Game of Love

by Ara Grigorian

  “He happened to be on the same flight with you? Interesting coincidence. G, it’s not like you to meet someone and then go off with them. Please be careful. A lot of suspicious people out there will want to use you for their personal benefit. You know this.”

  “Not him. He’s not that type.”

  “And you think you can identify that type?”

  Gemma faced Tish and peered directly in her eyes. “I’m learning to read people. I’m getting pretty good at it.”

  Gemma leaned back and pulled out her mobile. Something was wrong. She had been reading an article before the meeting with Wesley, but her phone was on the calendar app now. She glanced at Tish. Had she been snooping through her e-mails and texts when Gemma went to the loo? That was nothing new. Tish regularly cleaned up the mess in Gemma’s contacts and calendar. Tish must have read her texts. She scanned the ones she had exchanged with Andre. Nothing juicy, but enough to possibly pique Tish’s curiosity. Which explained her earlier interrogation about LA. She had been fishing for more.

  “Bedric is pissed, by the way,” Tish offered.

  Gemma could only imagine. “Did he say something specific?”

  “When I told him we’re driving down together, he said he was happy for us.”

  “Ugh. I may have to listen to all his coaching advice for the next couple of days to win his favor again.”

  Tish faced Gemma. “I’ve noticed sometimes you argue with him over tactics or training.”

  “Sure,” Gemma said, “he’s not always right.”

  Tish went silent. “How do you know? What I mean is, when do you take his advice, and when do you listen to your instinct? He’s the expert after all, isn’t he?”

  Gemma glanced at Tish. “The truth is you don’t know.”

  “Then how do you choose if you should listen to him, or tell him to bugger off?”

  “Sometimes the only way to know is to try it on. Sometimes it’s listening to your gut because logic and planning are not always right.” Andre’s face, his smile clouded her vision. “Sometimes you have to go with your heart.”

  Tish leaned back. “Try it on. If not, listen to your heart. And then have the courage to say he’s full of crap if you disagree,” she recited, almost to herself.

  “And if that doesn’t work, I use guerrilla tactics. Which I may need to resort to with Bedric. Do you recall which Belgium chocolate brand he fancied?”

  Tish grinned. “All taken care of. I have half a dozen of his favorite bars in my bag.”

  “Brilliant. I need more of that type of thinking from you.”

  Andre studied the flight schedules to Heathrow. He had attempted to convince himself that this turn of events was for the best, but he was far too smart for that. He knew without Gemma, there was an absence in his life. It seemed improbable that after only a few encounters he felt so strongly about her, but there it was. She’d screwed it all up. She had dug a space for herself in his life, and the thought of some nitwit, greasy-haired actor spending time with her was, to be blunt, annoying.

  He would not be a spectator. He could wait it out, but he had an uneasy feeling about the effects of time and distance, particularly with his upcoming assignment. It was not like him to take a backseat and let things happen. But he wasn’t a pest either, running after the girl. He would be patient for a day or two. She was preparing for her tournament. Better than most, he understood the space a professional needed. He would give her a couple of days. For now.

  His cell phone chimed as if in response to his sentiment. A reply text message from Gemma to the text he had sent the night before.

  “Thanks.”

  That’s all it said. That’s all she gave him.

  Gemma wrote various drafts before she sent the text.

  “Call me, I want to talk,” and, “I miss our time at the beach, call me,” and, “I’ve fallen for you, you American bastard.”

  But when she caught sight of Tish’s wandering eyeballs, she had written the first thing that had come to mind and hit Send. Now, in retrospect, she hoped the message wouldn’t come across as dry or crass.

  She dropped her phone in her bag and decided a few days of silence would be good for both of them. Sometimes, distance and time clarified things. Sometimes, they screwed up everything.

  By early afternoon, Andre’s migraine had gotten progressively worse. His doctor had told him to manage the pressures surrounding his life. Great advice.

  The phone call with his dad earlier had also contributed greatly. Another head-butting session over his deteriorating relationship with his niece and sister-in-law. The man was as obstinate as a cinder block.

  But the good news didn’t stop there.

  He stepped outside the Homeland Security facility to catch fresh air and try to understand what he had just heard over lunch from the director of the department.

  “Your office insisted on an early start. We were told you had another engagement at the end of the week.”

  Andre didn’t have any other engagements on his calendar. That had been a lie. It was at best two days of work, unnecessary for an immediate start. He could’ve had one more day of rest. Why had Roger forced the issue?

  Andre’s phone rang. It was Gemma.

  Here we go. He wanted to show detachment and lack of care, but when he tapped the Answer icon, the smile that broke out on his face was uncontrollable. “Hi, Gem.”

  “Did I catch you at a bad time? Are you busy?”

  “Perfect time.”

  Urgency laced her voice, but she hesitated, the silence spreading like an unbreachable crevasse.

  “How are you, Gem?”

  “I guess it depends. The movie premiere… how much of it did you catch?”

  He closed his eyes and spoke. “Are you and Greasy-Hair-Guy together?”

  “If I just said no, would you believe me? Would that be enough?”

  “You don’t owe me an explanation–”

  “Please answer me. If I said no, would you believe me?”

  “Of course.”

  More silence, then a muffled sound. “In that case, I’ll tell you everything.”

  She told him about their past relationship, about Australia, about their breakup, and the plan to appear as friends to minimize the media fall-out.

  “And the kiss?” he asked. “I can’t imagine that was part of the plan.”

  “That was not a kiss. That was a drunk who caught me off guard.”

  “Why would a prominent actor do something so careless?”

  “I don’t know. Publicity? Fried brain cells? Who knows? What I do know is I felt humiliated, betrayed.”

  “Betrayed? By him?”

  “By him, by my team, by everyone who’s conspiring against me. Now the press are having a field day. The celebrity rags love it because it’s fresh content, and the sports press are browbeating me because it’s more of the same.”

  “They’re all idiots. If they’d been looking, or if they cared, they would’ve seen something was wrong.”

  “Okay, what are you talking about?”

  “When we kissed, your eyes were closed, you were in the moment. With Greasy-Hair-Guy, your eyes were wide open. Definitely not in the moment. Your eyes showed no joy.”

  Silence. “There is no joy when a drunk forces himself on me.”

  “Next time, consider kneeing said drunk in the balls.”

  A delicious laugh escaped her. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “Forget him. What’s the situation with the paparazzi?” The story about Australia had put a new fear in him. They were not just a nuisance; they were dangerous.

  “I’ve had to increase the security team around my home. They found some asshole living in one of my trees. Can you believe it?”

  “I’m thinking of taking a trip to the UK for just a couple of days. What do you think?” He wanted to be there, to shelter her like he had in LA.

  She sniffled. “I’d love to see you again, but please don’t. I need to focus
on the tournament. These are critical days as I prepare for Wimbledon. With the right momentum, I should be able to peak at Wimbledon. I love that you would do that for me, but I need to focus on what’s really important.”

  His chest went warm.

  “Wait. That came out wrong. What I meant–”

  “You don’t have to explain. I understand what you meant.”

  He should not have been surprised or hurt. Tennis was the priority, not their silly little nothing. He would have to understand. As much as the words stung, he would accept it.

  “Look, I’ll return to LA soon after Wimbledon. Let’s plan for that, okay? We’ll get coffee again.”

  Would he be there? “Sounds great,” he said, knowing he’d probably be in military headquarters in various locations around the world. “Coffee, croissant, and Nutella. But no sharing this time. We’ll get two.” That breakfast would not happen for a good four months from now. How much would have changed by then? “Go and rest. Win, and the sports press will pipe down quickly.”

  “Thanks, Andre. For being there.”

  “I’m only a call away.”

  “You know, you’re not bad for an American. I may need to reconsider my long-held beliefs.”

  “Gem, knock ‘em dead.”

  “I’ll knee them in the bullocks, as you so aptly recommended. Cheers,” she said, and hung up.

  “I miss you,” he told the dead connection.

  “I let my racquet do the talking.”

  ~Pete Sampras

  n Friday morning, Gemma woke determined to win the Aegon Classic.

  She could have been smart and sat out this tournament, waited for Wimbledon, saving her strength and minimizing the wear and tear. She had been out of tournament play for months, though, and her mental agility and timing improved by continually competing against those who wanted to defeat her. Practice was never enough. She needed to be on the court, fighting the fight, absorbing the strong serves, returning, and digging out the impossible plays.

  Aegon and Topshelf Open were the path to winning her first Grand Slam. Unlike the Australian Open, where she had choked, in the French she had fought a good fight. The game turned with momentum. And momentum was on her side.

  Wonder what he’s doing now? She wished thoughts of Andre wouldn’t just creep up on her. One day with him had left a permanent mark on her.

  The first round match ended faster than it started. Gemma’s warm up with her hitting coach had proven to be more challenging. The match ended in less than forty minutes. She won in straight sets and felt stronger than ever.

  “We should withdraw from the Topshelf Open,” Bedric said when she wrapped up interviews. “You don’t need to compete in back-to-back tournaments before Wimbledon.”

  “You may be right. Ask me again if we win the third round match.”

  The second and third rounds were barely competitive. She was a machine, breaking service against her opponents, not allowing them to win points even when they served. Grass was her favorite court surface, and it showed.

  “I am going to withdraw you from Topshelf,” Bedric said.

  “Let’s discuss it if I win the quarterfinal match.”

  She put on a clinic at the quarterfinal match, not conceding one game. She won 6-0, 6-0, and the buzz in the circuit was that Gemma had the potential to be the spoiler or dark-horse at Wimbledon. She didn’t care for what the odd-makers had to say.

  “Gemma, about Topshelf–” Bedric started.

  “I was going to ask you about that. When were you planning on withdrawing me? You are my coach after all. You should be the one thinking of these things.” She grinned.

  Bedric didn’t bother arguing.

  The night before the semifinal match, an interviewer stumped her.

  “What do you think of Johnny Flauto’s comment? Do you want to say something to him?” the interviewer asked, then flashed an all-tooth smile.

  Gemma blinked. “Since I don’t know what you’re talking about, I’ll have to say no comment.”

  “Would you like me to tell you?” More all-tooth smile.

  “No, thank you.”

  Although she won the semifinal match, for the first time in the tournament, she had to work a bit harder to break service against her opponent. She did win, and that’s what mattered, but she committed over two dozen unforced errors. She knew her final match against Petra would not be as forgiving. Gemma would have to be at her best.

  During the press conference, a question stopped her in place.

  “Gemma, rumors are that Johnny will be coming to your final match. Anything you’d care to share?”

  She hesitated, wishing she could throw her water bottle at the journalist. Instead she said, “It is always a treat when my friends come to my matches.”

  Once in her room, she searched the net and found an interview with Johnny.

  “No, I’ve been staying away from her matches. Focus is key for her as you can imagine. I don’t want anyone to blame me if something goes wrong. Particularly Gemma. She would hurt me.” Then he laughed like a hyena.

  She slammed the laptop closed. Now was not the time to get angry. She would not get derailed.

  Her concern was Andre. How would he interpret this news? She had not spoken to him in days. She had planned to talk to Andre after the tournament, but she felt it important to talk to him now in case he was getting suspicious. If she was being honest, she also wanted to call because she missed him and his calming voice. Like an addict, she wanted to feel his energy again.

  “Hey you,” she said.

  “Hi, Gem.”

  God, how she loved that nickname.

  “Is everything all right?” he asked.

  “Just wanted to say hi. How are you?”

  “Livin’ the dream.”

  “That good?”

  “Not just good, fan-freakin’-tastic. Never mind me. I’ve been watching your games. Did you know there’s a channel just for tennis? It’s called the Tennis Channel. Did you know about this? Because you’re on it all the time.”

  “Welcome to the modern ages, love.”

  “You’re kicking some major ass out there.”

  “I’ve done well, but tomorrow’s match will be tougher.”

  “Can’t wait. I love watching you fight like that. The grunts, the screams–”

  “You enjoy that do you? Grunting and screaming.”

  “Ahh–wait–I mean the… you know, the fighting spirit, and–”

  “Oh, shut it. You can’t even clean up properly.”

  “How’s everything else? How are you holding up?”

  She closed her eyes, convinced he would ask about Johnny. “I don’t have a donkey’s care about anything else. I have a tournament in my hands. All the other shit is created solely for the entertainment of daft monkeys. Those cur dogs can entertain themselves with their own filth like the git pigs they are.”

  “That was the cleanest cuss out I’ve ever heard. You Brits are so civilized. I sometimes think you wish you could curse like a drunken sailor with the exception that you probably don’t get drunk, nor much of a sailor given your seasickness issue.”

  “You’ll need to visit my hometown someday and hear how my mates curse. Your cute little ears would turn red.”

  “You think my ears are cute?”

  “In a not-large-like-an-elephant’s sort of way. Sure.”

  “I see. English is obviously not my strongest language. That sounded like a veiled insult. It must be a Brit thing.”

  “Must be.” Silence. “Andre, thank you for being there. It means a lot. Your silly jokes, even those that aren’t funny, help.”

  “There it is again. It’s almost a compliment. Amazing how when a Brit puts you down it sounds so pretty and benign.”

  “It’s the civilized English versus what you call American.”

  They both laughed, and when the laughter ended a comfortable silence hovered. Gemma laid on her bed, her stuffed dog in hand, the phone gently r
esting on her ear.

  “You sounded a bit tired when you answered the phone, Andre. Are you well?”

  “Headache. I have too many things on my mind, and my brain is fighting back.”

  Too many things on his mind? Like maybe Johnny?

  “I’ll be fine.”

  She didn’t hear a lot of resolve in his tone. “You need a vacation.”

  He laughed dramatically. “Yeah, one of these days. Don’t worry about me. Keep your focus on the game. Speaking of the game, I’ve noticed an interesting pattern with your style of play.”

  “Oh?”

  “You are an aggressive player. You strike with a killer’s instinct, always going for winning shots. Down the line, or one ace after another.”

  “I’m proud of you Andre. You’ve learned a lot. And they say TV has no redeeming value.”

  “Here’s what’s interesting to me. You go for perfection. Highlight type of footage. Do you have to go for the winning shot?”

  “Is there another option?”

  “Make your opponent make a mistake. Unforced errors seem to be a critical indicator. You are far more powerful and considerably more fit than the opponents you play. You can probably grind them, exhaust them, frustrate them into making mistakes.”

  “Interesting.”

  “Anyway, what the hell do I know, right? Just something I thought I’d share with you. Go. You need to get rest. And remember I’m watching the games live. Smile once in a while, so I know you’re not a machine.”

  “I do too smile.”

  “I mean smile externally, so the rest of us can share your joy.”

  “Okay, fine. And you get off your ‘too many things on my mind’ story. It’s unbecoming for a handsome man to sound so drained.”

  “You think I’m handsome?”

  “Cheers,” she said, and ended the call. “I think you’re very handsome, you silly man,” she spoke to her dead phone. “And thank you for not asking about Johnny.”