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© 2015 Ara Grigorian
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ISBN 978-1-62007-852-5 (ebook)
ISBN 978-1-62007-853-2 (paperback)
ISBN 978-1-62007-854-9 (hardcover)
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When we were both nineteen, you asked, “What is your dream career?” Without hesitation I said, “Writer.” When we were both thirty-nine, you asked me to stop dreaming. This book exists because of you. My first reader. My best friend. My wife. Delia.
To my two boys, thunder and lightning — dream without limits, live fully, work tirelessly, never give up.
To my grandfather — genocide survivor, war hero, actor, playwright, author, poet, angel — you are why I have a passion for storytelling. I hope I’ve made you proud.
Australia: January
he Porsche’s tires screeched as the skidding car plowed into a row of parked cars. Gemma Lennon’s body slammed against the door as her head struck the passenger side window.
A few moments passed before she was able to focus on her surroundings again. The car stood motionless. The chase was over.
She glanced to her right and saw a smeared stain on the glass, then smelled the choking odor of burnt tires, and felt something warm flowing from her temple onto her ear. The music that had been blaring from the speakers moments earlier was now muffled, and the outside world’s colors muted.
Then she saw the paparazzi, jumping off their motorcycles, clamoring around the car, snapping pictures. The world began to fade.
“Are you hurt?” a distant but familiar voice screamed.
She blinked as she turned to face the driver: Johnny, her boyfriend.
Something thick and warm trailed from her forehead and into her right eye. She wiped at the viscous liquid.
“But… tomorrow…” she said, before her world went dark.
“Tennis begins with love.”
~Author Unknown
“We are made strong by the difficulties we face, not by those we evade.”
~Author Unknown
Paris: Four Months Later
emma’s security flanked her, their grip tight on her arms. Bedric, her coach, rushed ahead, slamming open the hotel’s glass doors to the roar of the French paparazzi–a cacophony of questions, comments, and insults.
Gemma moderated her breathing, prepared for another three-second spurt of chaos.
Three…
“–What happened in your hotel room?”
They knew. Dozens of cameras from all directions chirped and flashed. She kept her eyes trained on her goal: the awaiting car.
Two…
“–Mademoiselle! Gemma! One smile.”
The paparazzi bore in from her right. Only a few more steps. A knee rammed into her thigh. That one would leave a mark. A bruise that the papers would dissect and analyze gratuitously.
One…
“–Why were you hiding for four months? Were you going to quit tennis?”
Don’t react. Say nothing. Bedric forced the car door open, giving Gemma the opening she needed to squeeze in. He followed.
Zero.
The door slammed behind them, and the sounds of commotion lowered to a gentle hush. Black tinted windows offered a veil of privacy. Bodies, camera lenses, and faces smashed against the glass. Only inches separated her from the paparazzi. There had been a time when she used to move to the center of the car, creating as much separation as possible. But now she knew better. Distance was a mere illusion of safety.
The locks engaged, and the car accelerated away.
She didn’t like surprises–particularly on game day–but in this case, her security lead’s demand to move her to another hotel had been spot-on. It was one thing for the paparazzi to gather outside. It was quite another when one found his way into her hotel suite… while she slept. The French paparazzi were setting a new standard.
“This is not good,” Bedric said in stoic English.
She eyed her superstitious coach, who was always concerned with deviations from routine. But the concern etched on his face wasn’t about superstition. He didn’t want a repeat performance of the Australian Open months earlier.
“You have not rested,” he continued, “and you have yet to get breakfast.”
“We’ll be fine. We are fine,” she said, nearly believing it herself. “As for breakfast, we’ll grab something at the new hotel.”
The car swerved as the driver made a temporary effort to lose their tail. Memories of another car chase months earlier inched its way into her throat.
“There will be people. You don’t need more distractions.”
“More distractions?” She had woken to the sound of an intruder in her suite, and now she was rushing from one hotel to another on the morning of her quarterfinal match. How much worse could it get? “We’ll be discreet. Run in, eat, and we’ll be off.”
The car’s tires screeched as the driver took another quick turn. It was happening again. Another chase just before a critical match. Only this time, the driver wasn’t drunk.
From her bag, Gemma removed a tennis ball and twirled it in her hand. One point at a time. She focused on the soft texture. Familiar. Calming. Poking out from inside her bag, the newspaper article from the day before mocked her. Inch-tall letters above her picture: The Great Hype: Five Years and Still Waiting. She squeezed the tennis ball over and over again until her fingers went numb.
She dropped the ball back inside the bag, then closed her eyes, hoping to salvage some sleep. She crossed her arms and tried to control her shivering. No, she wasn’t cold. She just wanted five minutes alone with the bastard who had violated her space. Gemma almost wished the coward hadn’t bolted when she charged him, tennis racquet in hand.
The car pulled up in front of the Pullman Hotel. No paparazzi. Not yet.
As they slid out, she turned to her coach. “Can you grab my bag and find us a table? I’ll be there as soon as I’ve freshened up.”
“Maybe room service is better. More prudent,” Bedric said.
She studied him. “Maybe more prudent, but I refuse to live like a prisoner. And stop worrying; I’m fine. I’ll see you in a few minutes.”
Hotel management waited. She didn’t speak, just smiled and followed their lead and that of her team. Like a flock of birds, they moved together, shoes tap dancing on the marble tiles.
Her mobile rang. It was Tish. Gemma pulled away from the rest, wanting to hear her friend’s voice.
“Are you already at the Pullman?” Tish asked.
“Yes, just arrived.”
“Good. They tell me your room is ready. Are you okay, G?”
“I hope so,” Gemma whispered.
“Don’t let that pig get in your head.”
Gemma remained silent. There was plenty she could say.
“I know what you’re thinking. It feels like an encore performance of Australia. But it’s not. You’ve been away for a while, that’s all. They’re just desperate to get anything on you. It’ll settle down soon, you’ll see.”
“Maybe.”
“Give it a proper chance. You’ve been amazing, dismantling your opponents throughout the tournament. And don’t forget: this time we’re in this together.”
It was easy for others to tell her to go on. To try again and again. But Tish didn’t have to push through crowds of photographers; Bedric didn’t have his every step scrutinized by the media. Giving Gemma advice was a hell of a lot easier than being Gemma. But after all this time, she had come back for a specific reason–redemption.
“Together then,” Gemma said, hoping she sounded more convincing than she felt. “I must admit, you’re nearly adequate at this motivational speech bit.”
“Adequate? Nearly? I was brilliant. I had goose bumps on my arms as I spoke. Winston bloody Churchill would’ve been proud.”
“Fine, you were brilliant. Are you on your way?”
“No, I’ll meet you at the stadium. Be safe, okay? Too many jackals around here.”
Gemma hung up, already feeling better. Adding her best friend to her team had been a stroke of genius. She turned her attention to her security team, deep in discussion with the hotel staff. Unfortunately, the staff’s blanching faces did not convey confidence.
Years earlier, when she first broke into the game, Gemma found it absurd when others complained about the cost of fame and the loss of privacy. Now she could look back at how foolish she had been. She used to hope people would one day know her name. Now she wished they would give her space to breathe.
Gemma evaluated her new suite. Spacious, modern. For the next week, this would be home. If I make it all the way to the finals, that is. She leaned against the wall, exhausted.
Despite her past successes, plenty already doubted her. She didn’t need to add her own voice to the chorus. As the article had pointed out, until she won a Grand Slam, she would not live up to her potential–or the hype.
No point living in the past. She was here now, at the French Open, with a chance to finally prove them all wrong.
Her mobile’s blare startled her. This time it was Wesley, her manager.
“I just heard from Bedric. How the hell are you?”
“Fine, I suppose. Just trying to–”
“I told Bedric you’d be fine. He worries too much. Listen, we need to squeeze in an interview. Ideally before your match this afternoon.”
“Interview? This afternoon? You’re not serious.”
“Very serious. Check this out. Entertainment Weekly… cover piece.”
“Entertainment Weekly? What do they want?”
“Don’t go absent-minded on me. Triton Warriors premieres next week, and your role has generated a lot of buzz. A scene leaked on YouTube and the fans have gone ape. They want to see more. Your return from hiding couldn’t have been timed better. Isn’t this awesome?”
She had nearly forgotten about that one. They had filmed her scenes six months ago, back when she was still a dolt. Back when she had allowed Johnny Flauto to talk her into a cameo appearance for his next blockbuster film. Back when she had taken her eye off her true love–tennis.
“No, it’s not awesome, Wesley,” she said. “I want to be clear about this. We have one goal now. Win a Grand Slam. I don’t care about that movie and what the press are saying. We need to remain focused–and that starts with you.”
“Then let me be clear also. Your success has always been my focus.”
Even when she wanted to take a strong stance she couldn’t do it properly. She may have been the talent, but in truth, he was the reason behind her fame and fortune. He had meticulously masterminded her climb to success. To ask Wesley to shift gears was like asking him to alter his DNA.
“No interviews, Wesley. Not today.”
She got off the call, and as she stepped outside she asked for one little miracle. Only one. An uneventful breakfast.
Andre Reyes glanced at his watch. His boss was late. Andre would have preferred room service, but Roger had insisted on a “game plan” discussion over breakfast before meeting with the client’s team.
Perched on the twenty-third floor of the Pullman Hotel, the window-encircled restaurant was filling quickly as waves of jet-lagged guests lumbered in. Business travelers and tourists alike appeared depleted. A feeling he understood all too well.
Business trips were considerably less painful when Roger didn’t join him. Now Andre would have to explain how he planned to dazzle the client when his plan was to wing it, like always. That would have been the truth. Roger’s firm, however, wasn’t built on truth, but on premium, mapped-out consulting services. Roger wanted well thought out guarantees, and those were hard to provide with these types of engagements.
On his cell phone, Andre scrolled through additional information his assistant had delivered on the client. If his instinct was right, the challenge of this engagement wouldn’t be the technical matters, but the corporate egomaniac who was intent on placing blame on everything but his own leadership deficiencies.
Andre used to have a lot more patience with bad leaders. They were clients after all. But over the last year, his patience had been dangling on a fine thread. Maybe because he was so close to the end of his contract. Or maybe because he never liked those who blamed everyone else for their own mistakes.
The headache that had been threatening bloomed now. The day just kept getting better.
Andre scanned the restaurant for the waitress. No luck. He could smell the coffee. Now he needed to taste it, to quench the headache that, like a burgeoning monster, continued to transform from a nuisance to a debilitating migraine.
The hostess escorted a tall man in Andre’s direction. He must have been near seven feet, long arms and even longer legs. The man’s leathery skin made it hard for Andre to guess his age. He walked with an off-center gait. An injury? Or because of the oversized bag he carried slung over his shoulder? The man sat at a nearby table.
Stop staring. This habit would one day land him in trouble. Unfortunately, it was his nature to observe, study, and wonder. It was this curiosity about everything that had piqued the attention of his kindergarten teacher and had started a chain reaction of tests and evaluations, eventually tethering him to a career path before he’d even hit puberty.
He rubbed his temple. Where was that coffee?
Andre glanced up, hoping to find the waitress. Instead, he heard a woman shout across the restaurant, “Bedric, move the bag!”
The tall man perked up. Bedric, I assume, Andre thought. When Bedric glanced down, so did Andre. The oversized bag lay blocking the path between tables, and a waitress was heading their way fast, tray held high, obstructing her view.
Bedric reached for the bag, but before Andre could utter a sound, or even move, the waitress tripped, and the stainless carafes of coffee flew off the tray like stray bullets–nailing Andre dead-on.
One container exploded against his chest, the other slammed into his shoulder. A third skidded off the table then sloshed the piping hot contents onto his lap.
After the instantaneous paralysis, boiling pain howled along his skin. Andre leapt from his seat. He wanted to scream, curse, yank off the steaming suit. His heartbeat danced erratically while his jaw pulsed, and twitching neck muscles hardened to stone.
The next few moments were surreal, full of muffled screams…
–Mon Dieu!
…Commotion…
–What happened? Is he okay?
…And apologies.
“I am so sorry, Monsieur.” He turned. The waitress; tears clung to her lashes, her cheeks flushed. Worry darkened her eyes.
He blinked. “Not… your fault,” he managed.
“What have you done?” the maître d’ yelled. His puffy red cheeks bobbed as he marched toward them. Spittle gathered at the corners of his mouth. “Stupid girl, leave, now! Sortez d’ici!”
“It’s not her fault,” Andre said as he regained his breath. “She tripped–”
“Monsieur Reyes,” the man said, “this is unacceptable. This is an embarrassment–”
> “Stop.” Andre took a deep breath and straightened, towering over the Frenchman by a good foot. “If you cause problems for her, I’ll cause problems for this hotel. It was not her fault. Do we understand each other?”
Andre’s gaze shifted slightly behind the maître d’. Next to Bedric, a tall, striking young woman stood motionless with her mouth agape. Was this the Voice who had yelled for Bedric earlier?
The maître d’s brows furrowed, then loosened. “I understand,” he said, then leaned in for privacy. “Doctor Reyes, the hotel medic will be sent to your room at once. And of course, we will take care of your suit. Please accept our sincerest apologies.”
Andre put out his hand. “Apology accepted.” The maître d’ shook it. An old-world contract. The type his late uncle would’ve appreciated.
The sounds of the crowded restaurant returned to life. Silverware clinked against china, and voices in dozens of languages rose to a sustained crescendo.
As the maître d’ scurried away, the waitress turned to Andre. “Thank you, Monsieur,” she said.
The plea in her almond brown eyes reminded him of a deer: lost, scared, at risk. He handed her a business card. “Let me know if they give you any trouble.”
She held the card in both hands and studied it. She wiped a tear that finally fell, and tucked the card into her pocket before she continued to clean.
Andre studied his Armani suit, suddenly feeling flustered–maybe even angry. Why hadn’t Bedric and the Voice spoken up? His suit was ruined, his chest and lap throbbed in pain, and the waitress was blamed for someone else’s carelessness. No maybes about it, he was pissed. And the damp stink of coffee on cloth did not help.
He started to march out, finding Bedric and the Voice in his path. He considered giving them a piece of his mind, but at the last instant navigated around them, avoiding eye contact. It doesn’t matter. It’s over. Right now, he had to tend to his wounds and take another shower before his meeting.
A light tap on his shoulder caught his attention. He turned, coming face-to-face with the Voice. Their eyes locked, and in that split second, everything slowed. Sounds muted.
Game of Love Page 1