Game of Love (8 page)

Gemma’s eyes settled on the one person standing. Andre? Here at her match? Coincidence? Unlikely. She did not believe in coincidences. Maybe since their last encounter he had put two and two together. Was he trying to befriend her, get close to her? Had she been right after all, that he would be like all the others?

Her muscles twitched and her mouth went dry. Nerves? Self-consciousness? Why? He was just another person. That’s all. Nothing more, nothing less. She had a street fight to get through.
Stay focused
.

She took the court to warm up. The smart move would be to phase out Andre and the crowd. But she could feel eyes trained on her, watching her every move. She scanned the crowd, prepared to see judgment in their faces. Instead hundreds, maybe thousands of people waved British flags. They were here for her, in support of her. Her heartbeat quickened.
Stay focused
.

After a few minutes, when she was ready to practice her serves, she risked a quick glance toward Andre. He looked young, full of life, sitting at the edge of his seat, watching intently. He was possibly a masterful scoundrel who had lied to her and she had bought it. Or maybe he was a good guy. Or maybe…
Stop it.

Why was it that when he was around she suddenly felt like a schoolgirl?

She stretched her neck, and bounced up and down to loosen up. At the baseline, she took a deep breath, relaxed, bounced the ball, then tossed it…

He’s just someone I met
.

… She leapt…

Nothing more, nothing less.

…
And ripped a 118-miles-per-hour serve.

The crowd exploded.

Andre could not claim to be an expert at the game. At best, he had seen highlights on TV. But watching Gemma play, he couldn’t help but think she was the most amazing athlete who had ever lived.

Clearly this wasn’t based on objective criteria. Just an instinct. Also, the score did not support his assertion. The match continued to be tightly contested. What made her the best was something he couldn’t put his finger on.

Whether she was serving, or returning Sonia’s hits, Gemma seemed to explode with power and focused energy. The clay beneath her feet detonated with her movements. Yet the same clay converted to ice when she needed to glide. He wanted to film her and slow down the footage to study what happened to the environment surrounding her. No, what she caused wasn’t otherworldly. Quite the contrary. This was natural, innate greatness in action.

Gemma charged the net, slid gracefully, and volleyed the ball past Sonia’s outstretched racquet. She was a handful of feet away from Andre now. She glanced at him and nearly smiled before she returned to the baseline.

“Do you know each other?” Roger asked.

Andre had to be careful. “Don’t I wish,” he chuckled.

Roger studied him. “I suppose most would,” he finally said.

Andre didn’t want Roger to meddle, nor give him reason to speculate. He didn’t like the tone in Roger’s voice, the shift in his eyes, the bunching of skin on his brow. All signs of stress.

Andre returned his attention to Gemma, the goddess on clay.

All Gemma had to do was keep her composure, and not react too quickly. She was grateful for the water bottle in her hand. She needed something to squeeze during the press conference.

“Gemma, this was the longest match of your professional career. You seemed fatigued. Was it a conditioning issue due to your extended time off?”

She hated post-game interviews.

“Anyone who competes in a three hour match against one of the best is bound to feel fatigued. Sonia is a phenomenal athlete.”

“After you lost the first set, how did you turn it around by winning the second?”

“One point at a time, like always. Each set could have gone either way. The first set was close all along. So were the second and third. The ball sometimes bounces that way.”

“How did it feel when you couldn’t reach the last decisive ball? What went through your mind?”

The bottle whined in her fist. Did this guy actually expect an answer? How would he feel? She wanted to collapse when she hadn’t reached the yellow furry ball that eradicated her chance at a Grand Slam. She wanted to fall and cry. She wanted to disappear.

The press awaited her answer. She drank water, counting to ten.
Don’t snap.

“How did it feel? Was that the question?” She crossed then uncrossed her legs. “As you astutely put it, it felt very decisive.”

The press corps laughed.

“Gemma, the fans have voted online, and it’s official. They say this is the best match of the year. What are your thoughts?”

“Those must be Sonia’s fans.” More laughter. “Tennis fans like to see good battles and athletes who leave it all out there. That’s what we gave them today.”

“Overall, a much better performance in this semifinal–”

“With unfortunately the same results,” she said and stood. “Thank you all.”

Tish walked her to the locker room, but Gemma’s thoughts drifted back to the end of the game.

When she lost, she wanted to hide, but the crowd had different plans. “
Gemma! Gemma! Gemma!
” they chanted.

She found the will to wave to her fans and her team. Wesley’s eyes were swollen, while Bedric kept a strong face, and Tish tried to maintain her composure. Ravaged with dejection, she searched through unfamiliar faces to find Andre. He was screaming and cheering as loud as anyone else, waving a tiny British flag.

Her lungs felt raw and her joints like frail parchment paper. She had lost to Sonia… again. She should have been crushed. Instead she focused on the friendly face of the American man with the genuine smile.

A face she wanted to see again. A man she wanted to know better.

With Tish’s help, Gemma finished packing her luggage. She could feel her friend’s stare.

“I’m fine,” Gemma said, then playfully pushed Tish. “Don’t analyze me like I’m some endangered butterfly.”

“I know. You always come back stronger. Do you want me to join you?” Tish asked.

“Thanks for the offer. But I want to rest, do nothing for three days before I head back to London. I need some
me
time.” The last thing she wanted was to deal with the press, paparazzi, and more Johnny Flauto fallout in London. Also, she wanted to see Xavi again. To ease her mind.

“You let me know when you want
me
time to be
we
time
,
and I’ll be on the next bird out of Heathrow.”

They hugged.

“Take this,” Tish said, handing her a Sudoku puzzle book. “It’ll keep the voices in your head occupied on the flight. Half the book when I see you later in the week, or you owe me fifty quid.”

Gemma tucked the book in her carryon. “Remember, not a word to Wesley or Bedric until after I’m gone. They won’t understand and will assume the worst.”

“Understood.”

Gemma was silent for a moment. “Tish, don’t ask why, just do me a favor.”

“Anything.”

“Go and see if Andre, the American, is at the bar. Then text me.”

“And I can’t ask you why?”

“No, you can’t.”

“Can I guess?”

“No, you can’t.” Uncontrollably, Gemma beamed. There was that feeling again. Youth.

That night, lounging at the hotel bar, Andre watched highlights of the day’s match on the flat screen. Gemma had not come downstairs. For all he knew, she had already left.

“She is staying here at the Pullman,” the bartender said.

“The British player?”

“
Oui
, Gemma. She is so good.”

“What makes her good?”

“How do you say, angry and active on the court?”

“Aggressive?”

“
Oui
, like Capriati. She runs to the net all the time. Like the men, taking chances, but smooth like a ballerina. Also, powerful serves. She makes the match fun to watch.”

“Interesting.”

“And, of course,” the French bartender said with a dramatic flair, “she is the most beautiful woman in the world.”

Andre laughed, fully agreeing with the man’s sentiments, when a familiar sensation gave him pause. He swiveled slowly, scanning his surroundings. Nothing seemed out of place, but he couldn’t shake that all too familiar, yet uncomfortable, feeling. Was he being watched?

Gemma read Tish’s message. “
Not at bar. Sorry G.”

She considered going downstairs just to be sure. Gemma had wanted to do that for the last couple of days, but had talked herself out of it, each time remembering what falling for the wrong guy had gained her.

She strode to her bag, found her scraggly stuffed dog of twenty-one years, then went to her bedroom and fell on the bed.

Probably best he wasn’t there. She couldn’t afford to get in that trap again.

She closed her eyes, recalling the unforced errors and lost chances on the court. Even so, she had done well this time. Xavi had been right. So long as she remained focused and shut out the noise, she could have a shot at winning it all. Thankfully, she’d get another chance in three weeks at Wimbledon. But each passing day held the possibility of an injury, a new star, a new nervous breakdown. Talent guaranteed nothing. She could lose in the first round.

Her mobile rang. “Oh, bugger!” Gemma had forgotten to call back. “I’m sorry, Mum. I was packing and forgot–”