She asked for and received three balls. With all three in her hand, she studied them as she rotated the spheres in her palm, trying to identify one that didn’t belong. She dropped one, tucked another under her skirt, and squeezed the third.
At the baseline, she bounced the ball five times then glanced at Paulina. She stood exactly where Gemma expected her to stand: deep corner. A predictable move.
Focus. Toss. Hammer.
Gemma zeroed in on her feet, the grip, and the ball, nestled in the open throat of the racquet. Muscle memory took over, a movement refined in the course of thousands of hours of repetition. Her body executed the dance: where her knees bent, her arms rose, and the ball flew high above, exactly where she needed it. Her eyes bore in on the spinning ball as she leapt and the hammer slid behind her back, like an axe ready for the kill. And in one instant, the ball stopped–the world on pause–inviting Gemma to make contact.
She grunted, the hammer erupted, and the ball exploded down the line.
Ace.
The crowd roared.
Paulina had guessed poorly.
No, Gemma would not lose this match.
“Be the change you wish to see in the world.”
~Mahatma Gandhi
ndre stepped off the elevator into the lobby. A large crowd had gathered outside the Pullman. He approached Roger. “What’s going on out there?”
“Someone famous, I think. And the paparazzi found out.”
A heavily-tinted car sped away, and the mob followed like a redirected swarm in pursuit of its prey.
“Did you get burned?” Roger asked. “The maître d’ gave me the morbid details.”
The hotel medic had been helpful–right after Andre had signed the release form. Also, he had taken Gemma’s advice, Cool, not cold. He remembered Gemma’s divine eyes in vivid detail. Sometimes photographic memory had its distinct upside.
Had she apologized? He reran the conversation in his mind. No, she hadn’t. Sometimes photographic memory was annoying. Granted, he did behave like a perv, but considering the circumstances, she should’ve given him a pass.
“I have some blistering and tenderness, but–”
“Blistering?” Roger asked. “You should see a doctor. Maybe afterwards.”
“Sure. Doctor. Next on my list.”
Roger’s attempted display of sympathy brought a smile to Andre’s lips. This was no regular engagement. Otherwise Roger Trutt, founding partner of Meyers & Trutt, would not have come. The client’s board had approved a large sum of money for this project. No Andre, no money; simple equation.
Andre was the reason Meyers & Trutt secured multi-million dollar deals. Although his credentials were indisputable, he realized he was an enigma. His youth alarmed most, and the natural question was whether a twenty-four-year-old could be trusted with business deals of this magnitude. Which was where Roger came in. He was the one with gray in his hair.
Also, since all of Andre’s clients had tried to recruit him, Roger likely wanted to keep tabs on M&T’s most valued asset. But with six months remaining in his contract, Andre wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize the bonus payoff–his golden parachute. After seven years of hard labor, he was owed that windfall.
“There’s Franck.” Roger lifted his chin and produced his winning smile. “Our client awaits.”
They stepped into Cinematique’s spacious, modern conference room. The swarming began, and attendees converged around Andre. Hands were thrust, names with impossible accents were thrown, and positions were declared in quick succession. A different scene than the reception he used to get as an eighteen-year-old consultant with M&T. He had been asked to work behind the scenes, never had a seat at the table, and when he spoke, the others stared at him like he was a sideshow freak. Now, everyone wanted a piece of him because they knew who he was and what he could do. But could he gain their trust? He needed to show them he was here to help.
“Dr. Reyes,” Franck said once everyone sat, “we are ready when you are.”
“Thank you,” Andre said, standing and positioning himself behind his chair, looking out at his audience. He often thought of himself as a performer or a chess-master, all his actions calculated and deliberate. “Franck, I’m confused by the attendees. I had been specific. Only those who have an intrinsic understanding of the systems should be here. Instead, I also see executives.”
Badeaux, the chief operating officer spoke up. “Because I want to understand why this team continues to struggle with streaming 3D content,” he said in a condescending drawl. “We are the largest broadcaster in Europe, yet our smaller competitors have solved their issues. They,” he pointed to the engineering team, “are still lost. You will help me understand what has gone wrong.”
“I’m here to solve the problem. Not talk about it. What led us here is of no concern to me. It’s irrelevant.”
“It is not irrelevant to me,” Badeaux said, his voice sharp. “I want answers.”
Roger shifted in his seat, ready to speak, but Andre stopped him. He would not let this corporate bully have his way. He peered into Badeaux’s eyes.
“How’s this for an answer: twenty-seven questionable acquisitions in less than eighteen months. None integrated into the company, because of political decisions. 321 technical experts laid off in that same period of time to justify the cost of acquisitions.”
Badeaux’s mouth went slack. The room was silent, but the technical team’s eyes were glowing in shock, in awe.
Check.
He had read all the press releases in advance–Badeaux’s ego plastered across all those acquisitions. As expected, now he was trying to find the scapegoat. “This company’s core is a mishmash of technologies–a perfect mess. If you’re still interested in solving the problem, instead of blaming people, I’d recommend you let me run this meeting my way.”
“But our interest is paramount,” Badeaux said, most of his bravado gone. “Our expectations must be addressed.”
“Agreed.” Andre held up a black marker. “Can you four articulate your expectations on the board behind me? We commit to address them. In your absence.”
Badeaux’s face went blank. After a nine-second stare down, the executive team rose, wrote nothing of significance on the board, then stormed out. Andre studied the team that remained. The dynamic in the room had shifted. They were all grinning and loose.
Checkmate.
The team didn’t waste time. System-by-system, hundreds of functional schematics were analyzed, and after some time, the logical flow of the video stream emerged. The spaghetti of connections evolved from a mess into a structured mesh. Five hours later, the overall ecosystem was represented visually, from start to finish.
“I think we got them all, Dr. Reyes,” Franck said.
Andre rose, studying the system architecture in quiet contemplation. He blinked rapidly as he freed his mind’s eye to run through countless scenarios, similar to what Einstein called ‘thought experiments.’ He searched for potential bottlenecks by processing one test case after another, visualizing a beam of light running through the web of connections. Once one path gave him a result, he tried another, then another–an iterative process until he had tested all permutations.
By the time he was done, more than three dozen bottlenecks had been marked for the engineers to investigate.
“Let’s stop here for today,” Andre told the team at just past eight p.m. “We’ll pick this up in the morning.”
Everyone approached Andre and shook his hand before leaving. He took note of the awed look on their faces and acknowledged their gratitude, but was also grateful to them. They had trusted him. With trust, anything was possible.
Franck approached Andre. “Amazing. This has been amazing.”
“Don’t celebrate yet,” Andre said.
“You don’t understand.” Franck ran his hand through his hair, his smile wide. “We have tried for over a year to solve this problem. We were treating the symptom, not addressing the core issues.�
��
“I know.” Andre grinned.
“Touché. I will get the car.”
Roger, barely awake, stood and grabbed his coat. “I’m getting too old for this,” he said.
“I know what you mean,” Andre said.
“Hmph.”
Andre attempted to sustain the smile, but he was spent. His mind felt tired, abused. And his chest, shoulder, and lap had been screaming with pain from the burns since noon.
“You got this one, right? Any doubts?” Roger asked. “Our deal is contingent on a guaranteed solution.”
Andre studied Roger. “On moral grounds, I refuse to answer.”
“Great. I’ll tell the office to process the invoice.”
“Shameless. You are shameless.”
“By the way,” Roger said, lowering his voice, “I’ve asked Franck to join us for drinks at the hotel bar. We will discuss future opportunities. They could become a major account for you.”
“I don’t know, Roger. I need to take care of the burn. Not sure–”
“Do it quickly. Change. Whatever. But you need to be there.”
Andre remained silent. The high he felt when he helped clients solve the seemingly impossible was indescribable, but he needed to help himself now. He was burning out quickly. His years-long chase after financial independence had left him damaged.
“Clear?” Roger asked.
“Of course.” He could do this. He had to—for now.
Gemma took a deep breath then phoned Tish’s room. “Are you busy?”
“Watching some horrid French game show. So yes, mind-numbingly busy,” Tish said.
“Good. Let’s get a drink at the bar.”
“Bar, as in, where real people congregate? That type of bar?”
“That’s right. For maybe an hour.”
“And your security?”
“They’re manning the front lobby. You’ll have to double as my bodyguard.”
“Fantastic. I’m coming out now before you change your mind.” Tish hung up.
Gemma needed to escape her room and breathe. No security, no Bedric, no Wesley. Breakfast had been a disaster, but she had a better feeling about this decision. Mid-week evening at the hotel’s quaint bar with her best friend was definitely a good idea.
“It is strange to be known so universally and yet be so lonely.”
~Albert Einstein
on’t draw attention to yourself,” Gemma told Tish.
“Me? I’m a fuckin’ saint.”
“Dear Lord.”
The lift chimed, and when the door opened, she saw him. The American. He was leaning against the lift’s back wall, studying his mobile. He wore a crew neck sweater, tight around his sculpted shoulders and chest, sleeves rolled up to expose muscular forearms. He had not seen her yet. She hesitated, considering her next move while Tish inched forward.
The American glanced up. A momentary pause, before his eyes lit up with recognition. But he said nothing, just smiled. When the door began to close, he leaned forward and stopped it, letting it slide back open. “Going down?” he asked, tone even.
“Yes,” Tish said, and sauntered in. “That’s one impatient door. Thank you.”
“Any time.”
Gemma stepped in then spun toward the closing door. The lift dropped, while her heartbeat accelerated. She zeroed in on the panel, watching the floor numbers flicker past one by one. Was he staring at her? She studied her reflection on the semi-shiny surface of the door, happy with her choice of clothes. She shifted her gaze to see if he was checking her out. His head was down, focused on his mobile, not her.
The lift chimed. Lobby.
The door had barely opened when Gemma slid out and marched toward the bar.
Tish hurried to catch up. “What’s the rush?” she asked.
Gemma was not ready to speak quite yet. Instead, she listened to the footsteps behind her. The light tapping of leather soles against marble tiles. She glanced over her shoulder. He was following.
Tucked in a far booth at the bar, Gemma read through Twitter, Facebook, and e-mail messages, pretending to catch up on things, but her thoughts were disjointed.
She now knew who she’d play in the semifinals. A rematch against Sonia Wilkins, no less. Her American albatross. The experts were already wondering if Sonia would dismantle Gemma again, just like she had in Australia months earlier. It had to be against Sonia if she wanted closure.
That had been her last tournament–the one that nearly ruined her career. But she was back thanks to Xavi–her Malibu home house-sitter, her personal guru–the man who had become her confidant. With his help, she had returned, determined to win a major by crushing all distractions in her path there.
At least that had been the plan. Right now, she had a distraction at hand. The American. Even Tish had noticed Gemma’s wandering eyes. Thankfully, he hadn’t been following her, but joined two older men. She glanced in his direction, unable to deny an interest, a curiosity.
What was this American’s story? Was he the typical scoundrel she met in places like these? Possibly. After the way he had ogled her during breakfast, there could be little doubt he’d seen something he liked.
She glanced again. His humility and youth confused her. The way he dressed and the way he carried himself shouted power–the type of man she’d fancied in the past, but had sworn off after Johnny. But the way he had taken a stand for the waitress was unexpected, beautiful in a way. To this day, no one had ever taken a stand for her.
“You keep staring at him. You want me to call him over?” Tish asked, never lifting her face from her mobile.
“What? You’re mad,” Gemma said, feeling a flush creep up her ears.
Tish lifted her eyes. “He’s no Johnny Flauto, but handsome in his own ‘Merican way.”
“Shut it, will you?” Gemma said. She could do without hearing Johnny’s name everywhere she turned. “If you weren’t my best friend–”
“And only friend.”
Gemma glared. “Fine, if you weren’t my best and only friend, I’d sack you for insubordination.”
“Promises, promises.” Tish’s green-gold eyes sparkled as she turned her attention to the American while she fiddled with the beads on her long braids. “Do you sometimes wonder if a relationship with a normal person would be different?”
“Normal? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You know, as opposed to celebrities and such.”
Gemma shrugged. She didn’t know, nor did she care. All relationships were trouble. Even innocent dates turned into a mess, leaving her ravaged. Her broken heart seemed to be a perverse form of entertainment.
An only child, gifted with the skills to compete in the loneliest sport… Maybe she was designed this way for a purpose. What she knew for sure was that in all her attempts to break her solitude, she had made one poor decision after another, falling for those who would eventually hurt her. Her latest with Johnny had been her poorest choice to date. She had to learn to choose better.
Gemma turned her gaze toward the American’s table against her better judgment.
“So,” Tish said, “what’s the story with your friend?”
“Not my friend,” Gemma said.
“If you say so.”
Gemma sighed. “Remember how I asked you to contact the restaurant’s manager and ensure the waitress wasn’t reprimanded? Well, he’s the bloke who was scorched this morning when the waitress tripped.”
“Oh, no shit.” A beat. “Wait. I’m missing something. Then why did you give him the cold shoulder in the lift? I thought we wanted to avoid a potential lawsuit. That was a perfect opportunity.”
“It wasn’t that perfect.”
“Do you have marbles in your head? You could have made peace with him right then and there. Flash your smile, put on the charm, and we’re in the clear.” Tish shook her head. “A perfect opportunity blown. In Ethiopia we have a saying: Give advice; if they don’t listen, let adversity teach them.”
&nb
sp; Gemma studied Tish, processing her words. A few moments passed as thoughts clashed. Months back, when she was ready to quit tennis, Xavi had reminded her that life was about choices and action.
Choices and action.
“I don’t like that man. I must get to know him better.”
~Abraham Lincoln
emma waved down the waiter.
“Oui, Mademoiselle Lennon?”
“Can you please ask the young man at that table to join us?”
Both the waiter and Tish followed her finger. Then they turned back. Tish’s eyes widened.
“Do you mean Monsieur Reyes? The gentleman in the gray sweater?”
“Yes, him,” she said. At least now she had a last name.
“Right away, Mademoiselle.”
“Interesting move. Do you have a game plan, or are you improvising?” Tish asked.
A game plan? Of course not. But it had to be done. Closure was best. “We’ll find out soon enough, I guess. Give me the play-by-play.” She dropped her eyes to her mobile, feigning disinterest.
“Right. The waiter’s saying something. They’re looking in our direction now, but he’s not moving. I’m smiling–hello.”
A few seconds passed.
“Well? Now what?” Gemma sounded more anxious than she intended.
“We’re good,” Tish said, whispering now. “He’s up with drink in hand, following the waiter. He’s here in three, two–”
“Hi again,” he said.
Gemma looked up. “Hello, Mr. Reyes, will you join us?” Gemma’s voice did not waver, but inside she was a wreck. Settle down. Others were supposed to be nervous, not her.
“Sure, thanks,” he said, then turned to Tish. “I’m Andre.”
Tish introduced herself with a slight grin as he sat across from Gemma.
Game of Love Page 3
