Page 10

10

ANNA

M y chest fills like a balloon when I see the arena and all the mats on the central floor. I’m attending a sporting event that I’m not competing in, and even better, one I know nothing about. A carousel of images from when I used to compete on the nonprofessional circuit flood my mind: my dad … my Russian tennis coach, Konstantin. A shiver runs down my spine. I didn’t give Adam an honest explanation about my relationship with Konstantin’s friend Pietr, but how could I?

As I head up into the stands, I pull my ball cap down over my head and slide my sunglasses up my nose. But the small stadium is filled with parents watching their kids fight: Who’s interested in some random woman weaving her way through the crowd? How many tennis fans would even be here? They’ll all be martial arts people who don’t know who I am. Get over yourself, Anna! Settling into my seat, I avoid eye contact and focus on the central floor. Adam is standing off to the side in a white suit in a line of other competitors. God, how familiar that is—the waiting. After I’ve been sitting there for ten minutes without anybody asking for an autograph, my spine starts to unwind.

They all walk toward their respective mats, and the first person Adam’s competing against is a stocky, burly-looking guy, considerably bigger than Adam. Ugh . I don’t love that. Adam bows to his opponent, the A. Miller clear on the back of his top, the referee raises his hand, and they launch at one another. And whoa! My heart leaps into my throat at how fast and aggressive the other fighter is. His leg sweeps out, and in seconds they’re grappling on the floor, hands white-knuckled on the edge of each other’s tops. Mr. Burly flips Adam over, and Adam twists him straight back. The muscles in his legs and forearms strain as he struggles to grip on to his opponent’s jacket, and they’re flipping and grappling, flipping and grappling … Damn! Adam gets the guy into some kind of lock that he’s trying to wriggle out of and break Adam’s hold. Sweat is already making Adam’s hair darken and stick to the side of his head. The crowd’s noise builds, as the other guy does something with his leg again until the referee makes some kind of signal, breaking them apart. Some points go up on the board for Adam.

This is riveting!

They both stand, and Adam lifts the corner of his jacket to wipe the sweat off his brow giving everyone a flash of some very toned abs. Good Lord, he’s this quiet easy guy, but he does … this! It’s like there’s a rod of steel running right through him.

They circle again, batting their hands at each other. Mr. Burly gets hold of Adam’s jacket, bending over with his arms down around Adam’s leg as he drives Adam backward. Adam tries to twist out of his grip, and they careen off the edge of the mat and the referee raises his hand.

As the fight carries on, Adam’s skill is clearly winning him the match. I thought he said he wasn’t very good? The jujitsu videos yesterday didn’t prepare me for this. It’s neck-and-neck, hard-fought, and the burly guy is leaning in all the time with his weight. Ispol’zuyte vse svoi preimushchestva! —use all your advantages! The voices in my head from whenever I was losing never go away.

Eventually, the match draws to a close and Adam has more points than his opponent, but his face is red and his hair is plastered to his temples—it’s taken everything he’s got. God, is this what it’s like to be a coach? … My dad? Sitting on the sidelines, stewing? I’m not sure I could do it. I’m going to breed puppies and work in Adam’s business when I retire. What the hell, Anna? You’re not with Adam … Martina Navratilova played senior tennis for years after she retired: That’s what I’m going to do. I want to stay in the USA. I love training here. Coming back here every year between tournaments has eased all the fear and uncertainty I’ve had about being coerced into going back to Russia. I’d do anything to keep it that way.

Watching Adam’s second match I feel a wave of nausea creeping up my throat. He’s getting annihilated—held down in so many positions. God! Losing! I clench my fists in my lap.

The older man sitting beside me leans toward me and says softly, “Who are you here supporting?”

“A. Miller, mat 4.”

He nods. “He’s had some hard matches. That’s my grandson on mat 3.”

I study the blond guy on mat 3 who looks impossibly young. “How old is he?”

“Sixteen. He’s an excellent fighter but …” He chews his lip. “Professional sport takes its toll.”

“You sound like you’re speaking from experience.”

“Competed myself for a long time, won a few things decades ago. It was very different then. I used to grapple with him when he was younger, but he’s much better than I ever was.”

Oh boy, this man is my dad. “Is it torture watching?”

He huffs. “Always.”

Two girls appear at the end of the row, notebooks and pencils at hand. Ah, shit.

“Could we have your autograph?” they say shyly.

I’m about to take the books when the man’s hand comes across me. They’re talking to him? I stare at the side of his face. Who is he?

“‘Scuse me,” he says. “It happens once or twice every tournament.”

He starts writing on one of the pages, and when I glance over at what he’s doing, he’s written a header that says Rules for Life . I read his list over his shoulder. Don’t drink , the first one says, followed by … and definitely don’t do drugs .

What a cool idea!

He writes the same recommendations in both exercise books and signs them with a flourish, handing them back to the two waiting girls.

“Brainwash ‘em young, that’s what I say.” He chuckles with a wink.

My eyes drift back to the mats. Adam and his grandson have finished their matches.

“Who won?”

“They both lost, but he’s skilled, that man of yours.” I open my mouth to say Adam’s not my man but he’s looking at his watch. “We’ve got a bit of a break now, thank God. I need to go for a smoke.” He holds up a hand. “It’s a vice, I know—but I’m no hypocrite, so I never write Don’t smoke .” He grimaces and then drifts off like a mirage.

I follow him out, find myself a ginger tea from the stand serving hot drinks, and try and calm down. As I’m standing waiting for my order, a text buzzes on my phone.

It’s a picture of Arty’s receipt from the dog breeder, accompanied by a picture of him and the breeder holding Pepper who’s looking up at him adoringly. I roll my eyes. That must have been the only time he ever cuddled her. What a jerk. I tap two buttons to forward it on to my lawyer.

When I come back scowling, I’m immediately sucked back into Adam’s third match. My heart bleeds for him. He’s such a fighter, the way he puts a loss behind him and carries on. It’s impressive, and it’s one of the hardest mentalities to learn in sports, too.

My friend reappears beside me, sucking on a coffee and eating a donut. Yum . He breaks some off and gives it to me then grunts and nods toward the mats. “That man your fella’s fighting, don’t like him, never have.”

The guy launches himself at Adam, who’s immediately got his hands up batting him away, trying to block his attempts to get a hold on him.

“Far too aggressive, hurt my grandson last time ‘e fought ‘im.”

Shit. I don’t think I needed to know that. My throat tightens.

The other fighter takes Adam down to the mat in a hold, but he manages to wriggle out of it and the guy is scowling. But a takedown will get him points, I’m sure. My new friend grunts next to me.

“How’s your grandson doing?” I ask.

“Okay. He’s going to give me a heart attack.”

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 want my autograph, 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 either a 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 winning every game. 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.”

“Oh, but it was so exciting to watch! So much better than tennis.”

His lips curl up farther, and he shakes his head.

“It reminded me of the tournaments I played when I was younger.” I swing my arm around to encompass all the kids that are now drifting off. “If that doesn’t sound patronizing or insulting or anything.”

“Not at all.”

“I’d forgotten what a slog it all was. How there was no reward for any of it, year after year, competition after competition. How I knew who I had to beat and exactly how talented they were, how much better they’d got in the last year, how much better I had to be. ”

Adam gestures forward, and we start walking away from the stadium as he tilts his head at me. “That sounds hard. What kept you going?”

I tuck my hand into his arm. “My dad really. It was his dream, not mine. He played but had to give up tennis to take care of his younger brother, who had muscular dystrophy and died when he was twenty-one. He never got over giving up his dream. He tried to go back to it, but he couldn’t catch up and eventually stopped playing when he was twenty-seven, I think.”

“That sounds rough.”

“It was tough on him, but I was happy to do it, to carry on his dream, you know? I wanted to do it for him so badly. He isn’t an ogre, and I always loved the game and going to competitions with him. It was something we shared.”

“He must be over the moon with how successful you’ve been.”

I eye him sideways. “He is, but underneath it all there’s anger in him, too. Tennis was his life. He could have made it. He was a terrific player when he was younger.”

“God, I’m sorry, Anna. That’s such a sad story.”

I squeeze his arm. “Why are we talking about me when you just won so many fights? What are we doing to celebrate?”

“Well, I need to eat, if that’s something you’d be up for?”

I grin up at him. “Definitely.”

Later on, when I’m back alone in my apartment, full of delicious food, and watching jujitsu videos like my life depends upon it, a text drops into my phone from Damian:

Nice!

It’s a picture of Adam and me in the little Chinese place we went to, and I laugh. He’s got his head on one side, listening intently. I was explaining to him about how to develop a killer backhand and offering to play tennis with him .

I zoom in on the earnest expression on his face. God, he’s such a good person. What was Damian saying about my instincts? Maybe my instinct to be friends with Adam is a smart one.

God knows, I need some better men in my life.