1. Anna

1

ANNA

W hen I click play on the video Mila has sent me, the roar of the music, conversation, and clinking glasses makes me hold the volume button down with a wince. The camera pans over a sea of people partying, a view from a balcony and lights in a valley, before turning back to show a room and the people behind. As I pick out Arty’s black curls, I suck in a sharp breath. He’s tucked into a couch making out with a girl, his hands on her large breasts as she grinds all over his lap.

My phone vibrates with a message:

Just thought you’d want to know.

I text back:

Where are you?

Spain. But this is from a party in Moscow.

I roll my lips together. Someone must have sent this to Mila. Why is my main competition on the tennis circuit sending me a video in the middle of her day? Shouldn’t she be practicing? Every tournament, I tease her about the fact she’s turned up again like a bad penny and she does the same to me. A cold Manhattan winter sun streams past outside the window. Mila and I live on different continents now, but we both clawed our way out of Russia through competing and share the terror of something forcing us to go back. Neither of us wants to remember what we did to escape. We may be rivals on court, but all the time we’re not playing, we look out for each other.

My boyfriend of six months with a girl in his lap . Arty was in Moscow over the weekend, some business deal his father insisted he was involved in, he said. He flew into JFK today, and I’m meeting him after practice. Arty’s a typical guy, I guess: a bit full of himself, but solicitous toward me. Not like my previous one. I thought an athlete would be better, and downhill skiing is a winter sport, so completely different from tennis and well out of the small, incestuous circle I live in. How wrong can you be? My hand shakes as I tap out a reply:

How did you get hold of it?

You know I have spies everywhere.

I pull my protein oats out of the fridge. The way Mila keeps her ear to the ground is nothing short of astonishing, and for good reason: You never know when something or someone in Russia is going to come back and bite you in the ass.

Thanks.

Sorry.

It’s not that much of a surprise.

And I suppose it isn’t. I add another text:

Have I ever met a faithful man ?

Not even my father was faithful.

You could always try women.

Interesting . Is Mila queer or bisexual? We’ve never had that conversation because we’re Russian, and nobody tells the truth: They tell you what they think you want to hear. No one throws off the threat of being thrown into jail, either. Paranoia is my middle name.

I say yes or no to guys who ask me out without any deep thought, and perhaps that’s why I end up dating assholes. Moving around tennis camps when I was younger helped me learn how to approach people, to laugh in all the right places, and be understanding and warm. Then I would lose people as they dropped out and have to start again, over and over. A profound wariness has settled inside me. Deep connections don’t sit well with me: Things are going to end at some point and stab me in the heart. I sigh as I place my phone on the counter and scoop up a spoonful of oats. The tub in my hand has a label that says eight hundred calories and divides it into protein, carbs, and fat. Mo? telo khram —my body is a temple, as my mother would say.

And I’ve got more important things to think about than Arty Maroz: like eight hours of tennis practice, like the twinge that’s been bothering my right shoulder all week, like how well Katarina Yenko is doing. Like the fact I played the worst tennis of my life at the Billie Jean Cup. But if I keep working hard enough, keep pushing, it’ll all come out all right—right?

Arty’s face is flat as his eyes flicker over the video on my phone. He hands it back to me, eyes narrowed as he lifts his chin.

“Who took this?” he says in Russian.

“I don’t know.”

“But you got it from that bitch, Mila,” he adds, waving his hand at the screen.

Fuck, that wasn’t very cautious of me. “She didn’t take it. She’s in Spain.”

He grunts and my eyes drift over his dark hair and eyes. I thought he was so handsome when I met him. But a creeping sensation runs down my spine as I watch him digging for who found him out. Will he make trouble in Russia through his father’s connections, and here? What he doesn’t care about is that he was with someone else, and presumably slept with her. The last time he stayed with me, he said, “Condoms are a pain, baby. Let’s move on.” Jesus. How much risk would I have been putting myself in if I’d said yes to that?

I pocket my phone. “Who is she?”

“I have no idea. Who cares?” A muscle ticks in his jaw. “Were we supposed to be exclusive?”

Oh, Christ. He’s gaslighting me now?

I grimace. “You’re right. We never had that conversation.” I nod my head. “Of course, I should know better than to assume that a man who asks me on a date, and is with me for six months, is looking for something just with me.”

His eyes fix on mine. “If you want exclusive, I can do that.”

“Didn’t we discuss not using condoms?”

“Yes. But I use them with everyone else, Anna, so you would always be safe! I would never put you at risk. You know that.” He leans forward as if he’s going to cup my cheek or kiss me. I jerk backward, and his eyebrows shoot up. “What is this about, Anna?”

God, I hate men. All men . We never had that conversation, my ass. But he’s asked a valid question: What is this about? “I think it’s about disrespect. About being a grown-up. Consideration for other people and their feelings, maybe?”

He frowns, jerking his hand out. “And what about my feelings, Anna? We aren’t together all the time. You go away to tournaments for months. How did you think this would work?”

Once. Just once I’d like a man who thinks with something other than his dick. Don’t my needs count for something, too? Okay, I go away a lot, but he knew that going in. This was one weekend apart! I need something better than a manipulative conversation where everything is couched in terms of something he did wrong being my fault.

But also, why am I even annoyed? We haven’t been together for long enough for me to really care, except for a bit of wounded pride maybe, and this is the kind of guy I date. I don’t think I could go out with someone who wasn’t Russian, although technically Arty was born in Belarus.

“Did you fuck her?”

He frowns again. “Is it important?”

“Probably not.” A familiar sadness I can never quite put my finger on grips my chest. I drink the rest of my coffee. “I need to be heading back. I’ve got a physio appointment and an interview and …”

He spreads his hands. “How do you expect to ever have a relationship when you commit so little time to other people? It’s all about you, Anna. Your career, your success. You could have come with me to Moscow. I could have fucked you at this party.”

This gets under my skin because it’s partly true. I am always away, and the terror of trying to stay in the top tennis rankings throbs under my skin like a sore. Does he not understand the sacrifice it takes to do this? And why doesn’t he? He’s a downhill skier, albeit an injured one right now, but he competes.

“I had to train all this weekend” is all I say.

“ I had to train. I had to train ,” he repeats in a singsong voice. “You’re always training, Anna.”

“It’s my job!” Maybe he can afford to attend parties and live it up, what with his father bankrolling his sport and business interests, but I’ve never had that luxury.

I stand up. “Bye, Arty.”

He sighs. “Anna, don’t play games.”

Who’s playing games? Do women never turn him down in Russia because of who his father is? “It’s not a game. I don’t want to be with someone who fucks other people.”

He shrugs. “Suit yourself. Call me when you’ve sorted your head out. Good luck finding somebody who doesn’t mind the fact you’re never in the same country as them.”

If it wasn’t all so bad, I’d laugh. My mom is going to kill me. His father runs Pteroka, the largest oil business in Russia. She practically ordered me to date him when I made the mistake of telling her he’d sent me a flirty message which basically said, “As two Russians in a foreign land, we should go for dinner.” I think it was the culmination of her life dreams. My dad was the tennis guy.

“And don’t think I’m coming to this fancy-ass event tonight to keep your sponsor happy,” Arty adds as his parting shot.

Goddammit. I’d forgotten all about that. I groan internally. The press will eat me alive if I go on my own.