Page 71 of The Game

“Yes, Anna,” I hiss as my whole crotch tightens, sweet sensations burning through my legs and curling my toes. “Oh,fuck.”

I’m dimly aware of pushing so hard that I’m moving her across the bed as I tip over the edge, shudders ripping through me as everything shimmers around the periphery of my vision, and an inky blackness curls in at the corners and narrows my focus down to beads of sweat on sweet, pale skin.

Hot.

Hot.

I’m so fucking hot.

The light on the nightstand fades in at the edges of black. My hands are tensed on Anna’s ass in a bruising grip, and her head is resting on my shoulder. As I tilt my head trying to look down at her, she’s completely motionless, herbreath coming in short gasps, so I move back and prop myself up on my elbow, taking in her pale face. I pull back onto my knees and remove the condom, tying a knot in it before disappearing into the bathroom. When I come back, Anna is lying on her back, eyes closed, hands now splayed over her head. Crawling onto the bed, I lie down next to her, and she turns her head, opening her eyes and examining me.

Her lips curve up slowly. “Oh my God,” she says, making me laugh.

I shift onto my back, and lightness lifts my chest.She doesn’t think I’m some crazy, desperate guy, then.Rolling onto her side, she shuffles into me, palm snaking over my ribs and the warmth of how she curls into me all night, and how much I like it, winds its way around me like she’s cast a spell. My limbs are like deadweights. It’s been a hell of a day and for her, too, it seems. Words bubble up and sink back down again, so I sit forward, pulling the comforter from the bottom of the bed over us, and the world drifts away.

27

ANNA

ArtyvisitedAdam—turned up at his office and threatened him. Calm, law-abiding Adam Miller. Hairs lift on the back of my neck. I’ve been burying my head in the sand for the last week, acting like I’m living someone else’s life, but now it’s snapped into sharp relief.

There’s so much water under the bridge in my life, so many loose cannons like Arty Maroz, and now Adam’s asked his friend Fabian to help, and he can get intobank accounts! It’s only a matter of time before Fabian finds out everything about me, everything that I had to do, and that’s not even the least of it: If he finds out more, he’ll be putting himself in real danger; Adam, too. Perhaps loneliness isn’t the worst thing in the world; perhaps being responsible for somebody else getting hurt is a lot worse. Being on my own is just one of the prices I pay for getting out of Russia, for the success I’ve been chasing all my life.

How could I put someone like Adam in danger? He’s the kind of committed friend who never backs down. To lose his friendship, I’d have to do something awful that would make him think I’d totally betrayed him. I sigh as I study the clay court at my feet. Should I tell him? But if I tell him about Konstantin, then he’d really be in the firing line because he would know … andnobodyknows. Only the people who’ve been through it, like me, and we never talk about it. Never. And if I’m honest with myself, I don’t want him to find out that Anna Talanova, successful tennis player, is an illusion. Maybe my history means it’s inevitable that I’ll end up with a man who understands the system I came up through. Somebody like Arty or Pietr who doesn’t care about who or what I am, but just wants a trophy, someone they can say won a Grand Slam tournament and looks decorative on their arm.

I bounce the ball a few times on the asphalt and hammer a serve across the net to Ilov. It goes way outside the line.

“Kontsentriruysya!What’s up with you?” he barks.

Ugh. I don’t even want to count the number of double faults today. I shake my head and walk over to the water bottle on the bench by the side of the court. We’ve lost Mila to a physio today and a consultation about an old knee injury. Thank God she isn’t here to watch me screw it all up.

Ilov jogs over to join me and runs a towel over his head, grabbing his own water.

“You okay?” he says more quietly.

I grin at him. “Don’t give me sympathy. Barking orders at me is better.”

“You’ve been on fire lately, Anna. Despite our conversation about Arty Maroz, you haven’t put a foot wrong these last couple of weeks: I haven’t had to bark at you at all. I take my hat off to you. That’s the expression, no?” His eyes are kind as he smiles at me.

I nod. Ihavebeen playing well. I’ve been pretending to play happy families with a man I can’t get attached to. “My concentration is shot today.”

“You want to take a break?”

I shake my head. My father’s mantra was always to soldier on. “If you can tolerate all the mistakes, let’s just hammer through it. Feel free to yell at me and give me grief. I’m just distracted.” I shrug. “I’ll try to put it aside.”

“Otlichno!” he says. “That is also good practice. It happens in matches, too.”

I nod and he adds, “It’s a joy every day to train with you, Anna. That’s why, when you make errors, I am surprised.”

I laugh. He’s a good motivator. “I’ve got a feeling there’s going to be a lot of surprises today.”

After my tennis practice, I’m still mulling over what to say to Adam and getting nowhere, when a text drops into my messages.

That dog of yours need a walk?

This is immediately followed by:

I’m on my way home from the office and thought I’d take a detour via your place.

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