Game of Love

by Ara Grigorian

  Game day. For once, with Andre’s voice still warm in her ears, she was not nervous.

  “Miss Lennon, it’s time,” the tournament coordinator said.

  She drained her water bottle, then tossed it into the waste bin. The crew in the locker room jumped into activity around her. She moved through them and observed how they moved, fidgeted, got something, got nothing. Time seemed to slow. Her stride was both long and purposeful.

  When she stepped onto the court, the roar lifted her hair. When the cheers finally subsided, she noticed a television camera directly on her. She peered into the lens and delivered her best smile and winked. The crowd erupted, but she had only one thought on her mind as she took her side. Were that smile and wink good enough for Andre?

  Today she felt rested, mind, body, and heart. But before the match started, she saw a familiar face sitting next to Wesley and Tish: Johnny Flauto.

  Fueled by anger, Gemma fought mercilessly in the first set. She hit harder than she had to, she yelled with more aggression than was typical for her, and she went after every ball like it was her last.

  She won the first set 6-1.

  With a 4-1 lead in the second set, the tournament championship was in hand.

  Petra delivered a precise and flat cross-court return on Gemma’s first serve.

  Leave it, Gemma thought for an instant, but a burning drive told her to leave nothing out there. Gemma sprinted and stretched to slap the ball quickly off the rise. When her right foot hit the grass, something popped in her leg. Her knee buckled, and she collapsed to the grass. With both hands, she squeezed her right leg, writhing on the floor, vacillating between pain and fear.

  A jolt of sharp pain shot through her inner thigh, up her spine to her neck and then back to her ankle. Like an electric shock, the shooting pain ping-ponged through her body. She whimpered, trying her best to subdue the agony.

  A tendon? No! No! Don’t let it end like this.

  Sweat broke out across her body, and warm numbness danced in her toes. Tears and perspiration were one and the same.

  The stadium’s collective voice silenced. She shut her eyes and heard the commotion around her, but her entire focus was on not letting the pain and fear defeat her. Not like this. In that instant, voices converted to waves. One wave after another, breaking against the coast, against the jagged rocks. Then she pictured his smile.

  She opened her eyes. The match medic spoke to her. With his help, she hobbled over to her seat. The medic taped her thigh as tight as possible without constricting blood flow.

  “You need to have this examined. It is probably best to withdraw–”

  “Thank you. I’m fine.”

  After a brief hesitation, he nodded then walked away.

  She squeezed the towel into her face. Was this it? The injury that would forever remove her chances of winning a Grand Slam?

  She rose and limped to her baseline. The crowd applauded and cheered. Gemma! Gemma! Gemma!

  She had to somehow make it through the match. She recalled something Andre had told her. The Graceful Dance of the Matador. The utmost amount of presence with the least amount of effort. Control, focus, and ball placement. She had to treat each shot like it was the last shot she’d take.

  She had to hold her serve twice to win the match. The utmost amount of focus on the perfect serve and the least amount of effort on the court. She had to plan ahead. Like chess, she had to consider all the options and possibilities, taking advantage of her ability to play with both left and right hands. One of her gifts she seldom exploited.

  Gemma! Gemma! Gemma!

  Then another thought. Force them to make mistakes. She would ride the wave, step around the bull. She was channeling Andre to get her through the match. His voice was in her head.

  She scanned the fans, all on their feet, cheering for her. She felt… love. She soaked it all in, then studied Petra, awaiting Gemma’s serve.

  Done.

  The chatter in the stadium and in her head disappeared. She received three balls, chose the right one, then stepped up to the baseline.

  Focus. Toss. Hammer.

  She bounced the ball five times–always five–then tossed the ball high above. The next thing she heard was the sound of her racquet cutting through the air.

  Every point was fought with the determination of a gladiator, neither willing to concede anything. Petra, like a shark, tasted the blood and fought harder than ever. Drop shots, slices, side to side, anything to force Gemma to move. But Gemma didn’t bite on those. She let them go. She had the lead. All she had to do was hold the serve twice to win the match.

  Thirty excruciating minutes later, she had squeezed out one more game, but had conceded four games to Petra in the process. Leading the set at 5-4, she was winning the sixth game, 40-30. Set point. Match Point. Championship point. It was her serve.

  She closed her eyes, the cheers reverberating throughout the stadium.

  Done.

  She thought of Andre and breathed deep. Her eyes still closed, she tossed the ball up, popped open her eyes, and bore in on the spinning ball. She yelled louder than she had ever yelled and tore her racquet through the wind. The ball left an explosion of yellow fur in the air before it went straight down the middle, caught the outside line, then curved away from Petra’s outstretched racquet.

  Ace.

  “Game, set, match, and championship,” declared the umpire.

  The crowd erupted.

  Gemma collapsed on the grass in tears, pumping her fists.

  The standing ovation and cheers went on for what seemed like days. The raw emotion drowned out everything else. This was the best she had felt throughout a tournament. A bittersweet victory. She didn’t know the extent of her injury, but the pain was real. Could she pull this off at Wimbledon? She knew one thing for sure; Andre was with her. He had been her inspiration, her lucky charm.

  The camera was on her. She stared straight at the camera lens and sent a message she hoped both Andre and Johnny would understand in no uncertain terms.

  She pointed to the camera, kissed her fingertips, then blew the camera a kiss. She was talking to Andre, not Johnny fucking Flauto.

  “The time your game is most vulnerable is when you’re ahead; never let up.”

  ~Rod Lever

  he traditional champagne celebration followed the award ceremony. Gemma wanted to respect the club’s tradition, but all she thought of was getting home and calling Andre. While here, she would address a few open matters.

  “Tish,” she said, “do you have a minute?”

  “Miss Champion,” Tish said, “what can I do for you?”

  “Defend me from the sharks, don’t feed me to them.”

  Tish’s face went pale. “What are you talking about? I–”

  “I need you with me. Don’t get wrapped up with the celebrity bullshit.”

  “What–?”

  “At the premiere with Johnny, I needed your help, I didn’t get it. Wesley has a million ideas, but they are not consistent with what I want. I need you to stop things before they spin out of control.”

  “Sorry, G.”

  “Also, why didn’t you warn me about Johnny coming to the match?”

  “I didn’t know. I found out when he showed up in our seats.”

  Gemma wanted to believe her.

  “It’s the honest truth, G. I am sorry.”

  “Friends should never have to apologize,” Gemma said then hugged her and prayed Tish was still salvageable. Once one had tasted what was available in the circle of the rich and famous, letting go was difficult. It was harder to remember what grounded you in the first place.

  Minutes later, Bedric approached Gemma. “You need to get off your feet,” he said.

  “I’m nearly done here.”

  “I have contacted the best therapist. We will start tomorrow morning.”

  “Couldn’t we take a day off?”

  “Do you trust me?”

  She studied his eyes. “Yes,
of course.”

  “Then just trust me. There is no time to waste. We have only one week. You need to start tomorrow morning to understand if it is a strain or more serious.”

  “Fine, tomorrow morning.”

  She heard the commotion then saw the source. Johnny and his crew had made a grand entrance. When they made eye contact, he flaunted a big Hollywood-smile and walked toward her, his arms outstretched.

  “Keep your distance from him,” Bedric whispered. “You promised me when you decided to return.”

  She studied him. “Do you trust me?”

  “Most of the time.”

  She winked then strode toward Johnny, producing a faint smile. Just as he prepared to embrace her, she held him back with an outstretched arm. Smile on her lips, she leaned in and whispered in his ear.

  “If you kiss me, touch me, or give another interview where you imply there’s something between us, I’ll drive your balls up into your throat.”

  She stepped back, shook his hand and spun away. She strode up to Bedric and squeezed his arm. He almost smiled.

  One conversation left. She found him at the bar just as he received a glass of champagne.

  “Wesley, can we talk?”

  “You don’t need to ask. I’m at your disposal.”

  “I love you like a brother, but if you ever pull something like this Johnny shit again, that’ll be the end of our relationship. I want to be clear. I am indeed threatening you. Don’t fuck with me.”

  The celebration was over. She was done with the interviews, the pictures, and the handshakes. She was finally home, tucked in bed and slowly drifting, while talking to the one voice that was her sanctuary.

  “What are the doctors saying?” Andre asked.

  “We’ll know more tomorrow, but initial prognosis is a strained hamstring. I need rest and physical therapy.”

  “But when…?” he started, then stopped.

  “Will I be ready for Wimbledon? I think I’ll be ready. With proper rest and therapy it should all work out. I have a full week to dedicate for rest and rehabilitation.”

  “Listen to your body. It never lies.”

  No, she thought, my body does not lie.

  “By the way, I loved the little message you sent after you won. It made my day.”

  “Glad you caught that. The TV shows were thrown for a loop with that one.”

  “How so?”

  “They were confused. After all, if that idiot Flauto is in the stadium, to whom did Gemma send a kiss? Bloody morons.”

  “So you admit you sent me a kiss.”

  “I’m not admitting anything.’”

  “You can’t concede anything, can you?” He chuckled. “I have a theory about you.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “For you, everything looks like competition.”

  She went silent. Her immediate reaction was to refute it, but isn’t that what a competitive person would do? “Hmm,” she said instead.

  “And I get that. All these years you’ve focused on winning. You’ve had to beat both your competition and your own objectives. Things are either going to end in a win or a loss.”

  “True,” she mused.

  “Just know this: when it comes to me, you can’t lose. I’m here for you whenever you need me.”

  The excitement of the championship match in the morning and the conversation with Gemma in the afternoon left Andre drained. He wished he had been there with her.

  An early morning meeting had been scheduled for the next day at M&T. The thought of yet another unplanned trip somewhere in the world drained him of the joy he was feeling. There were no breaks. In three weeks, Project Sunrise would begin. But for M&T, every day was an opportunity to cash in.

  His phone rang. It was the doorman.

  “Courier for you Dr. Reyes,” he said.

  “Courier? On a Sunday? I wasn’t expecting anything. Legitimate?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The courier handed him a manila envelope, then left. Andre opened the envelope and placed the contents on the kitchen counter. He stared at them for a few moments.

  His cell phone chimed—a text message from Gemma. He read it, then studied the papers splayed across his countertop: Virgin Atlantic tickets to Heathrow, hotel confirmation at the Kensington Hilton in London, and an all access pass to Wimbledon.

  He read her message again. “What do you say? One week with me, then two weeks at Wimbledon. You said you’d be there for me if I ever needed you. I need you.”

  Recreational tennis players use the serve simply to initiate the point. For advanced players, the serve is a declaration of power. Aggressive players will often attempt a winning shot with their serve. A winning serve, untouched by the opponent is called an “ace.”

  ~Tennis Basics

  “Do what you feel in your heart to be right.”

  ~Eleanor Roosevelt

  oger Trutt’s office would’ve been the envy of any Fortune 100 CEO. Each time Andre entered, the panoramic 270-degree view of Downtown Los Angeles caught his breath. The floor-to-ceiling glass walls invited natural light, accenting the cherry wood furniture, which glistened like fine china. The office epitomized power. Just over a year ago, Andre had dreamt of the day this would be his office. So much had changed in twelve months.

  “But I don’t understand. Is everything okay?” Roger asked.

  “Yes, everything is fine. I need some personal time before the start of Project Sunrise. I’ll be available for calls, but for the next three weeks I’ll be out of the country.”

  Roger loosened his tie, walked over to his fully equipped bar, and prepared a scotch on the rocks. Interesting choice for breakfast.

  “I’m not comfortable with this. I was about to discuss a new project, send you to a site visit for tomorrow, and you drop this. Frankly, this is unprofessional and poorly timed.”

  Andre uncrossed his legs and straightened, no longer comfortable in the plush leather sofa. “Unprofessional? Just last week you asked me to cancel my vacation because of the Homeland Security project. A project we didn’t need to rush, as it turned out, but we rushed it anyway.”

  “I explained the reasons. We expected another engagement at the end of the week. I thought you understood.”

  “I did. I do. I’ve always understood. To date, I have yet to take a vacation because they all had to be adjusted.”

  Roger sipped his drink as he strolled toward Andre, his eyes shifting, calculating. Then the corner of his lips lifted. Roger sat next to Andre. “Andre,” Roger said as he placed his plump fingers, riddled with age spots, on Andre’s shoulder, “look here, son. You have my word as soon as this next engagement is complete, we will honor your vacation plans. In fact, you can use the company yacht. Maybe take a trip to Mexico? You and your friends? Rest for a few days before Project Sunrise.”

  “I don’t need the company yacht. I don’t see why this is an issue. I have to leave, but I’ll be available for urgent calls. I have never abandoned clients in need, and I’m not starting now. As for this new client, there are other consultants here. Some who I’ve personally trained.”

  “This change will place M&T in a bad predicament with this client,” Roger said as he wiped his brow. “Let’s get the initial discussion taken care of this week. Take next week off and then we can regroup the week after. What do you say, son?” Roger showed his unnaturally white teeth.

  “As reasonable as that sounds, it is impossibly unreasonable. My flight leaves in a few hours.”

  Roger’s face froze. Andre would wait it out. The best negotiation tactic was complete silence.

  “We need this client. And with Sunrise coming, we will not be able to address their needs for three, four, maybe five months. We may even lose the client, but I will call them and explain.” He squeezed Andre’s shoulder.

  “Thank you,” Andre said as he rose, then walked to the door.

  “Andre,” Roger said.

  Andre turned, facing Roger.

&nbs
p; “I hope whatever you’re doing is worth it. I don’t have to remind you that you have an obligation to this company. A contractual obligation.”

  “I’m taking a vacation, not quitting.”

  Roger chuckled. “I’m sure you wouldn’t do that. You have a good thing here, and we do too, admittedly. All I’m saying is, stay focused. Don’t get distracted. Particularly now, weeks before a critical project. It’s in all of our best interest.”

  “God will not look you over for a medal, degrees or diplomas, but for scars.”

  ~Elbert Hubbard

  assengers flying upper class on Virgin Atlantic quickly forgot they were in a tin box flying over the Atlantic, lugging 20,000 gallons of fuel. Everything was designed with comfort and luxury in mind. But Andre was restless and spent the first five hours at the bar. He expected to arrive in London by early evening. He should have taken a nap, but too much was on his mind.

  Roger’s reaction bothered him. He had expected a bit of hesitation, but Roger came out swinging, confirming Andre’s suspicions. M&T would play hardball now that Andre had shown lack of commitment to his career. He’d seen it with other consultants. They were placed on back-to-back flights, assigned to impossible projects, pushed to the limit until the consultant quit or failed, breaching the contract. Was that why Roger had insisted on a trip to D.C. even though Andre had a planned vacation? Had Roger already been suspicious? If so, these tactics were too little too late. Six months was nothing. Of course, they could fire him if they showed cause, in which case Andre would forfeit his bonus. But Andre was too smart to do something stupid.

  A car service greeted Andre at the airport. As he entered the car he scanned around, capturing and etching all the faces around him. He committed crowds to memory, particularly when traveling. Last time he’d been in London, things had gotten a bit dicey. His work on tracking terrorist cells had earned him a tail. With the help of the Metropolitan Police Service, better known as New Scotland Yard, all had ended well, but he was advised to be cautious. That had been six months ago. But the unsettling feeling of being stalked had not left him.