Page 2 of The Game

“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 wasone weekendapart! I need something better than a manipulative conversation where everything is couched in terms of somethinghedid wrong beingmyfault.

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 isthe 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.Yourcareer,yoursuccess. You could have come with me to Moscow. I could have fuckedyouat this party.”

This gets under my skin because it’s partly true. Iamalways 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? Andwhydoesn’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 messagewhich 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.

2

ADAM

Itap the final formula into the Excel spreadsheet on the screen in front of me and take in the sea of red. If these weren’t the figures for my own business, I would be laughing. I have not only cut to the bone; I’ve taken on a load of debt, too. Unsecured, high-interest loans.Stupid. Stupid, Adam.I’m like a frog that’s being slowly boiled in water, each year a little worse, a little more red on this spreadsheet. I haven’t moved anywhere near fast enough, and the bottom line is a disaster.Ten years!Ten years since I started this company and nurtured the ideas I first had in college.

I swing around in my chair and stare out the window at the brick wall of the cheap below-ground space we rent in Brooklyn. We’re intimate friends, this wall and I. Staring at it has solved many an electronics problem. Every crack in it is familiar. How long can I string my business out? Borrowed money and borrowed time.

My phone vibrates, and I turn back to my desk, flipping it over to find the wordsJanus Phillipsacross the top of the screen, and a small sigh seeps out, even as my mouth curls up. I press to answer.

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