17. Anna

17

ANNA

W hen I pick up my buzzing phone from the counter, the words Arty the Asshole flash across the screen and I grimace at it as it vibrates then goes to voicemail. He’s moved from messages to calling. I sigh as I take in the silvery dampness of the Monday dawn beyond the window. My body aches, but it’s nothing out of the ordinary, nothing a deep massage won’t iron out. Working on my backhand is the top priority today, given it fell apart during the Billie Jean Cup. I text my coach, Ilov, to say I’m on my way, then screw the lid back on my water bottle, pull my coat up around my neck, and head down in the elevator.

When I step outside the door, I don’t see the arm that flashes out and grabs mine. My bottle slips out of my hand, bounces across the sidewalk, and rolls into the gutter.

My mouth drops open as I gaze up into Arty’s angry face. “You’re not supposed to be here!” The Russian words erupt out of me, hot and fast. “You’re not allowed to come within a hundred yards of me. I got a restraining order against you yesterday, you prick.”

The wet winter streets are empty at this time in the morning: only a solitary car swishing down the street and pulling to a stop at a red light .

“Shut the fuck up and pay attention for once in your goddamn princess, entitled life.”

An icy breeze ruffles his hair and his cheeks are red. He’s been waiting. “What the hell, Arty? Why are you harassing me?”

“You want me to reveal everything that went on in Russia, Anna?” he says, eyes narrowing on me.

I stare into his flushed face, stomach sinking.

“What are you talking about?”

“If you don’t listen to me, I’ll create a scandal that will blow your carefully choreographed world sky high.”

I shake his hand off my arm, heart thumping. “Why are you such an asshole?”

He steps back. “We need to agree on a time and place where we can talk.”

“In your dreams.”

“What about Pietr Petrov and Konstantin Lebedev, Anna? Would you like to answer some questions about them?”

The fact that I dated Pietr or that Konstantin was my coach is not exactly secret … And anything beyond that? It’s all deniable.

“Now I’ve got your attention,” he says silkily. “Let’s arrange where we can meet. Somewhere less public, where we’re not likely to be photographed or interrupted.”

“Fuck off, you jerk. I’m reporting you to the police.”

I take off down the street running. He’s fit, but he won’t catch me. My heart lifts when I don’t hear his footsteps pounding behind me.

“You’ll talk to me eventually, Anna,” he shouts after me. “You can run but you can’t hide. Let’s see what you say later on today!”

Later today? What’s happening later today? A shiver runs down my spine.

Ilov smashes a ball over the net, and I thump it back. He flips me a delicate drop shot, trying to catch me out, but I stretch right out and flip it right back over the net and it clips the top and drops just on his side of it. Ha! He races forward, which turns into a huff of laughter when he can’t quite reach it.

“Lucky, Anna,” he says, dropping into English and putting a hand on the net. He likes to practice his English when we’re on court.

I grin at him. “Pure talent.”

Smiling, he gestures at Mila, who is stretching by the side of the court. She came here from Spain yesterday to train with me in the run-up to the Open. “Let’s play a match,” he says, switching back to Russian, and she jerks her chin at him and unzips her jacket.

Ilov taps the net with his racket, his face falling into something more serious. “I saw some stuff online over the weekend, Anna, about Arty Maroz?”

Ugh. I’ve been trying not to think about that visit this morning ever since I got here.

Mila makes a face as she heads over to us. “Arty the Asshole. That boy is creepy,” and she waggles her fingers like a witch. It makes me laugh, but Ilov frowns.

“We don’t need any drama before the Australian Open, Anna. You’re both heading out there in five weeks.”

“I get it, Ilov. I’m sorry. If it makes you feel any better, I took a restraining order out against him over the weekend.”

Ilov’s eyebrows rise to his hairline, and he stares out over the court. “A restraining order! Jesus Christ, Anna, this close to a major tournament … I hate this.” His eyes scan over my face. “Are you okay?”

“For the moment, yes. You know I’ve handled worse. But I don’t want to give Arty any headspace if I’m honest.”

“Okay, let’s get on with the practice. But stay out of the limelight, okay, Anna. No more drama,” he says, pointing his racket at me before walking to the side of the court.

“Yes, boss.” I salute him.

He’s being easy on me here. He knows I drive myself hard, and I’m grateful for it. But as if to underline his words, my phone starts ringing from the side of the court, and he looks at me and puts his hands on his hips. Normally, I don’t let anything interrupt our practice, but guilt about Adam being dragged into a fight is still grumbling away in my gut, and that’s June’s ringtone. She’s the only call I ever take when I’m on court, because if she calls me when I’m practicing, it’s an emergency. I wave my racket at Ilov and Mila to carry on.

“His interviews are everywhere!” June hisses, her thick Louisiana drawl hitting my ear as I tap my earbuds. “I’m sorry, darling girl. I wouldn’t call you at this time unless the world was on fire.”

“Goddammit. What’s he saying?”

“That Adam took a swing at him first. That you’re using your fame and media connections to bully him and destroy his reputation. Yada yada yada. This guy’s bullshit could drown a city, let me tell ya. I’m gonna get my mafia friend to bury him six feet under.”

People make jokes about the mafia in the US, but I feel like I narrowly escaped the mafia in Russia. “Don’t joke about things like that. I hope he’s doing a terrific job of destroying his own reputation. And he’d have his own money if he didn’t spend all his sponsorship on bad business investments and legal cases. It’s not like he won’t inherit his father’s assets at some point.” I run my hand over my ponytail. “Sorry for the rant, June. Christ, he’s really showing his colors now.”

“I hear ya. I’ve had it up to here with the jerks myself. The charming ones with the golden smiles? They’re the worst. I drafted a statement. I just need ya to read and approve.”

“Okay.” I signal to Ilov that I’m going to take five minutes and sink down in a seat, opening my email and skimming through what June’s written. It refutes every point with a calm rationality. She’s a total professional.

“You can roll with it. I hope he’s going to start looking like a ranting idiot.”

“There’s only so many times you can pull this bullshit, that’s for sure. The press’ll wanna talk to ya.”

“Schedule whatever interviews you need to. I’ll be finished here at 4 p.m., and I can do calls up until 11 p.m.”

“Have I told you you’re a dream to work for?”

I laugh. “Thank you. Have you talked to Adam at all?”

“No, but there was a picture of him being doorstepped this morning. ”

Oh shit. “They’ve found his apartment ?”

“I don’ think he has a doorman or security. It don’ look like that kinda building. He was flustered, you get me? Want me to get on it?”

Adam hasn’t called me about it, probably because he didn’t want to bother me. And there’s that rod of steel again. My gaze drifts to where Ilov is batting balls across the net to Mila. I want some way of sheltering Adam from all this bullshit. Most men would be running for the hills by now. Why isn’t he?

“I need to move him into my place.”

“Gotcha! And—real talk, girl—him being there is like leaving him in piranha-infested water. That could go down bad. The press will pester the neighbors, the whole deal. You want me to organize it?”

“That’d be amazing. I’ll chat to him now, but if you could make it all happen that would make everything easier. At least at my apartment he can escape the braying pack of wolves.”

“No problem, doll, I’m on it. Catch ya later.”

I turn my phone over in my hand, then press Adam’s number.

“Anna! How’re you doing?”

“How are you doing, more like? I’m guessing you might have seen that Arty’s been giving interviews to the press and there’s a load of bullshit swirling around.” My stomach grumbles—hunger or guilt, I’m not sure.

He emits a slightly hysterical laugh. “Yeah. A lot of people were taking photos outside my apartment this morning. They tried to follow me to the office. Good thing I cycle fast. But now they’re here, too.”

“They’ve turned up at your office?” Goddammit .

“The building has some security, so we’ve been all right today. I saw the interviews Arty gave.” He hums. “I’m not convinced that putting out that statement was such a smart idea. Maybe it got his back up.”

“He would have done this anyway, Adam, and at least we did it first. June always tells me you’ve got to get in front of the story. The first narrative is the one that sticks, and your statement was amazing.” I press my hand into my chest.

He huffs. “Thanks. But my understanding of this stuff is very limited, and I’m happy to take whatever advice anyone thinks will work.”

“June is sending out a press release from me today, and she’s lining up interviews after practice. Hopefully, after that, it will all die down,” I say.

Mila is belting balls back at Ilov, and I watch the powerful swing of her right arm. She’s hitting it back into the same spot on the court every time. The accuracy is outstanding. Christ. She looks in top form. I’m going to have to play against that.

“Are you at practice? Shit, I shouldn’t be taking up so much of your time.”

“You’re not taking up my time, Adam. Friends, remember? And you sound pretty relaxed for someone whose reputation is being hauled over the coals.”

His chair squeaks and a door shuts, then he says, “I’m not relaxed, to be honest. But Carly’s trying to spin things for me with the media, and I’ve just got to trust her. I’m avoiding reading the worst of the comments.”

“God, Adam. I’m so sorry. I’m always apologizing to you! I never dreamed Arty would turn into such a headache. What are you going to do after you finish today?”

“Go home?” He groans. “That’s not a great idea, is it? They’re still going to be at my apartment.”

I hum. “Why don’t you come and stay at my place for a couple of days? Give it time to die down. You won’t be bothered, and it’ll give June and Carly some space to deal with the stream of news.”

Silence ticks on the other end of the line. “Aren’t the paparazzi at your apartment, too?”

“They are, but it’s under control. I have security there. Please, Adam. Pepper is your number-one fan, and I would feel much better about the whole thing if I spared you the pain of something that’s my fault.” I’m not above manipulating him a little to try and sort this out.

“It’s not your fault, Anna! It’s Maroz’s.” He pauses for a couple of heartbeats. “All right. Coming to your place would be great. Thank you.”

“Disappearing is often a sound strategy.”

“I’ll come over after I’ve finished here. It might be late. ”

“No problem. I’ll be doing online or phone interviews. I’ll tell the doorman to let you in.”

“Crap, I don’t have any stuff with me.”

“Don’t worry about that. I talked to June about it, and she’s happy to get whatever you need. Give her a list and she’ll sort it out.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes. Definitely. There’s an avalanche of work around tennis: organizing sponsorships, tournaments, travel. I employ people to deal with problems for me. June’s only too happy to help. But I swear I’m never dating again after the fallout from Arty. I should have known better than to date a Belarusian.”

He laughs. “Are you allowed to say that? I swore off dating myself over ten years ago. Still one of the best decisions I ever made.”

And just like that my curiosity burns back with a vengeance. Why? I want to say. Why was dating so bad for him? I glance across the empty courts next to us and think about my empty apartment: Perhaps more importantly, isn’t he lonely?