Game of Love

by Ara Grigorian

  Breathe. Remember to breathe.

  He stared, with only a passing realization that his mouth might be open. But he was not in control. Like sunlight against precious jewels, her azure eyes seemed to collect light and add an unreal level of luminosity.

  “Be sure to quickly drench the burn with cool water, not cold,” she said, her British accent transforming even the most obscure words into poetry.

  “Don’t rush the process.” She stepped closer. “Allow the cool water to soothe the burn.”

  He inhaled her faint scent of jasmine and took in details: jet black hair pulled tight into a ponytail, eyes, round as a cat’s, smooth, tanned skin. Her face, somehow familiar.

  She was no longer talking. “Are you done evaluating me?”

  Heat flushed his face. What’s the matter with you? You’re gawking like a middleschooler. “Right, sorry,” he mumbled. “Cool water, not cold. Got it.”

  Her once gentle eyes narrowed before a perfectly formed eyebrow lifted. “Do call the hotel medic.” Her voice cold, distant.

  “Thanks.” He offered a small smile.

  She didn’t return it. Great. He was supposed to be mad at her. Not the other way around.

  Bedric approached her. “Gemma, maybe we should leave?” The man had a heavy Eastern-European accent.

  Were these two together? Bedric couldn’t be her father–no resemblance. Her husband? No rings, thankfully. Her boyfriend? Ouch!

  Without turning to Bedric she said, “We’re staying.” She studied Andre for another moment, then spun away, muttering, “Unreal.”

  Andre stood planted, watching. He wanted to leave, but couldn’t. As she strode past, heads turned and gazes shifted in her direction. She was tall, maybe six feet. A few inches shorter than him at any rate. In fact, her body seemed a bit disproportional. She was mostly legs and wide shoulders–like a swimmer. She was probably in her twenties, like him. She wore mid-calf, body-hugging Capri pants, perfectly detailing her long, killer legs. As she slid around the tables, her ponytail danced, each sway exposing the back of her elegant neck.

  He pulled away from the trance and rushed out, surprised at his behavior. When it came to beautiful women, he was typically reserved and indifferent. The beautiful floated through life expecting others to grovel. Andre bowed to no one. Not even to someone who looked like her.

  But those eyes…

  He took a deep breath and exhaled the bad karma.

  As he reached the elevator, the door opened. His boss stepped out, then recoiled.

  “What happened to you?” Roger asked.

  “Not now. I’ll see you in the lobby.”

  Inside the elevator, Andre rested against the wall and pulled his wet clothes away from his tender skin. He raked his hands through his hair and focused on the not-too-distant future. Soon he wouldn’t have to put up with this crap. Airplane to hotel to client to airplane. All he had to do was stick to his plan. In six months he’d be done with all of this.

  So much for being discreet. Gemma could feel the probing eyes of the other patrons as she sipped her tea. Eating breakfast at the restaurant had turned out to be a mistake, but she was tired of being caged in a suite. On the other hand, she was tired of faces that stared and analyzed, always studying her body language, her eyes, her expression, her anything for any indication of stress, hoping to be witness to her next public meltdown.

  Stay calm. No emotion, show nothing.

  She never knew who might be filming her, snapping pictures, or listening in on conversations. Every move she made was news. From the type of socks she wore to the number of times she applied lip-gloss on an average day. No one cared about the real Gemma. They only cared about the image that had been carefully crafted over the last five years.

  “What is going on?” Bedric asked.

  “Let’s see, you scorched an American, ruined his five thousand dollar suit, and nearly had a Frenchwoman sacked. Other than that, nothing.” She displayed her well-rehearsed, confident smile.

  “You know what I mean.”

  “I have a match in a few hours. I’d prefer you remain focused.”

  “I was about to say the same to you.” A smile nearly crossed his lips.

  Well played, she thought.

  “I don’t have to remind you, do I?” he said.

  She just stared at him.

  “I have seen that look in your eyes before. With Flauto. We agreed this was a new chapter.”

  “This is a new chapter. And what you saw in my eyes was anger.”

  “Hmm,” he murmured, then sipped his coffee and turned his attention to his mobile.

  Gemma forked a piece of melon and savored the sweet nectar as she took in the panoramic view of Paris from the restaurant windows. Focusing on today’s match was key, but one thought kept interrupting–the American. Bedric was right.

  For a moment, she’d thought maybe he was different–a modern-day knight. His display of empathy for the waitress was nearly chivalrous. But she had been wrong.

  Gemma was certain that when he’d recognized her, he started to plot–just like Georg years earlier and, of course, Johnny. Her idyllic image of the American instantly crumbled when he practically undressed her with his eyes. She’d known too many like him. Polished blokes who dressed and spoke well, but in the end all wanted the same thing: to bed her, then sell a story, a picture, or any remembrance that would widen their wallets or stroke their ego.

  When it came to Gemma Lennon, everyone was out to make a profit–she had no savior. Would she ever?

  “It is a question of trust,” Bedric said.

  She gazed at him. His eyes still trained on his phone. “What was that?” she asked.

  “People like you must learn to trust very few,” he said. “Most are untrustworthy. They have agendas.”

  Money, she thought. Would he sue her? She could see the headlines now: Tennis Star Burnt Me. Of course, he could have embarrassed her in front of the whole room by pointing out it was her bag that tripped the waitress. But he hadn’t. Also, he did get burnt.

  She shut her eyes, momentarily allowing the choking weight of her life to win. It would be so much easier to walk away and try to live a normal, simple life. And she had almost quit after the Australian Open debacle… Almost.

  But she’d come back to convert her critics into believers. And somehow, she’d find it within herself to believe also.

  “Hollywood is a place where they’ll pay you a thousand dollars for a kiss and fifty cents for your soul.”

  ~Marilyn Monroe

  he war of tennis was won and lost on the court, but the mental game began long before the first serve was launched. The way she had been embarrassed at the Australian Open semifinal after the accident was evidence of that.

  From the hotel lobby, Gemma observed members of the so-called press hovering outside. Like vultures, the paparazzi seemed one step ahead, always knowing where to go. It had taken them less than one hour to find her.

  She didn’t think she’d stay at the Pullman next year. It was nice, but it was no Hotel Sofitel. The ocean of marble tiles were pretty, the leather sofas were artsy, and the lobby’s brass stairwell was striking. But she was not impressed with the hotel’s inability to control the chaos that followed her. The hotel porters were already losing the battle at the doors.

  “We’re ready,” her security lead said.

  She slid on her sunglasses, slipped on the noise-canceling headphones, and rose. She pressed play and turned the volume up–as high as possible–hoping maybe System of a Down would drown out the voices.

  Her security, one man on the right and another on the left, held her by the arms. Bedric took the lead. They marched toward the lobby doors. On the other side of the glass, the hordes ignited into motion and surged forward, while the hotel staff tried unsuccessfully to push back. Gemma’s gaze lowered to her feet and stayed there.

  When the doors opened, the noise hit fever-pitch. She shut her eyes and held her breath. Through the mu
sic, she could still hear them call her name. Gemma. Gemma. Gemma. Security rammed their way through, their bodies pressing hers, her feet barely touching the ground.

  Three. Two. One. Zero.

  She was in the car.

  The door slammed behind her and the locks engaged. She slowly opened her eyes and breathed again. The paparazzi smelled, a putrid stink of the unbathed who had given up hygiene for the opportunity to get the one picture that would earn them a payday or a month’s rent.

  She slid the headphones to the back of her neck, then turned to Bedric, who was perusing the scouting reports on her next opponent.

  “Doesn’t all this bother you?” she asked.

  “They’re here for you, not me,” he said, eyes trained on the papers.

  “Did it bother you when you played?”

  “No one cared about me when I played.”

  “Am I bothering you?”

  “You have been bothering me for nearly six years now. But I am a patient man.”

  “And a lovely man as well.”

  He snorted.

  Gemma grinned. Bedric was dry as a cork, but lovely nonetheless. She couldn’t have asked for a better coach and match strategist.

  Through the madness of the crowd, she caught a glimpse of a little girl–maybe eight or nine–trying to see through the forest of people, saying something, tears in her eyes. She read the girl’s lips. “Gemma.”

  Gemma scrambled toward the driver’s privacy window just as the car pulled away. “Don’t leave,” she told the driver. The car came to an abrupt stop. “Do you see that young girl in the crowd?” she asked the security guard in the passenger seat while she dug into her bag. “She’s wearing a red top.”

  “Yes, but Miss Lennon, we really should leave.”

  “As soon as you give her these.” She handed him match tickets, then grabbed a tennis ball from her bag and wrote a note. “And this. Please.”

  The security guard leapt out of the car, and Gemma returned to her seat, watching intently. The guard made his way to the girl and handed her the ball and tickets. The girl’s eyes widened. A warm smile spread on her lips just as she spun toward Gemma’s car, waving vigorously.

  This is the prize. Moments like these kept her sane.

  “What did you write on the ball?” Bedric asked.

  “You are the magic.”

  Because life was so vicious, and often unfair, Gemma wanted girls to believe in themselves—if they did that, no matter the obstacles, they could make it.

  After all, hadn’t she? She could have lost everything at sixteen when she had fallen for the wrong guy. And again, just a few months ago, when the person she thought she could love had nearly killed her a day before her seminal match in Australia.

  Yet after all that, she was still standing, fighting because a Grand Slam had been her dream–and her late father’s. The reason why she had worked day and night and sacrificed so much since she was five. When her father was on life support, did he hear her when she promised she would win one? Did he believe her? She trained around the clock after he passed, driven to win in Australia. She should have listened to her instinct to distance herself from Johnny during those critical days. Instead, she had caved to her weak heart.

  The guard jumped back in and the car lurched forward. Like an organic outgrowth, the paparazzi followed. Some ran, some jumped on bikes and mopeds, others jogged alongside. A scene she recalled all too well.

  Minutes from the venue, she leaned her head back and started meditating. One point at a time. I can defeat anyone if I take it one point at a time. With that chant in her head, she drifted.

  “Wake up, we are here,” Bedric said, nudging Gemma.

  She came to just as the door opened.

  “Bonjour,” Wesley said in an inexcusable accent. Her manager, an American transplanted to London, seemed to have acquired a new tan. His exaggerated smile pushed his long nose out further.

  “An in-person visit by His Greatness?”

  “Shush, you,” he said, and kissed her cheek. “How are you feeling?”

  “Ready.”

  “Everyone’s talking about how well you’ve been playing. They all want to talk to you, to understand what’s different this time around.” His smile was rehearsed, yet reassuring. “No one’s even mentioning Australia.”

  Fine Caribbean sand on an open wound would have been significantly more pleasant.

  “Gemma,” Bedric said, his ears and the tip of his nose crimson, “focus on this match. And only this match.”

  “Right, of course.” Wesley glanced at his watch. “Good, we have plenty of time. Come with me.” He took her by her arm and hustled her through the gathering faces and cameras.

  “Wesley, I already told you no interviews. Not today.”

  “This is not an interview. There’s someone who wants to meet you.”

  “Wesley, really. Can’t this wait?”

  “Believe me, you want to meet him.”

  Gemma’s movement was pure machinery, driven by forced momentum.

  “Why aren’t you carrying the Ferragamo purse?” he whispered.

  “Bloody hell, Wesley, we don’t use purses on the court.”

  “The sponsors want your fans to see you using their products. I’ll have Tish remind you.”

  “Yes, you do that.”

  A heavy-set man brightened as they approached.

  “Gemma, I’d like you to meet Mr. John Seevers. He’s the–”

  But she no longer listened. Another sponsor or similar. A Vice President of this, that, or the other. Another person who wanted something. She knew the name of this game. She smiled, shook hands, exchanged pleasantries, and signed a couple of tennis balls for him. Another day, another minute of my life stolen.

  The locker room facilities at Roland Garros were reminiscent of an exclusive spa. Considerably different from the days when she’d changed in a car or public restroom. The lighting was warm, the wood-inlaid locker doors built by craftsmen, and the aroma of oils and designer shampoos accented the air. Now, in the latter rounds of the tournament, the locker room was mostly empty, desolate, providing Gemma with the quiet she needed.

  She turned her attention to the senior trainer, meticulously preparing Gemma’s feet–or what was left of them. She padded the callouses, wrapped her jammed toe, then applied tape until her feet felt as indestructible as rhino skin. No blinged-out, pink nails here. What would Glamour or Cosmo think?

  As soon as the trainer finished, she cleaned up her supplies and walked away without a word. Gemma appreciated professionals who understood when to stay and when to leave.

  Gemma slipped on her lucky socks, then opened her bag. She removed all five racquets and squeezed their handles. We’re in this together, she told each one. She carefully returned them to the bag then drank the first of three water bottles fortified with electrolytes. She ate one banana and kept the second one for later during the match.

  She noticed Paulina, her opponent, stretching and talking to her reflection in the mirror. The loneliest sport in the world. No one to pass to, no one to speak to during the match. Athletes learned very quickly that they started alone and by the end, even if they won, they stood alone.

  A few minutes later, the French Open match official entered. “We are ready,” he said.

  Gemma rose, hoisting her bags over her shoulder and exchanged a greeting with Paulina. They were friendly off-court, but war would soon be waged on the court, and the psychological match had begun. No awards were given for congeniality in tennis. From this point, it was win or go home.

  Gemma knew everything about Paulina. She had studied hundreds of hours of footage. She knew what to expect from her serves, her returns, and her volleys. Gemma would exploit Paulina’s single-handed backhand and sub-par second serve. No longer would she leave anything to chance or luck–or talent. Today she would be in control of her destiny.

  They followed the official through the long corridor toward center court. The fac
es of past champions adorned the walls on either side. Would she be on these walls one day?

  Gemma slowed, giving Paulina the lead by a few paces.

  When Paulina’s name was announced, she walked onto the court to a cheering crowd. Then Gemma’s name was announced, and the cheers transformed into thunderous roars. Paulina flinched. Gemma could practically read the woman’s mind. In that moment, both the home field and mental advantage transferred to Gemma. The first, albeit unrecorded, point of the day was hers.

  Gemma stepped out, and the noise doubled, then tripled. The loose red clay on the field rattled. She had her share of critics, but she also inspired legions of fans. Fans who had remained loyal through all her failures. Fans who were her last remaining source of fuel.

  She turned slightly to take in the complete view of center court, absorbing the waves of support. All successful athletes were coached to shut out the crowd. But she couldn’t–wouldn’t. What she couldn’t get from her failed relationships she would get from the game. She searched their faces and smiles, longing for their energy. Unlike anywhere else, inside the stadium she felt loved.

  Gemma’s jaw muscles tightened, her throat went dry, her ears rang, and her eyes stung. Streaming through her veins was what she thought of as combustible adrenaline.

  Game time.

  “Time,” the umpire called. Gemma had won the coin toss earlier and elected to serve, always preferring to draw first blood.

  “Gemma, marry me!” a fan from the upper decks yelled.

  “I’m quite busy right now,” she yelled back.

  The crowd exploded in laughter. Within moments, a persistent chatter draped center court. Not enough for the umpire to call for silence, but enough to be palpable. She scanned the anxious crowd. The French enjoyed long, competitive matches. Gemma preferred quick, decisive ones. Particularly on warm days like this.

  She took a deep breath.

  Done.

  All sounds vanished. From now until the end of the point, she would hear nothing but her heartbeat and the sound of ball on string or clay.