~Richard Bach
emma studied Andre as he put away his bag in the overhead compartment then tugged his jacket over his head. His shirt slid up, exposing his abs. Her eyes froze on his chiseled body. That alone was worth the price of admission.
“It’s warm in here,” he said as he adjusted his shirt. The scent of his cologne drifted.
“Yes. Yes it is.”
He sank into his seat. “I’m starting to enjoy this stalker thing. Thank you, Gemma.”
“My pleasure, but there is no free lunch, I’m afraid. I fully expect free advice from the master problem solver.”
His mobile rang just as he was about to respond. He studied the display. “Sorry. I have to get this.”
She waved him on.
“Hola Gustavo, cómo estás?” He spoke in Spanish for a couple of minutes with a perfect Castilian accent. She understood Spanish fairly well and eavesdropped shamelessly. Andre was apparently approving some construction work in his home.
“How do you know Spanish?” she asked once he hung up.
“My father’s family is from Spain.”
A Spaniard, like me. Another coincidence, she mused.
“So, back to where we left off at the lounge. Do you like what you do?”
“Mmm…” She hesitated.
“That’s not a trick question,” he added.
“No, but difficult to answer. My first memory is tennis. In fact, I can’t say I have any independent recollections of events in my life that exclude the game. My life is completely intertwined with the matches, the tournaments, the training, the sport, the travel, the competition. It’s like asking a bird if she likes to fly. Is there anything else? Do I like it? It’s the only thing I know.” She glanced at him, reading empathy in his eyes.
“Does this bird fly because she can, or because she loves to?”
“Both,” she said with no hesitation.
“I’m no expert, but I can see your talent spills through your pores. Your fans clearly see that.”
“Sometimes I wonder. Is it really my talent my fans appreciate?”
“Gemma the athlete or Gemma the celebrity?”
“Precisely.”
“That bothers you?”
“I couldn’t care less about being a glassy-eyed celebrity. It’s what I do on the court that should matter. Absolutely nothing else.” Calm down. This was not the time or place to lose her wits.
“I don’t see how you can separate the game you play from the business of tennis. The sport needs celebrities to sell expensive advertisements. They are inseparable. Success in one means success in the other.”
“Unfortunately, I understand that,” she said. Her short fuse flirted with her clenching fists, while at the same instant, the airplane accelerated and lifted off the tarmac.
“Then you must also see your stock value is directly proportional to the amount of time you’re in the spotlight, for good or ill.”
“What if I don’t want that? What if I just want to focus on the game and nothing else?”
“If that’s what you want, then your career choices would be consistent with that. Yet here we are.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“It’s always simple, it’s just hard to do. I’m curious now. How did you get to where you are? You must have gotten your fame because of the way you play.”
“Yes, I did. Well, when I first turned pro, but I’ve sputtered since. In general I do well, but my albatross remains. Until I win a Grand Slam, I will not be considered amongst the elite players. I may go down as a celebrity athlete, instead of the athlete who also happened to be a celebrity.”
“Grand Slam?”
“There are four tournaments that propel a career, sustain it, or define it. The first is the Australian Open, then the French Open, followed by Wimbledon, and finally the U.S. Open. I choked at the Australian Open, and you just saw me drop a solid chance at the French. Wimbledon is next, in a few weeks.” She studied the shrinking world from her window. “So, Mister Problem Solver, how would you solve my problem?”
“This is a no-brainer. I won’t even charge you.” He glanced both ways conspiratorially.
Gemma drew near with hesitation. She could smell his cologne. Her feeling of weakness when near him was palpable.
He whispered. “All you have to do is win a Grand Slam.” He gave her a wink.
Her mouth dropped open.
“But you can’t share this groundbreaking advice with anyone else,” he whispered. “I make a killing selling my consulting services.”
“That is brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. Right. Just win the bloody thing. And, forgive me for asking this, do people pay in hard currency when you provide this type of… what did you call it? Groundbreaking advice?”
He smirked. “Sometimes they even give me kick-ass seats to tennis matches.”
Gemma burst out laughing at the absurdity of his silly–but accurate–advice. She studied his eyes. She saw softness, endearing him to her a bit more.
“Since you so quickly solved that little irritant,” she said as she reached into her carry on bag, “maybe you can explain this Sudoku thing.” She handed him Tish’s booklet.
His eyes lit up. “Gladly.” Like an excited young boy, he explained the game. She watched him, barely hearing a word he spoke. She studied his hands. Powerful. Dangerous.
She had needed this, someone to chat with. Tish was her friend, but with her there was no access to new ideas. Andre was new, smart, funny, and she felt good talking to him. Sure, she was attracted to him, but she wasn’t a child who didn’t know how to manage these types of situations. She was surrounded by good looking people all the time. But… none quite like Andre.
“Are you listening?” he asked.
“I’m sorry, were you talking to me?”
“Ohh… good one,” he said, nodding in approval. “Gemma one, Andre zero.”
“I didn’t ask for a doctoral dissertation. Just solve a few pages so I can win a wager, and we’re good to go.”
“So you want me to cheat? Is this what you’re used to? Give someone a first class upgrade and they’ll do your homework?”
“After that crap advice you gave, the least you can do is help.”
One eyebrow arched before he winked. He clicked open his pen and started. “The advice I gave was not crap,” he said, rapidly filling cell after cell.
“Please, that was bollocks.” She watched him with curiosity.
“Do you agree the problem will be solved if you win a Grand Slam?” He continued to complete cells rapidly, now on the third page. As if he was jotting in random numbers.
“Well, yes.”
“So the solution is easy. Execution is the challenge.” Another page done. “Do you believe you’re good enough to beat anyone you face?”
“Yes,” she said, amazed at how quickly he tore through the pages, limited only by how fast he could write.
“Good. Then the question is, what has stopped you? Was it your opponent, the environment, or something else? You have to think about that carefully.”
He had completed ten pages, maybe more.
“The best place to start is with ourselves. Usually we are our own worst enemy,” he added. “Have you considered–”
“Stop.”
He froze. “What?”
“Are you writing gibberish?”
“No.” He seemed hurt. “I’m completing the puzzles for you.”
“But that’s impossible. You’re not even paying attention to what you’re doing. How is that possible?” She was confused, on the verge of giggling with hysteria.
He flipped to the back of the book. “You can check the answers if you want.”
“Are you fuc–” She bit her tongue, glanced around and tried again. “Seriously? I’ve never seen anything like that.”
He hesitated. “It’s my talent, my curse.”
“Explain.” She leaned in close, grinning ear-to-ear, amazed.
“O
nce I know the rules–that is, once I understand the way to solve something–the answers become obvious. They show up, and all I have to do is trace the answer in the proper cell.”
She blinked.
“If you saw one plus one, would you hesitate in writing the answer?” he asked. “That’s how it is. For me, a lot of things are one plus one.”
Her mouth was partially open. “Have you always had this… gift?”
“For as long as I can remember. I’ll quote a profound statement: My first memory is this ability. In fact, I can’t say I have any independent recollections of events in my life that exclude this ability. My life is completely intertwined with it. It’s the only thing I know.”
She saw what she thought was sadness in his eyes. “Photographic memory also? You are amazing. A phenom. A–”
“Freak?” he said.
“Why would you say that?” She pulled her legs up beneath her.
“I’ve always been ‘that’ kid. The one who was different. He’s a genius eventually turned to he’s a geek, and then he’s weird. I didn’t feel different, and my friends didn’t treat me differently, but the fact is I was different. Some people were just weirded out by it, while others wanted to study me. From the ages of four to eleven, I tried to hide it by disappearing, but my buddies wouldn’t let me. The school knew, my parents knew, but I just wanted to be a kid, ride my bike, play basketball with my friends, try to impress the girls. You know, just be me… a kid.”
“So what happened at eleven?” she asked.
“Pressure from my school, my parents, and everyone who wanted to get their hands on me. A university professor convinced them my ability needed to be harnessed. They agreed. So I attended USC in Southern California and earned my bachelor’s degree by fourteen. Then they whisked me away to MIT for another four years.”
She clenched her legs to her chest, stunned. “How was MIT? Were you socially accepted there?”
“Sure, somewhat. But I was an outlier. An oddity. I was a fourteen-year-old working on two PhDs alongside twenty-five-year olds and older who felt they were the best of the best. I didn’t have to try, while they killed themselves. I killed the curves wherever I went, so my presence became an annoyance. I was always surrounded by people, but I was never with them. Do you know what I mean?”
She nodded, almost in a trance. “Smiling and talking to the people, but never truly present.”
“Exactly. You nailed it. Every day, all I wished for was to go back home. To see my friends who had been there for me since we were toddlers, to see the girl I loved. But I had to live out someone else’s plan.”
“Bloody hell, Andre.”
“Hey, it all turned out for the best,” he said with a strained smile. “Look at me now, I hang out with Gemma Lennon.” He shrugged. “A normal life is all I wanted. Just a normal life.”
The young boy had aged before her. Gemma took his hand. A beat, then her breath caught and the world transformed.
Her posture straightened as electricity swam through her hand. He must have felt something too, because his grip tightened, and in that moment, she wanted to put the world on pause. His hand in hers felt like what had been missing. It felt perfect.
“Love’s greatest gift is its ability to make everything it touches sacred.”
~Barbara DeAngelis
heir hands did not separate. Gemma expected the current of warmth to disperse, but it didn’t. She stared at their intertwined fingers and allowed her gaze to travel to his. Their eyes locked for a long moment.
He turned her hand and studied her palm. She held her breath as an electric current reverberated along her skin.
“Your hand has adapted into the perfect mate for a tennis racquet,” he said as he traced the calluses on her fingers and palm. “I once heard that when you are committed, wholly and completely, you build scar tissue. Whatever you dedicate to that passion absorbs the weight of the damage.”
A small sound escaped her mouth. She swallowed. “I imagine it’s the price we pay.”
“Sometimes the price may be too high.”
“Excuse me, Dr. Reyes?” someone said from behind them.
Gemma pulled her hand away as they both turned to a woman who had appeared in the aisle next to them.
“Stella, right? Stella McCormack from TeraVision.” They shook hands as he rose. The woman didn’t let go of his hand.
“I’m sorry for interrupting,” she said as she glanced at Gemma, then did a double take before turning back to Andre. “I just wanted to say hi.”
As they spoke, Gemma pretended to read a magazine, but she caught every detail. Stella leaned on the seat, shifted her weight, touched his hand, placed her hand on his chest, giggled, and seemed amused by his wit. He answered her questions, explained, and motivated her. She seemed very motivated. A little too motivated for Gemma. She’s a little too old for him, if you ask me. Now she was writing her phone number on the business card that had been conveniently tucked in her pocket. Of course he’ll call you next time he’s in Seattle, Gemma thought. After a few moments the woman stretched and kissed his cheek. Must be nice.
“Sorry about that,” he said as he sat.
“No worries, Dr. Reyes,” Gemma said, still flipping through the pages of the magazine. “She’s pretty.”
Andre glanced at Gemma. “You want me to introduce you to her?”
“Don’t be daft. She’s definitely interested in you.”
“Hmm.”
“Not interested?”
“Not remotely interested.”
She laughed a little too easily. “Why’s that? Do you already have someone special?” As soon as she asked, she mentally kicked herself for being so transparent.
“I have a few special people in my life. But I think you’re asking if I have someone special-special.”
“I feel like I’m in grade school again. Do you like her, or like her-like her? Yes, are you in a relationship with someone?”
“No.”
“Too busy?”
Andre nodded. “With my schedule, it’s a non-starter.”
“Rather sad our lives, no?”
“You too? I considered picking up a tabloid to learn about your love life, but thought better of it.”
“Argh! Those parasitic magazines. Everyday there’s new rubbish about me.”
“Did you see today’s headlines? Seems like you don’t need to worry about winning a Grand Slam after all. You’re quitting tennis.”
“I’m what?”
“Also, you’re a complete mess and are escaping the country because of your depression.”
“Unreal.” She wanted to break something.
“So… is there someone in your life that helps you maintain sanity?”
“I prefer insanity. Makes for much better headlines.”
The plane jolted violently for a few seconds. A patch of turbulence. Gemma squeezed her temples and fanned her face, suddenly feeling warm. “Shit! I forgot to take my airsickness medication.” She fussed through her bag and found two pills. “I’m supposed to take them one hour before the flight. I’ll be a basket case now.” What if she puked in front of him? Dear Lord.
“Here,” he said, “give me your wrist.”
She studied him, then at his inviting hand. “What are you going to do?”
“Trust me.”
Trust? That was difficult for her to hand out. She scanned his hand to his eyes, calm and in control. She hesitantly offered her hand.
“Close your eyes and relax,” he said. With both hands, he applied light pressure at different points on her hand and wrist. “Your eyes,” he said. “Close them.”
She did.
“Take a deep breath in, then release slowly,” he said, as he expertly touched and squeezed. “There are a couple of pressure points–nerves–that once excited, will bring equilibrium back and eliminate nausea.”
She pictured his face, listened to his voice, and focused on his touch, which drove her weak with pleas
ure. His touch traveled from her palm to each finger as he gently, but firmly, massaged her hand. A stirring sensation sparked in her navel. Not nausea. Raw pleasure. After a few minutes, the lightheadedness disappeared and the nausea vanished, replaced with glee.
“I feel much better now,” she said once she opened her eyes.
“Good.” He did not release her hand. “By the way, what I just fed you was a bunch of crap. I had no idea what I was doing. I just wanted to touch you some more.”
She broke into a belly laugh. Gemma knew then she was in trouble.
After he returned from the restroom, Andre found Gemma fast asleep. She seemed innocent, powerful, perfect. He had often wondered if anyone could truly understand what he went through during his youth. Without a doubt he knew Gemma got it. She got him and his world. Not even his best friends completely understood.
He glanced toward the partition separating first and business class. A few times during the flight, he had felt the unsettling feeling of being watched. He thought it may have been Stella, but she had been asleep most of the flight. He wondered if it had been Roger, snooping. He hoped not, because if he had seen Andre with Gemma, life would get more complicated at work.
Whatever it was, most of the passengers were out now. He opened his blanket and gently placed it across Gemma’s body, then lowered her seat to flat. She stirred, but did not wake. He reclined his chair and turned toward her. He was tempted to make a noise, so she’d wake up and they could talk some more. Instead he thought of this woman, trapped in a world she had not created. He understood that situation all too well.
She shifted, now facing him. Strands of hair covered her face. Gently, he brushed her hair back. His fingers grazed her forehead, causing the tight skin to loosen and ease. Her eyes fluttered momentarily. Suddenly, her hand emerged from beneath the blanket and took his hand in hers, tight against her chest. He felt her heartbeat and gentle breathing. He studied her face, wanting to remember every detail, knowing for once he could use his photographic memory for something he actually wanted to commit to memory.
With her face etched in his mind, he drifted.
Game of Love Page 6