Page 26 of The Game

Tell me about it, I don’t say.

“My name’s Dean, by the way,” he says, bright blue eyes locking with mine.

“Nice to meet you, Dean.”

He nods and leans back into me and starts explaining some of the holds and the strategies, and I forget whether Adam is winning or losing and try to understand the technicalities instead. Two other girls appear at the end of the row, and this time they wantmyautograph, so I sign their programs as unobtrusively as possible as Dean peers over my shoulder.

“Anna Talanova, eh?” he says, a smile creeping over his face. “Kept that quiet.”

I grin back at him. “Yeah, trying to fly under the radar.”

He pats my hand. “You’ll get a real kick out of it when people remember you when you’re older.” He winks at me again.

Adam wins all but his second fight, even beating Mr. Aggressive, and after it’s all finished, I thank Dean and we laugh as we sign each other’s programs and I head out of the stadium keeping my head down, but I’m giddy with the idea I’ve been out and about and only two people have recognized me. I send Adam a quick text:

That was amazing! Congrats. Where should I meet you?

Three dots immediately appear, disappear and appear again:

Meet me around the left-hand side of the stadium. There’s a battered blue door. It’s the competitors’ entrance, and there’ll be a load of parents waiting.

When I reach the side of the building, sure enough, the entrance is teeming with parents and children, chatting and celebrating or commiserating. My dad always stood and waited for me, too, smoking a cigarette with eithera neutral expression or a scowl, depending on whether I’d won or lost. He never said a lot. He’d take the bag with my rackets from me, and we’d head to the parking lot. My gut burns. I wanted to please him so much. He played when he was younger and understood only too well how difficult it was to win, to be better than everyone else, the impossibility of winningeverygame. He never blamed me and was frequently generous when I messed up, but his competitiveness was like a black cloud, like a third person in the back seat heading home, looming in the darkness. I escaped his moods when I got old enough to go away to train at camps, often in Spain, where the weather was warmer. And it got so much worse because of Konstantin. After I met Mila, he used to pick one or the other of us to “coach.” A shudder rolls down my spine.

“Are you Anna Talanova?” A small, awed voice comes from beside me, and dammit, I didn’t put my shades back on. I turn to find a girl of about ten years old with a dark plait hanging down her back standing next to me.

I smile. “I am, but shh,” I say, pressing my finger to my lips. “Don’t tell anyone.” I slide my sunglasses back over my eyes.

“Can I get your autograph?”

She holds up a pen and a piece of paper, and I lift my head and quickly scan the crowd, eyes snagging on a woman who must be her mom because she beams and shuffles forward.

“Of course, what’s your name?”

“Christie,” she says.

“Are you a jujitsu expert?”

She nods sharply up and down, her brown hair bouncing.

Her confidence makes my mouth curl up. “Did you win today?”

“Yes! All my fights!” She grins.

I press my hand to my chest, but I’m aware that people are turning to look at us in my peripheral vision and my heart sinks. I don’t want Adam to come out and find me surrounded. This was about me watching him, not about tennis. I write:

Congrats on winning all your matches, Christie!

Go conquer the world.

Love, Anna Talanova

This is a blip in time. Someday, no one will want my autograph or remember who I am, and I will be coaching ten-year-old girls like Christie, or even have my own ten-year-old. Something lodges in my throat.

Two more boys appear and hover in the background, and people drift forward and suddenly I’m surrounded by people wanting autographs and asking me about tennis. Everyone is friendly, not pushy, and form an orderly queue, and I manage to work my way through all the people who want to talk to me. As I sign the last few autographs, I’m aware of someone else off to my right-hand side, and I turn to catch Adam’s amused hazel eyes. He grins at me, and it’s so little boyish that my heart climbs up into my mouth. I still can’t get used to how easygoing he is. No doubt Arty would have been fuming by now.Anna, Adam is not your boyfriend—of course he’s going to be relaxed about this.

“Congratulations!” I say, stepping into him and giving him a hug as I inhale some amazing smell of pine and sweat. He laughs. “You won all but one of your fights!” I add, moving back quickly before I do something embarrassing like sniff his neck.

“Still annoyed about the one I lost.” He gives me a lopsided smile. “A bit of a different standard from what you’re used to, I’m guessing.”

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