Game of Love

by Ara Grigorian

  Words dribbled out of his mouth, and when his eyes indicated an ‘impressive’ part was coming, she lobbed him an obligatory, “Oh, wow.”

  He was still talking when he placed his hand on her thigh. She glanced at his hand and then at him. Her eyes penetrated his drunken mind, and he slowly pulled his hand, letting his fingers run on her thigh momentarily. I will have to kill him. If he tries anything, I will drive his head into the wall.

  Through the tinted windows of the limousine she glared at the spectacle that awaited them. Flashbulbs lit the dark streets like strobe lights. “Christ,” she said.

  “Worry not, Gemmy,” Johnny said. She hated that nickname. “Hold on tight and I’ll get you through the sharks.”

  How comforting.

  The doors opened and the screams escalated. Security guards stood on either side as Johnny stepped into a deafening burst of cheers. He waved to both sides of the red carpet.

  Here we go. When she stepped out, she was struck back by the invisible hand of the crowd’s erupting cheers. She was dazed, not expecting this type of reception. She settled and waved to the fans. No doubt, her star was at its height. At least for now.

  Johnny grabbed her hand and led her down the red carpet. The questions came at them in rapid fire. The flashbulbs exploded faster.

  The routine on the carpet was familiar. Stroll from one media outlet to the next. Smile, pose, answer the same questions, and move on.

  Are you ready for Wimbledon?

  Was that a tough loss?

  Who are you wearing?

  The questions didn’t bother her. What bothered her was Johnny holding her, his arm across her hip, and the pictures that would be produced. Pictures that would make news.

  At the next outlet, just when he tried to grab her hip again, she shifted, facing him. Smile on her face, she whispered. “Hands. Off.”

  He nodded, but at the very next stop, he did it again. He held her close and tight. Was he too drunk to understand? His behavior was bound to raise more questions. Friends don’t hold each other that way.

  They moved on, and when he touched her, her body shook, disgusted. Memories of her long-forgotten past gnawed at her. Sixteen, another drunk, another deep cut.

  Tish ran up to her. “This way, G. The Prime Minister is waiting for you.”

  She rolled out of Johnny’s hold, grateful when she entered the theater. Five more minutes and she would have broken his hand.

  “Gemma,” Prime Minister Beckford said, “it is a distinct pleasure to meet you, my dear.” He held her hands and kissed her on both cheeks.

  “Thank you, sir. It’s an honor to meet you,” she said, surprised that she was awestruck by him.

  He was taller than she expected. Also, he was relaxed, not in a sleazy politician way, but like one of the lads at the pub. She turned to his wife.

  “Good evening, ma’am,” she said, and shook hands.

  “My dear, you are more beautiful in person,” she said.

  “Don’t embarrass her,” the Prime Minister said, reeling the conversation back to what must have been on his mind. “I know you have a busy evening ahead. But I wanted to wish you luck for next week, and also say a word about Wimbledon.”

  “Sir?” What could he possibly have to say about Wimbledon?

  “We invented the sport,” he said, “but our ladies have disappeared from the face of the championships. It is about time Great Britain raises the trophy in victory. This is our soil, our game. You are this country’s favorite daughter, and I’m certain you will make us all proud.”

  “You are being ridiculous,” his wife said, rolling her eyes. “His competitive nature makes him talk this way. Just play your heart out.”

  “And while you’re at it, win it all for your country,” he added.

  A sinking feeling overtook her. “I will do my best, sir,” she said, managing to shoot him a smile.

  “I’m certain of that. Here are the photographers. Shall we?”

  More pictures. She did her best to show her happy face, but she was reeling. As if she didn’t have enough pressure, now her country was depending on her too?

  She pivoted, and was relieved to see Tish nearby.

  “You okay?” Tish asked.

  Help me, she wanted to say. Instead she said, “I think so.”

  Tish nodded, then grabbed Gemma’s hand and walked her back into Johnny’s needy arms.

  He took her by the waist again as they were escorted to prime seats. Gemma’s fingers felt numb and her feet weighed tons. She wanted safe hands; she needed Andre. She needed someone she could trust, certainly no one here really cared about her. Maybe they cared for her interests, but not her.

  When the movie started, she drifted. She thought of the beach, the rock climbing, Andre, and his friends. She thought of his lips and his fingers intertwined with hers. His world was so different from this one. She wanted to be a part of that world.

  When she came back to the present, she realized two things. She had missed her scenes and more alarmingly, Johnny was holding her hand. When had that happened? She snatched her hand away.

  When the movie ended, more pictures and interviews followed. Throughout, she controlled her breathing, moderated her temper. She had to hold on a little longer. The evening was nearly done.

  “Ready for the party of the century?” Johnny asked once the interviews were done.

  “Sorry?”

  “The after party. It’ll be a blast. Don’t know about you, but I intend to get properly pissed,” he said, pulling her by the arm.

  “Stop. I can’t. I need to get back. I have an early trip for my match.” She waved Tish over.

  “Yes?” Tish asked, as she reached Gemma.

  “I need my car to return home.”

  “What about the after party? Wesley told me that we should–”

  “No,” Gemma said, “I have an early trip. Remember?” She needed Tish to be quicker to the take.

  When the car came for Gemma, she marched out with her security guards, but someone pulled on her elbow.

  “Wait,” Johnny said.

  Her security held back.

  “What is it, John?” she asked, exasperated.

  He grabbed her face and kissed her hard.

  A million thoughts exploded in her head. Pull away? Push back? Bite his lip? Instead she froze, her eyes wide and her lips sealed. She stopped breathing. The putrid smell of alcohol, forced on her lips, sparked flares of violence.

  When he let go, he stepped back and winked. “Sorry, love,” he mouthed, and swaggered backward with a triumphant grin plastered on his face. He spun and strutted back to his entourage.

  She kept her face stone-cold, aware the cameras were having a seizure.

  Same bedroom, same dress, same floor-to-ceiling mirror. This time Gemma didn’t feel beautiful. She felt cheap, used. I’ve sold my body and soul. And for what? This had nothing to do with the game. She was trying hard to focus on the game, but the celebrity world she had walked into was spiraling out of control, with no end in sight.

  She undid her hair and stepped out of her dress. She continued to watch her bare reflection in the mirror. The body of an athlete, the life of a runner-up. Tears rolled down her cheeks, smearing her mascara. She didn’t utter a sound. Tears streamed, collected at her chin, and dropped one by one.

  Gemma stepped into the shower and scrubbed, over and over again, hoping to erase any trace of her past, until her skin felt raw.

  “Believe me! The secret of reaping the greatest fruitfulness and the greatest enjoyment from life is to live dangerously!”

  ~Friedrich Nietzsche

  ndre wrapped up the first day of analysis early at Homeland Security. They had made significant inroads in deciphering the latest terrorist communication streams. This would be a critical piece of information once Project Sunrise started in a few weeks.

  As grueling as the work was, he liked these types of assignments, because he understood the value. Innocent people’s l
ives depended on them. Even though he dreaded the start of Project Sunrise, deep down, he felt honored to have the intellect and the ability to help the good guys.

  He decided to walk the two miles to his hotel to loosen his stiff limbs and induce blood flow. Stagnation was the lightning rod for his headaches. Soon, the headache’s fault lines would be triggered and eventually debilitate him. Like potholes on the face of the moon, his brain was pockmarked and bruised. He couldn’t take much more.

  Once in his hotel room, he ordered room service, collapsed on the couch, and took out his phone, searching through his personal e-mail. There was one from Linda with “Gemma” in the subject line. He went to it immediately.

  Gemma will be on Access Hollywood at 7:30 p.m. She was at a movie premiere in London. Didn’t realize she was heading back so soon.

  He checked his watch. 7:28 p.m. He clicked away at the remote until he found the show. The preview was on, and there she was, a teaser clip. He froze.

  Who the hell is that guy?

  During the commercials, Andre undressed, eyes fixed on the television set. Anticipation and dread built an unfamiliar sensation in his gut. More teasers came at the end of the first two segments. The second teaser caught him off guard.

  “Is it official? Are Gemma and Johnny back together?” the hostess said. A picture from an askew angle of a guy with greased-back hair holding Gemma’s face and kissing her.

  Blood drained from his face. His heartbeat drummed loudly, muting all other sounds.

  He had a sudden warm sensation, which delivered a cold shiver up his spine. He ran his hands through his hair. Was he really surprised? Of course she would have someone. Why wouldn’t she? But why lie about it?

  He paced the room. Opened his laptop, then closed it. Studied his wallet, then threw it on the bed. He stopped pacing and placed both hands on his temples.

  “Is this why she left early?”

  He heard the theme music for Access Hollywood and marched back to the TV. On the floor, he crossed his legs, hands to his face, awaiting the worst.

  “At the UK premiere of Triton Warriors, box office sensation Johnny Flauto appeared hand in hand with tennis superstar and sex symbol Gemma Lennon…”

  They showed images and video footage of them walking and smiling. He held her. He touched her. Andre felt his face flush.

  “Gemma also had an opportunity to talk with the Prime Minister…”

  More images followed. He focused on her face and felt somehow detached from the rest of his body, as if coiled in numbness.

  “For months we were told Johnny and Gemma were no longer together. Given Gemma’s small role in the movie, we wondered if she would make an appearance. Last week, speculation ran rampant when rumors swirled that Gemma would attend the premiere. Instead, she surprised us all when she not only showed up, but showed up with Johnny, hand in hand, appearing very much together. It wasn’t until Gemma’s departure that we got a glimpse of this breaking news. Cameras captured the two kissing before she left.”

  And there it was. Pictures from different angles. A definite kiss.

  Something caught his attention. He scooted forward, studying the montage of pictures. The same moment in time from various angles. In one picture, a portion of her face was visible. Her eyes were open.

  Why were her eyes open?

  Were they open in all the pictures or just this one? Was it because she wasn’t expecting him to kiss her in public? Did he catch her off guard, or was it because she was shocked by his action? Andre needed to see more pictures, get different angles, read blogs, analyze the information, and–he spun away from the TV.

  What was he thinking? Even if he were willing to fight for her, with everything that was going on, it would be a fool’s errand. Definitely best to leave it alone. He would have to get over it. She didn’t owe him a thing. This must have been why she held back when they kissed.

  He decided to send her a text. That’s what a friend would do.

  He wrote, “Saw you on TV. You looked amazing.”

  After reviewing the message, he tapped Send. He stared at the screen for fifteen minutes, distracted only when room service arrived. His meal sat cooling while he meditated his migraine away.

  It was 2:00 a.m. when Gemma received Andre’s text. She was awake. Although exhausted, she could not sleep. She read the message over and over again, considering its implications.

  What had he actually seen? She didn’t dare watch TV, dreading the trash that would be produced. That last kiss… she should have slapped him. That would have made for great TV.

  Why had Johnny kissed her? That git had incited a new round of speculation.

  Did Andre see the kiss? The holding? Maybe all he saw was her in that dress. Maybe, but she knew better. This would be the talk of the shows and magazines for days.

  What should she do? She cared about what he thought, but it sure didn’t sound like he was upset or jealous. He must have seen the whole thing and wasn’t fazed by it. Which meant he didn’t care.

  “You only live once, but you get to serve twice.”

  ~Author Unknown

  esley’s spacious Chiswick Park office had always been a place of rewards and accomplishments. Today, it stood for everything that was wrong with Gemma’s life. She shifted slightly in her seat and held Wesley’s gaze.

  “How did this happen?”

  Wesley didn’t blink, while Tish dropped her gaze to the floor. Gemma wanted to say plenty, but needed to remain calm and measured.

  Wesley cleared his throat. “Gemma–”

  “I’m struggling to understand,” she interrupted, “how this event that was carefully orchestrated by you turned into such a disaster.”

  “Please calm down,” Wesley said.

  “I am calm, Wesley. I’m just confused. You’re my manager, aren’t you? You’re supposed to protect me–my brand, as you call it. How could this happen on your watch?”

  He blinked.

  Her hands threatened to tremble while her left knee shook. Her voice was on the verge of cracking.

  “You’re jumping to conclusions–” Wesley said

  “The only thing I’m jumping to is the front page of the newspaper.”

  She had woken to a copy of the morning paper with her picture on the cover and Johnny kissing her. It read, “Love Made in Hollywood Heaven.” A phrase that sounded ominously like Wesley’s past proclamations.

  Wesley was the one who had put her in this situation. With a drunk in the equation, anything could happen. Anything. He knew that better than anyone else.

  She squeezed the armrests of the chair and attempted to speak calmly. “Please cancel all appearances that have nothing to do with tennis. I can’t–” The words choked in her throat. She squeezed the bridge of her nose and breathed out slowly. “I can’t do this anymore.”

  “I understand,” he said.

  “Do you? I’m not so sure. You dragged me back from my vacation for this event that was supposed to fix things. Instead, it has put me right in the middle of a public embarrassment.” She glanced at Tish. “You guys are my team, right? Mine. If I can’t count on you to protect me, then who?” She recalled Andre’s words. If not me, then who?

  “What he did shocked all of us. I called him and gave him a piece of my mind.”

  “Please don’t patronize me.”

  Wesley flinched. “He was drunk. Maybe a bit more than just drunk. He has issues,” Wesley said.

  “I don’t care about him and his issues. I want my team to focus on one thing: Tennis. No more appearances. No more anything with Johnny. No more making me look like the prized idiot. Please.”

  Tish’s eyes remained downcast, while Wesley stared directly into Gemma’s eyes.

  “Wesley, crush the innuendoes. Do whatever it takes.”

  “I’m all over it,” he said.

  That’s exactly what she was afraid of.

  Tish and Gemma left Wesley’s office together. “Please watch my handbag for a minute
?” Gemma asked as she went to the loo.

  She just needed to clear her head before facing Tish again. Tish had failed both as an assistant and best friend. Gemma had asked Tish to join her team to avoid these types of situations. She hoped Tish would know where to hold the line. So much for hoping.

  Gemma splashed water on her face, dried off, and then stepped out into the hallway. Tish jumped to her feet and handed Gemma her bag.

  “Here you go,” she said.

  Gemma studied her friend. She was acting erratic. She took her bag and entered the lift without exchanging words.

  Gemma hated conflict. She had plenty on the court. She didn’t need conflict with her team. She felt an equal measure of anger and regret as they drove to Birmingham. Tish wasn’t to blame, not fully. Yet if Tish had considered things from Gemma’s perspective, she could have minimized the exposure.

  “How was LA?” Tish asked.

  Tish was trying to break the ice that pervaded the backseat of the car. Gemma would accept the olive branch. “It was nice.”

  “Do anything interesting? Go anywhere?”

  Gemma glanced at her. Tish seemed a bit too interested. “Went to the beach.”

  “The beach? Wow, that’s a personal breakthrough. Thus far, a beach home hasn’t meant actual use of the beach. What brought this on?”

  Something was definitely up. “I met up with some people and hung out with them.”

  Tish shifted in her seat. “You? Met some people and hung out? Who?”

  “Friends of someone I know.”

  “In LA? Anyone I know?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who?”

  “Andre. From Paris, last week.” There, she said it. Saying his name sparked a cut in her. She wanted to be with him. Right now.

  “Andre? The ‘Merican?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “You barely know him. Did I miss something?”

  “We happened to be on the same flight to LA and we spoke. So we hung out.” It felt like months had passed since she had spoken to him last. She had to explain Johnny before Andre assumed the worst.