Game of Love (41 page)

Gemma caught up to Bedric before he stepped out of the house. “Talk to me, Bedric.”

“There is nothing to say.”

“I won’t let it happen again. You have my word.”

“It already has happened again. The performance on the court is the symptom, not the problem.” He walked out of the house.

Wesley remained with Gemma long after the investigators left. “We need to be careful, G,” he said.

She stared at him.

“How well do you really know Andre?”

“Wesley, don’t go there.” Even though she already had.

“One important key to success is self-confidence. An important key to self-confidence is preparation.”
~Arthur Ashe

n the locker room, Gemma waited to be called to the court. A full day had passed after receiving the extortion note. Thankfully, nothing had been leaked to the press yet.

She had received a text message from Andre twenty minutes earlier wishing her luck. She had not responded. There was nothing to say because the truth was, if not for Andre, her family would not be in the crosshairs right now. She needed to focus on her match.

Gemma’s third round match promised to be a challenging one. She was to play Veronika Rezníková, and she didn’t like the scouting report on her. Veronika was five-foot-three inches tall, which gave Gemma a distinct advantage. What Veronika lacked in size, she made up in strength, talent, and spunk. Gemma could not afford to underestimate her. She had shocked everyone during last year’s Australian Open by reaching the Grand Slam final. She was a dangerous opponent through and through.

From the first serve, Veronika proved to be lethal. The first set went to tiebreaker. To Gemma’s bewilderment,
her
crowd started to cheer for Veronika each time she saved herself from set point.

Make them make mistakes
.

She wiped his voice from her head.

Gemma changed things up, trying different tactics. She served and volleyed. She tried drop shots. And in one horrifying instant, she dropped the first set to Veronika. The stadium fell silent.

Gemma opened the second set serving. And in less then two minutes, she dropped the first game love-40.

The murmurs in the stadium spread like fire. She took the bench during the switch over and massaged her tightening hamstring. She’d have to break Veronika’s serve, otherwise fighting back from a deep hole would be near impossible. But if Veronika played with this same level of energy, then Gemma’s dreams would die in an early exit.

She rubbed her hamstring again. Gemma was about to call for the match medic when she saw him run briskly to Veronika’s side instead. Gemma watched intently. She had been so deep in thought, she had not realized Veronika had called for assistance. The minutes passed by as she watched the therapist try different movements and extensions on Veronika’s lower back. Fifteen minutes later, Veronika withdrew. Gemma embraced her sparring partner, who was frustrated but composed. The tennis gods had dealt Veronika a bad hand.

In the locker room, Gemma thought about the bullet she had dodged. It was highly likely she would have lost the match, or maybe withdrawn because of her hamstring. Now she had the entire weekend to rehabilitate. She couldn’t help but feel the root cause was not a strong adversary or a tightening hamstring. More likely, all the events of the past week and the on-going roller coaster with Andre were the real reasons for her poor play.

She leaned against the wall, then lowered herself to the floor. Her arms perched on her knees, she glanced at the ceiling, hoping to find answers. She should have known better. Her throat dried.

It had started again. Each time she had fallen in love, her world had crashed around her. He was different; he was supposed to be the one, yet the same circus had come to town.

Andre spent all of Friday with the interrogators at the Met. Finally, after eight hours, they had the smoking gun. Abe had given them a name. Now they needed to tie the fingerprints of that name to the gun.

On Saturday morning, Andre took the first flight to Washington D.C. His colleagues at the FBI were ready to assist. He remained focused on the task at hand and tried not to think too much about Gemma’s lack of responses to his texts and messages.

Saturday stretched on in agonizing reminders that Gemma was completely in the dark. Yes, it was self-inflicted. She could have answered his calls, but she was upset, angry, and every other emotion that lay scattered throughout the spectrum of love and hate.

She submerged herself in her work–exercise, rehabilitation, interviews, more conditioning, more of anything she could think of just to keep her mind off of him. But now the press produced new stories, fabricating explanations about his disappearance.

Some games had no winners.

“We have a hit,” the FBI agent told Andre.

“The voice patterns match?”

The agent pointed to the monitor where sound waves from two different sources had been compared by the analyst. “Ninety-eight percent probability. It doesn’t get much better.”

He had suspected it, but now he had confirmation. He would not dwell on it, just act. The NSA had confirmed the source of the e-mails Abe received, and the FBI matched the voicemail Abe had turned over. What remained was tying-off a loose thread. He wanted to know why.

At the airport, Andre sent DCI Whitby the latest, then boarded his flight, the red eye to Los Angeles. He had to take care of some things at home.

Exhausted, he attempted to sleep during the flight, but sleep eluded him. Also, the headache that had been with him since Saturday afternoon accompanied the six-hour trip. All the medication in the world didn’t seem to help.

He had sent Gemma various text messages over the last few days, and not one had gotten a response. He couldn’t understand her behavior. After all, he was on her side. He thought she knew that.

Gemma and Tish hit the football field at the Cobham Training Center, the training ground of the Chelsea Football Club. They had not spoken much since the publication of the article that exposed the true details behind her relationship with Andre.

Gemma had waited long enough. It was time to break the ice.

They ran a few laps at a fast clip. She always preferred running on grass. Maybe it was because grass was more forgiving on knees and ankles. Quite possibly it was because the morning dew left a nearly imperceptible coat of cool water on her legs as she sped around the field. Either way, running and playing on grass had always been her preferred venue.

Although she always thought of herself as a fit runner, Tish was on a different plane. It seemed she had limitless stamina. Tish didn’t have the explosive speed needed for a tennis match, but she could go on for hours.

“Bloody hell, Tish. You’re not even winded.”

Tish glanced at Gemma, then refocused on the path ahead. “I suppose.”

It was time to clean this mess up. “I’m sorry, okay?”

Tish didn’t bat an eye. “For what?”

“You know.” Running and talking was not easy. “Andre. And not telling you.”

“Oh, that.” They rounded the corner. Tish picked up speed. “I forgot all about that.”

“That’s good to hear, because—”

“After all, just because you gave me this whole speech after the Aegon tournament, doesn’t mean that we all have to meet that standard.”