Page 44 of The Game

“Yeah. I like her. Thanks for that, by the way. She’s going to put together a statement for me. Will you look it over? It has to go out today if I do it.” I chew my lip. I’ve never asked him for help.

“Of course!” he says, something light lifting his voice. “I’d be delighted.”

Even with my small brushes with the media so far, I’m starting to understand how all this works, how a reputation can be manipulated so easily. And later, after Carly and I have gone back and forth getting the wording right, the statement goes out and all I can do is cross my fingers and hope this doesn’t come back to haunt me.

17

ANNA

When I pick up my buzzing phone from the counter, the wordsArty the Assholeflash 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 racesforward, 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?”

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