Game of Love (10 page)

“By the way,” Roger leaned to whisper, “something’s come up with Homeland Security. This is in advance of Project Sunrise.”

Andre shuddered. Project Sunrise was the classified initiative led by the Pentagon. A project that would remove him from the grid for at least three months. These were the worst of the worst. In his career, he had been part of a few such efforts, each one leaving him more depleted than the last.

“So we may need to go to D.C. next week,” Roger said.

Andre came to a dead stop. “Wait–what? I’ve taken next week off.”

“We’ll know more on Tuesday. Enjoy Memorial Day. Just don’t do anything to put that prized brain of yours at risk. Depending on what we hear, we may need to get flexible.”

“Roger, I’ve made plans. And what’s with ‘we’? You never go to D.C. and furthermore, even if you did, you’re not allowed to enter the facility; you’re not classified.” Andre spun in the opposite direction.

Other passengers stared at them.

“Where are you going? We’re boarding.”

“I need to get something first. You go ahead.” If he stayed, he was bound to say or do something he’d regret.

The Illy Cafe was a short walk away. He ordered a double espresso, then slumped down on a stool. He studied a couple who appeared to be on vacation. A novel concept. Seven years with the company, and he had yet to get one week to himself. Every vacation had been interrupted by some important engagement. Initially he’d felt compelled to put his life on hold and prove himself. Then it was the greed. His commission payments were astronomic, and the correlation was direct–the more he pushed himself, the more he earned. But a year ago, when one of his closest friends died of cancer at the age of twenty-three, he knew he needed a drastic change in his life.

In a few months, once he received his retention bonus, he’d walk away from all of this.

He sipped the rest of his espresso, then grabbed his bags and headed to the terminal. Something tightened in his neck. Another headache. He eyed the spa store, wondering how quickly they could massage his neck. Then he caught a whiff of a jasmine-scented perfume.

Gemma.

He realized a silly grin had reshaped his face. Probably looked goofy, but he didn’t care. He conjured the memory of her eyes, her lips, her voice. Immediately, raw energy added a bounce to his steps. He would find a way to get in touch with her again, to know the inner Gemma he saw behind those eyes. He had many contacts, particularly in England.

At the priority gate, he handed his boarding pass and passport. He was one of the last to board.

“
Bonjour
,” the attendant said.

The machine yelped and the screen flashed
erreur
.

“Is everything okay?” he asked.

“One moment please,” she said, typing feverishly on the computer. “Ah, you have a new boarding pass. Seat change.”

“That’s odd. I reserved the seat I wanted yesterday.”

“I don’t know, sir,” she said as she handed him the new boarding pass.

The new pass said
First Class
, which didn’t make sense. M&T’s contract called for the client to pay for business class. Maybe Air France had upgraded him? Or had Roger upgraded their tickets to make up for the canceled vacation plans? If so, it was pitiful and transparent.

Andre stepped onto the plane and turned left, passing through business class. But Roger was still there. Odd.

“Where are you going?” Roger asked.

“I’ve been upgraded.”

Roger’s mouth slackened. Upon reflection, Andre was glad Roger wouldn’t be next to him for the next eleven hours.

His boarding pass identified his seat as 2B. When he turned, he noticed the passenger occupying seat 2A and froze in place.

Gemma turned toward him. “Hope you don’t mind the upgrade.”

Words didn’t register on his lips fast enough. “Wait, you upgraded me?” he asked.

“Guilty.” She produced a shy smile. “If you’re going to fly to Los Angeles, you might as well have a proper seat.”

He transferred his bag from one hand to the other. “Are you sure you’re ready to spend the next eleven hours with a stranger who may sell you out to
People
magazine?”

Her angelic eyes brightened. “I’m willing to take a chance on you.”

The presumption is that the person serving has an advantage over the receiver. Therefore it is only possible to win the match by breaking, or defeating, the opponent’s serve. The service must be broken at least once, if the opponent has any hopes of forcing the match into a tiebreak.
~Tennis Basics

“All the events of your life are there because you have drawn them there. What you choose to do with them is up to you.”
~Richard Bach

emma studied Andre as he put away his bag in the overhead compartment then tugged his jacket over his head. His shirt slid up, exposing his abs. Her eyes froze on his chiseled body. That alone was worth the price of admission.

“It’s warm in here,” he said as he adjusted his shirt. The scent of his cologne drifted.

“Yes. Yes it is.”

He sank into his seat. “I’m starting to enjoy this stalker thing. Thank you, Gemma.”

“My pleasure, but there is no free lunch, I’m afraid. I fully expect free advice from the master problem solver.”

His mobile rang just as he was about to respond. He studied the display. “Sorry. I have to get this.”

She waved him on.

“
Hola Gustavo, cómo estás?
” He spoke in Spanish for a couple of minutes with a perfect Castilian accent. She understood Spanish fairly well and eavesdropped shamelessly. Andre was apparently approving some construction work in his home.

“How do you know Spanish?” she asked once he hung up.

“My father’s family is from Spain.”

A Spaniard, like me. Another coincidence
, she mused.

“So, back to where we left off at the lounge. Do you like what you do?”

“Mmm…” She hesitated.

“That’s not a trick question,” he added.

“No, but difficult to answer. My first memory is tennis. In fact, I can’t say I have any independent recollections of events in my life that exclude the game. My life is completely intertwined with the matches, the tournaments, the training, the sport, the travel, the competition. It’s like asking a bird if she likes to fly. Is there anything else? Do I like it? It’s the only thing I know.” She glanced at him, reading empathy in his eyes.

“Does this bird fly because she can, or because she loves to?”

“Both,” she said with no hesitation.

“I’m no expert, but I can see your talent spills through your pores. Your fans clearly see that.”

“Sometimes I wonder. Is it really my talent my fans appreciate?”

“Gemma the athlete or Gemma the celebrity?”

“Precisely.”

“That bothers you?”

“I couldn’t care less about being a glassy-eyed celebrity. It’s what I do on the court that should matter. Absolutely nothing else.”
Calm down.
This was not the time or place to lose her wits.

“I don’t see how you can separate the game you play from the business of tennis. The sport needs celebrities to sell expensive advertisements. They are inseparable. Success in one means success in the other.”

“Unfortunately, I understand that,” she said. Her short fuse flirted with her clenching fists, while at the same instant, the airplane accelerated and lifted off the tarmac.

“Then you must also see your stock value is directly proportional to the amount of time you’re in the spotlight, for good or ill.”

“What if I don’t want that? What if I just want to focus on the game and nothing else?”

“If that’s what you want, then your career choices would be consistent with that. Yet here we are.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“It’s always simple, it’s just hard to do. I’m curious now. How did you get to where you are? You must have gotten your fame because of the way you play.”

“Yes, I did. Well, when I first turned pro, but I’ve sputtered since. In general I do well, but my albatross remains. Until I win a Grand Slam, I will not be considered amongst the elite players. I may go down as a celebrity athlete, instead of the athlete who also happened to be a celebrity.”

“Grand Slam?”

“There are four tournaments that propel a career, sustain it, or define it. The first is the Australian Open, then the French Open, followed by Wimbledon, and finally the U.S. Open. I choked at the Australian Open, and you just saw me drop a solid chance at the French. Wimbledon is next, in a few weeks.” She studied the shrinking world from her window. “So, Mister Problem Solver, how would you solve my problem?”

“This is a no-brainer. I won’t even charge you.” He glanced both ways conspiratorially.

Gemma drew near with hesitation. She could smell his cologne. Her feeling of weakness when near him was palpable.

He whispered. “All you have to do is
win
a Grand Slam.” He gave her a wink.

Her mouth dropped open.

“But you can’t share this groundbreaking advice with anyone else,” he whispered. “I make a killing selling my consulting services.”

“That is brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. Right. Just win the bloody thing. And, forgive me for asking this, do people pay in hard currency when you provide this type of… what did you call it? Groundbreaking advice?”

He smirked. “Sometimes they even give me kick-ass seats to tennis matches.”

Gemma burst out laughing at the absurdity of his silly–but accurate–advice. She studied his eyes. She saw softness, endearing him to her a bit more.

“Since you so quickly solved that little irritant,” she said as she reached into her carry on bag, “maybe you can explain this Sudoku thing.” She handed him Tish’s booklet.

His eyes lit up. “Gladly.” Like an excited young boy, he explained the game. She watched him, barely hearing a word he spoke. She studied his hands. Powerful. Dangerous.

She had needed this, someone to chat with. Tish was her friend, but with her there was no access to new ideas. Andre was new, smart, funny, and she felt good talking to him. Sure, she was attracted to him, but she wasn’t a child who didn’t know how to manage these types of situations. She was surrounded by good looking people all the time. But… none quite like Andre.