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“Ugh, I can’t stand him.”
Roger looked over at Mirka, who was focused intently on her morning newspaper in one hand, coffee cup in the other apparently forgotten.
“Who?” he asked, sipping his own coffee and selecting a croissant from the room service tray.
“Djokovic,” she said with a moue of distaste. She gestured at the front page, which showed a photo of Djokovic holding his arms up in victory at Indian Wells from the day before. Her coffee sloshed precariously.
Roger reached over and gently extracted it from her for safety. She didn’t seem to notice.
“We knew he was going to break through very soon,” he said diplomatically. “He just won his first Slam in January. I’m not surprised that he won yesterday as well.”
“I don’t care. I don’t like his attitude. I saw the video of him mocking other players, even you and Rafa. He’s a dick.”
“He’s still very young. He’ll learn and get better.”
She gave him a look of pure skepticism. “You really think so?”
Now it was Roger’s turn to grimace. “No, but I’m trying to be neutral about this, because I think he’s going to be around for a long time, so we’ll all have to learn to deal with him.”
She leaned over and looked up at him through her lashes. The morning sun streaming through their hotel window brought out the red highlights in her hair.
“Can I curse him?” she said sweetly, as if she was asking if they could adopt a puppy.
A corner of Roger’s lips twitched up. Oh, that would be so tempting, but....
“No,” he said, trying to sound stern. He nearly managed it with a straight face too.
Mirka somehow made her eyes look even bigger and more beseeching. “Pretty please? I’ll be very discreet. I’ll just give him wrist problems or breathing problems. Or make his dick fall off.”
Roger laughed and kissed her on the nose. “No, my little witchling, I’m afraid I can’t let you do that.”
Mirka sighed and sat back with a mock pout. “Fine. But you never let me curse anyone.”
“If it makes you feel any better, I think Djokovic is already cursed.” At her raised eyebrows, he elaborated, “Not literally cursed. What I mean is, I don’t think he’ll win as many fans over as me and Rafa, not with his attitude and his family’s antics, so he’ll probably always be a distant third to us in that sense. Which will probably drive him crazy, no matter how many trophies he wins.”
She looked at him silently for a few seconds, searching his face, and then said, “You already cursed him, didn’t you.”
Roger nearly choked on his coffee. “No, no, I didn’t do anything.” He coughed. “My point is that I don’t need to, he’s doing it to himself.”
“Right. Of course. Don’t worry, Rogi, I won’t tell anyone.”
“I didn’t do anything!”
She went back to her paper and breakfast, expression serene. “Uh huh. I believe you.”
“Really! I swear.”
She sipped her coffee. “I was just going to end his career, not torture him, but you must really hate him if you want him to suffer like that.”
“I don’t--okay, fine, I think he’s a jerk too, but I’m serious about not putting a curse on him. I really didn’t.”
“Well, somebody did, because making the victim the cause of their own misfortune by using their own flaws against them is one of the most powerful ways to make a curse. It’s self-reinforcing yet subtle, powered by the victim’s own actions, and almost impossible to detect and impossible to break. Whoever did it must be a master at curses.”
[A few months later]
“Did you see this?” Robert said, holding up the newspaper.
“Hmmm?” asked Lynette, not looking up from her book.
“The crowd booed Djokovic yesterday after he beat Roddick.”
“Oh really? Such a shame. I guess that’s what happens when you don’t treat others well. Your actions come back to haunt you.”
Robert looked at the glow of witchfire rising faintly from the pages of his wife’s book.
“Right, I guess so,” he said, and wisely decided not to bring up the matter of Djokovic any further.