“I hope you don’t mind being pulled away from your friends,” Gemma said.
“Not a problem.”
Men usually gushed and went out of their way to impress, but not him. He created the impression he didn’t care. Don’t be an egomaniac. He’s not interested. But if he wasn’t interested, then why had he stared during breakfast?
“How’s the burn?” Gemma asked.
“Improving. Thanks for asking.”
He locked on her eyes, and her heart rate quickened. She broke eye contact and shifted her glass. What’s wrong with you? “About the incident this morning,” Gemma said, “I’m not sure where to begin.” She glanced up at him.
Something changed in his demeanor. “Don’t worry about it. It was an accident. I’m fine and the waitress didn’t get in trouble. It’s all forgotten.”
The waitress. Forget the damn waitress, you’re in the clear. He won’t sue. But she couldn’t let go. The waitress was pretty and he had handed her a card. What kind of man was he? Why had he really protected her?
“Do you know her?” she asked.
“Who? The waitress?” A crease appeared on his forehead.
“Yes–the pretty one.”
He blinked then his eyes narrowed. “I don’t know her at all.” He placed his arms on the table. “What are you asking?”
Crap. Now she’d done it. “I’m just curious, that’s all. You don’t see that anymore–jumping to a stranger’s rescue the way you did.” She paused. You sound shallow.
His gray eyes turned dark, nearly black. He tucked a strand of his longish black hair behind his ear, never breaking eye contact. “It’s simple. If not me, then who?”
Silence.
Say something.
“I’ve seen too many who work hard, try their best, and yet bad things happen,” Andre said. “I can’t sleep well when the innocent get screwed.”
The room faded. No one else was in the world, only the two of them.
Gemma’s self-assured smile faded while the flames danced in his eyes. “I would have cleared it up,” she finally said.
“I didn’t see you or Bedric jumping in.”
How could she explain that she didn’t want to draw attention to herself? “It’s complicated.”
“Not to me.”
“But you are not me. And like I said, I would have cleared it up. In fact, we did. Afterwards.”
He raked his hands through his hair. “Looks like you’ve answered my question.”
She shot him a quizzical look.
“If not me, then who,” he continued in a warm voice. “I guess it would have been you. I’m glad I’m not alone.” He produced a handsome, yet honest smile.
Gemma cleared her throat. “I do apologize for being such a git. Not only for causing the accident, but also for questioning your motivation.”
“No worries. I don’t hold grudges.”
His words rang true. Apologizing hadn’t been so hard after all. “Good. Let me buy you a drink. As a peace offering.”
“Didn’t realize we were at war. But since we’re coming clean, I need to apologize as well.”
“Oh? What for?” What would he say? Because I was starstruck? Because I wanted to see if I can get a chance with Gemma?
He rubbed his face and grimaced. “For staring at you. It’s a bad habit, but I’m not a pervert. Promise. You can ask my aunt.”
Tish giggled, and Gemma smiled. “You were staring? At me? Why would a well-mannered American like you do that?”
“I don’t want this to come across as a line–because it’s not. But it was your eyes. Even now, sitting here in the dark, I find it hard to grasp the impossible brilliance of your eyes. It’s insane how beautiful they are.”
Gemma could feel Tish’s stare, but she didn’t dare look, nor break eye contact with Andre. Heat flared on her forehead. “I’ll accept that–line or no line.”
“Good, because I was about to propose a trade: I’d forgive the second-degree burn if you forgive the innocent gawking. Now I can hold on to my bargaining chip for the future.”
“Oh? You have future plans for us?”
“Pardon me.” They spun toward the middle-aged English woman.
“Hate to interrupt, but can I please have your autograph for my daughter?” she asked. “She adores you. It would make her year.”
“Absolutely. What’s her name?” Gemma asked.
After the lady walked away, Gemma glanced at Andre, who appeared confused.
“Are you famous?” he asked.
Tish threw her head back and laughed, pounding the table.
Gemma searched his eyes. Was he serious? Did he really not recognize her?
Andre scanned from one to the other. “Should I know you?” His eyes widened. “That came out all wrong. Didn’t mean it that way.”
Gemma wondered if he was pulling her leg, but his boyish honesty made it impossible for her not to believe him. “It’s no big deal. Some people know me,” she said. How ironic that her anonymity made her feel special.
“Boy, this would’ve been a real bad first date,” he said.
A small snort escaped Gemma, and she immediately covered her mouth. She didn’t snort. She hadn’t snorted since she was eight. Her eyes froze on his. The moments ticked away.
Tish cleared her throat. “G, hate to break this up, but you have an early start tomorrow.”
Gemma glanced at the time. “Blimey! It is late. I must turn in for the night,” she said, forcing out the words.
“Yeah, me too. Hopefully I’ll see you around,” Andre said as he slid out of the booth. “Maybe at breakfast.” He grinned, then walked away.
Gemma studied the way he moved and how his pants fit him just right.
“A bit dishy,” Tish said, her eyes trained on Andre’s arse.
“Bloody hell, Tish,” Gemma hissed.
They scooted out, leaving from the furthest exit and avoiding Andre’s table. The women moved briskly toward the lifts.
“What was that all about?” Tish asked in a harsh whisper.
“Nothing. Nothing at all.”
“Looked like nothing to me as well. Typical fan, but isn’t a fan. In fact, he has no clue who you are, but you pulled a Spanish Inquisition on him because he helped some waitress. Then you sound daft, because he actually did what a decent person should do. Nope, nothing at all. I can see that, clear as day.”
Gemma tried to keep her composure. “So, what did you think of him?”
“Handsome–did you see those biceps?–young, but talks like a man, and actually has no clue who you are, but was mesmerized by your eyes. Though frankly, my eyes are prettier, but that’s neither here nor there. Clearly a sorry excuse of a man. Shall I get his number?”
“Can you just pretend to be professional? Why I hired my best friend to be my assistant, I’ll never know.”
They broke into laughter as they stepped into the lift. Tish placed an arm around Gemma’s shoulders.
“Seems like a decent bloke,” Gemma said. “I guess I was wrong about him.”
“Hold the presses. You have both apologized and declared you were wrong, all in the span of ten minutes. This must be a sign of the apocalypse.”
Gemma closed her eyes and daydreamed of his bright silver eyes and honest smile. But like all others, once he realized who she was, those same eyes would probably see opportunity.
“They all start that way, don’t they?” Tish said.
“Sorry?”
“Decent, charming. Then the profit motive kicks in. So hard to trust anyone.”
Gemma was silent.
“Speaking of lost trust…” Tish eyed Gemma. “I received an odd note from Johnny’s assistant saying he would not make it to your next match. The ‘brilliant one’ sends his apologies.”
Gemma pulled away from Tish’s hold. “Why would that daft cow think I was expecting him?”
“You tell me.”
“Who were you talking to earlier?” Roger asked Andre once Franck left.
Andre knew better than to tell this man the truth. “Someone I met earlier today.”
“I see,” Roger said. Silence joined their table for a few moments. “I am concerned with some of our newer recruits.”
Andre glanced at him. “Why’s that?”
“They seem to struggle with keeping their priorities straight.”
A headache tore at Andre’s right temple.
“I preach to all our young consultants that there will come a time for all that other romance stuff. Now is when they have the opportunity to set the world on fire with their intellect.” He finished his glass of wine and rose. “I wish they were more like you. I mean, look at what you’ve accomplished so far,” Roger added. “You know how to keep your eye on the prize, son.” The winning smile emerged. “And in your case, with your retention bonus on the horizon, that prize will be a game changer.”
“Speaking of which,” Andre said, “I’m getting married right after. Will you attend?”
“Don’t even joke about that.”
They both laughed, but Andre knew the truth behind Roger’s joke. If Roger suspected that Andre planned to bail once he got his bonus, the next six months would redefine misery.
“Whoever said, ‘It’s not whether you win or lose that counts,’ probably lost.”
~Martina Navratilova
ranck, this is awesome,” Andre said. “I’ve never been to a tennis match.” They strolled through the pathways of Roland Garros observing the ad hoc street performers, scanning the various stores, and shops.
“Our pleasure,” Franck said. “I expect you will cheer for your countrywoman.”
“That’s the plan. I hear she’s scary-good in person.”
“Yes, but so is her opponent. She is the best server in the game.”
“Nice. Should be a great battle.”
He could have spent hours people watching. The smiles, the laughter, the incessant buzz, and intermingled languages from countless countries. As unsettling as they were, even the mimes were almost enjoyable. Almost. The energy was undeniable. A mass of people from across the globe brought together for one common love: tennis.
This was well worth delaying his flight by a day. He couldn’t recall doing anything remotely like this in… well… forever.
Tomorrow morning he’d return home. For now, he’d revel in this match. And tonight, he’d return to the hotel bar with hopes Gemma would show up. He had checked every night, but since their first encounter, there was no sign of either Gemma or her friend.
They joined Roger in the stadium. The athletes had not taken the court for warm ups yet. The seats couldn’t have been better. Dead center, facing the judge, four rows off the court. He needed more of this. And he would do more. Soon.
Electricity ran through the crowd when the announcer introduced Sonia as she took the court. He finally felt his age, screaming, hooting, and hollering.
Mixed with the loud cheering and painful echo, the unintelligible blare of the announcer said, “Representing Great Britain–” but Andre was not able to catch anything else. Cheers escalated to a roar, resonating throughout his body.
“Wow, she’s got loud fans,” Andre screamed in Franck’s ear. “Lennon, was it?”
“Lennon. Gemma Lennon.”
Confusion stunned him.
Wilkins vs. Lennon.
Great Britain.
Lennon is Gemma Lennon.
Gemma is the tennis player?
At that instant, Gemma marched out. She wore an all black outfit, her toned body glistened, her ponytail danced. She was radiant. His heartbeat slowed, his lungs labored, and his brain stopped. He stood transfixed.
She waved to the crowd, who cheered in an explosion of love even while the judge urged the fans to be quiet. Moments later, they settled.
“Andre,” Franck said, tugging at his arm. “Andre.”
Andre pivoted in a semi-conscious move.
“Sit down.”
He scanned around to find he was the only one standing. Crap! Andre dropped to his seat. Although Gemma was quite a distance away, he was nearly certain she was looking straight at him. His hand shot up, but he stopped it, not wanting to look silly. Instead, he raked his hair behind his ear. She didn’t react. Maybe she hadn’t seen him after all.
Gemma’s eyes settled on the one person standing. Andre? Here at her match? Coincidence? Unlikely. She did not believe in coincidences. Maybe since their last encounter he had put two and two together. Was he trying to befriend her, get close to her? Had she been right after all, that he would be like all the others?
Her muscles twitched and her mouth went dry. Nerves? Self-consciousness? Why? He was just another person. That’s all. Nothing more, nothing less. She had a street fight to get through. Stay focused.
She took the court to warm up. The smart move would be to phase out Andre and the crowd. But she could feel eyes trained on her, watching her every move. She scanned the crowd, prepared to see judgment in their faces. Instead hundreds, maybe thousands of people waved British flags. They were here for her, in support of her. Her heartbeat quickened. Stay focused.
After a few minutes, when she was ready to practice her serves, she risked a quick glance toward Andre. He looked young, full of life, sitting at the edge of his seat, watching intently. He was possibly a masterful scoundrel who had lied to her and she had bought it. Or maybe he was a good guy. Or maybe… Stop it.
Why was it that when he was around she suddenly felt like a schoolgirl?
She stretched her neck, and bounced up and down to loosen up. At the baseline, she took a deep breath, relaxed, bounced the ball, then tossed it…
He’s just someone I met.
… She leapt…
Nothing more, nothing less.
… And ripped a 118-miles-per-hour serve.
The crowd exploded.
Andre could not claim to be an expert at the game. At best, he had seen highlights on TV. But watching Gemma play, he couldn’t help but think she was the most amazing athlete who had ever lived.
Clearly this wasn’t based on objective criteria. Just an instinct. Also, the score did not support his assertion. The match continued to be tightly contested. What made her the best was something he couldn’t put his finger on.
Whether she was serving, or returning Sonia’s hits, Gemma seemed to explode with power and focused energy. The clay beneath her feet detonated with her movements. Yet the same clay converted to ice when she needed to glide. He wanted to film her and slow down the footage to study what happened to the environment surrounding her. No, what she caused wasn’t otherworldly. Quite the contrary. This was natural, innate greatness in action.
Gemma charged the net, slid gracefully, and volleyed the ball past Sonia’s outstretched racquet. She was a handful of feet away from Andre now. She glanced at him and nearly smiled before she returned to the baseline.
“Do you know each other?” Roger asked.
Andre had to be careful. “Don’t I wish,” he chuckled.
Roger studied him. “I suppose most would,” he finally said.
Andre didn’t want Roger to meddle, nor give him reason to speculate. He didn’t like the tone in Roger’s voice, the shift in his eyes, the bunching of skin on his brow. All signs of stress.
Andre returned his attention to Gemma, the goddess on clay.
All Gemma had to do was keep her composure, and not react too quickly. She was grateful for the water bottle in her hand. She needed something to squeeze during the press conference.
“Gemma, this was the longest match of your professional career. You seemed fatigued. Was it a conditioning issue due to your extended time off?”
She hated post-game interviews.
“Anyone who competes in a three hour match against one of the best is bound to feel fatigued. Sonia is a phenomenal athlete.”
“After you lost the first set, how did you turn it around by winning the second?”
“One point at a time, like a
lways. Each set could have gone either way. The first set was close all along. So were the second and third. The ball sometimes bounces that way.”
“How did it feel when you couldn’t reach the last decisive ball? What went through your mind?”
The bottle whined in her fist. Did this guy actually expect an answer? How would he feel? She wanted to collapse when she hadn’t reached the yellow furry ball that eradicated her chance at a Grand Slam. She wanted to fall and cry. She wanted to disappear.
The press awaited her answer. She drank water, counting to ten. Don’t snap.
“How did it feel? Was that the question?” She crossed then uncrossed her legs. “As you astutely put it, it felt very decisive.”
The press corps laughed.
“Gemma, the fans have voted online, and it’s official. They say this is the best match of the year. What are your thoughts?”
“Those must be Sonia’s fans.” More laughter. “Tennis fans like to see good battles and athletes who leave it all out there. That’s what we gave them today.”
“Overall, a much better performance in this semifinal–”
“With unfortunately the same results,” she said and stood. “Thank you all.”
Tish walked her to the locker room, but Gemma’s thoughts drifted back to the end of the game.
When she lost, she wanted to hide, but the crowd had different plans. “Gemma! Gemma! Gemma!” they chanted.
She found the will to wave to her fans and her team. Wesley’s eyes were swollen, while Bedric kept a strong face, and Tish tried to maintain her composure. Ravaged with dejection, she searched through unfamiliar faces to find Andre. He was screaming and cheering as loud as anyone else, waving a tiny British flag.
Her lungs felt raw and her joints like frail parchment paper. She had lost to Sonia… again. She should have been crushed. Instead she focused on the friendly face of the American man with the genuine smile.
A face she wanted to see again. A man she wanted to know better.
With Tish’s help, Gemma finished packing her luggage. She could feel her friend’s stare.
Game of Love Page 4