital outside San Francisco, and finally, graduating at the top of my class and with offers from hospitals all over the United States, Canada and Europe, I chose to settle in San Francisco, working with my idol, Dr. John Siegenthaller, as a junior partner in his practice.

By the time I was thirty, I was a full partner and by the age of forty-five, I was being groomed to take over when John retired. Not that he was old, he just had found that he enjoyed being out on his big sloop as much as he did operating on somebody's blown-out knee, and traveling with his wife Eileen as much or more than he liked aligning a spiral fracture of the tibia some skier had managed. I couldn't quite see the attraction of leisure yet myself, I was too in love with surgery and repairing an athlete so he or she could return to their pre-injury level or even better after I was through with them.

I was sitting in my office late one Friday afternoon - well, truthfully, it was already dark out, so I should say evening, when my phone rang. Stephanie, my secretary, had already gone, having a full life of her own outside the office, as she often had to remind me. I looked up from the patient chart I was making notes in and answered. "Dr. Whitlow."

It was a colleague from Los Angeles, Mike Repass, an excellent sports medicine doctor who was a fairly good surgeon, but who had the brains to know when something was out of his league. He often called me in on those cases, and since he treated the elite professional athletes, that's what I thought he was calling about. "Nope, not this time," he said, "this time it's an actor. I treated him for something minor a couple of years back, but this time he's managed to screw himself up royally. He's gonna need surgery on his knee and possibly Achilles repairs on both legs - I naturally thought of you."

I chuckled. He was very familiar with my own past injuries since he'd been one of my doctors when I'd done myself in years before. "Oh, you say the sweetest things, Mike," I laughed. "Who is this paragon of grace and what did he do to himself to get so cripped up?" Some idiot who thought he was a professional athlete, no doubt.

"He slid on a wet ship's deck and managed to just about twist his leg into oblivion, and his name is Russell Crowe."

"Oh, shit, not Rusty the Brat," I said before I even thought about it. I knew he was an actor, had even seen a couple of his films, but hadn't seen him in person since that afternoon so long ago in New Zealand when he'd chopped up his grandmother's flower garden in a rage after I'd trounced him at tennis.

"I take it you've met him?" Mike asked cautiously.

I explained briefly about the friendship between my mother and his grandmother, and glossed over a few experiences with him at tennis and other things. "He was just a kid then - he must be, what, thirty six or so now?" God, had that amount of time really gone by? That shook me, I had to admit. Jesus. I was forty eight - that meant he was thirty-eight.

Mike confirmed that. "Thirty-eight and pretty fit, but he's just been choppered in here from down in Mexico, can you come down tonight and consult for me? Maybe do surgery tomorrow?"

He knew damn well I wouldn't have anything on for the weekend. I was still, despite several aborted romances in my past, single and now determined to finish out my days that way. "Sure, I can clear my calendar," we snickered at one another over the phone lines and made arrangements. I shut up my desk, called and left a voice mail for Steph telling her where I'd be, and took off for home to pack a bag.

Home was a two-floor log home beauty set on a hillside overlooking San Francisco. I had two big fireplaces, a kitchen done in vintage style with a huge stove, refrigerator, all the modern conveniences but done to look like the thirties, and my collection of vintage depression glass, jadeite bowls and dishes, embroidered tea towels and table cloths all prominently displayed in specially built cabinetry. The living room was large, more of a great room, really, with one of the fireplaces there. My office was there, on the first floor, and my bedroom was upstairs, overlooking the woods in the back and the great room in the front. I had a huge bed made of peeled logs, covered with layers of handmade vintage quilts and white linens I'd collected all over Europe and America. My dog, Prissy, a Bichon Frise' with delusions of being a rottweiler, lay on the foot of my bed as I walked into the bedroom. She raised her fluffy white head and woofed softly as if commenting on my early arrival.

"Quiet, you," I teased her, rummaging in a closet for my weekender and starting to pack, "you're going to Aunt Marie's for the weekend, go pack your toys!" She actually went and brought me her favorite blue plush bunny, sitting at my feet, looking up at me with it in her mouth and a hopeful expression on her silly face. I couldn't ignore that and took five minutes to play fetch the bunny with her before calling my nearest neighbor to baby-sit the dog for me. Since Marie loved the dog almost as much as I did, it was no hardship and she shortly dropped by, collected a happy Prissy, and I was in a cab shortly after, headed for the airport.

"Rusty Crowe, all grown up," I thought to myself as I settled in First Class and sipped my champagne, sniffing the delicious odors of steak and mushrooms that we would soon be presented with. "I wonder how much of a brat he still is?" Probably worse than ever, I told myself.

"This oughta be fun," I thought. If he gave me any lip, I'd just hinge his stupid knee backwards, let him see how he liked that! I smiled every time I thought about revenge being sweet as we flew down the coast to Los Angeles.