“There’s not a player alive who isn’t,” Alina replied. The tender steak turned to cardboard in her mouth. Someone was likely to take the top spot at the end of this Australian Open. Not Michi, not yet, but one of the others. She looked down at her plate. Maybe she should have spent the evening with Anatoly, and let him pick apart her game. If she was to retake the top spot, she’d need all the help she could get.
“—over there.” Mikhail’s head tilt was barely noticeable. “She hasn’t taken her eyes off us.”
She peeked where he indicated. The black-haired woman was looking in their direction. What did Mikhail mean: write about? Then the woman turned to her companion and her very classical profile sparked faint recognition. “Where have I seen her before?”
Mikhail reached across the table, took both of Alina’s hands, and brought one to his lips. “That caught her attention. She’s Tova Wright, the sports journalist. Magazine pieces, not the usual run-of-the-mill post-match interviews.”
That must be it. The press often had access to the players’ areas. No doubt she had seen Tova Wright there. Alina glanced again. Just quickly. No one would think anything of it.
The glance she’d intended stretched as Tova’s gaze held Alina pinned. Her shallow breathing barely moved her chest, and she reached for her water glass to give her shaking fingers something to do. Tova’s expression was curious, and it flicked from Alina to Mikhail and back again. A tiny frown wrinkled Tova’s forehead. Her lips curved in a faint smile, as if she knew all there was to know about Alina.
A sick feeling churned Alina’s stomach. It was as if Tova knew a secret.
Even though Alina had been summarily dismissed from the Australian Open, as the number one ranked player, she was comped a luxury hotel room for the first week. There was nowhere else she had to be, and Anatoly could put her through the refined torture he called “training” anywhere. It made financial sense to remain in Melbourne.
Alina headed to the practice courts. Her racquet bag weighed heavy on her shoulder, and even at nine in the morning she sweated lightly from the scorching summer sun. It would be sub-zero at home, the ground frozen to a depth that wouldn’t melt for several months yet. She rotated her shoulders, enjoying the heat of the sun.
Alina pushed through a knot of fans, some holding programs and pens in the hope of an autograph. She didn’t stop; she seldom did. Fans thought they owned you. They were just another distraction she didn’t need.
Anatoly waited for her, and for the next hour, he made her work on her smash, lobbing ball after ball high into the air for her to smash back.
Alina fought to keep her expression neutral as Anatoly then proceeded to dismantle every one of her returns, one by one, criticising her footwork, court position, line up, and execution.
“You are positioning yourself too far back from the ball.” His eyebrows lowered in a frown. “It is the sign of a lazy player.”
She gritted her teeth so hard her jaw ached. Lazy. She was many things; lazy was not one of them. But arguing the point had never worked in the past. Anatoly demanded total obedience to his routines.
He reeled off a list of strength exercises to keep her occupied during the afternoon. The number of repetitions alone would deaden her mind.
I can’t do this. Alina drew in a deep breath. Her legs ached, and the racquet was a dragging weight in her hand. She summoned her courage and lifted her chin. “I am not feeling too well. I will do as many as I am able, but I intend to have a few hours off this afternoon to rest. I will see you tomorrow.” Without waiting for his answer, she spun on her heel and marched back to the bench. She stuffed her racquets back in the bag, wiped her face with her towel and slung it around her neck. No doubt Anatoly was staring at her back, gasping like a stranded salmon. In the five years of their professional relationship, she had never walked out on a coaching session.
Alina flashed a small smile to the fan who held the gate open for her.
“Alina.” The voice was low and mellow. Even the rather nasal Australian accent was softened at the edges.
Alina slowed and turned toward the voice.
The dark-haired woman let the gate swing closed and held out her hand with a smile. “I’m Tova Wright, sports journalist. I’m pleased to meet you. I saw you last night in the restaurant.”
Alina stopped. Up close and in casual clothes, Tova was more intriguing than she had been last night. Her hair gleamed in the sun, and she wore a scarlet polo shirt with a pair of white tailored shorts. The glow on her skin seemed natural. “I remember. My companion told me who you are.”
Tova smiled, showing slightly uneven white teeth. It added to her natural look. “Then maybe Mikhail told you I like to profile sportspeople in-depth. Interesting people, not just jocks.”
A knot of teenage girls approached, giggling and nudging each other. They clutched oversize tennis balls and marker pens. They were too close, inside her personal space, with their grins and hopeful faces. Alina took a step back and moved so that Tova was between her and the fans. “Walk with me to the locker room,” she said to Tova, and started off without waiting to see if Tova agreed.
Quick footsteps sounded on the path and Tova drew alongside. “Most players like to engage with fans, at least some of the time.”
“I prefer not to. It makes me uncomfortable, to be honest.” She clutched her racquet bag tighter to her body and snuck a glance sideways at Tova.
Tova raised an eyebrow. “Why so? You’re world number one. This tournament aside, you’ve got a fantastic record. Thirty-odd million in career prize money. Is the adoration so strange?”
“People will always look up to the most unlikely people. But I’m happy for it not to be me.” The more people knew about her, it seemed the more they wanted to know. Keep them out. Keep flying below the radar.
“You don’t engage much with your peers on the tour either.” Tova’s voice was musing, not accusatory. “I wonder why that is?”
“It dulls my competitive edge. It must be very hard to demolish a friend in a match.” Alina stopped outside the door to the competitors’ area. “If you’ll excuse me, I need a shower. It was good meeting you, Tova.” She swiped her pass and stepped inside, closing the door behind her, and blew out a deep breath. She wasn’t sure why, but Tova—and her questions—unsettled her. Questions to which Alina was sure Tova knew the answers to, maybe even before Alina did herself.
The door opened again, and Tova stepped through. She held up her own pass. “You don’t get rid of me so easily.”
“What do you want?” Alina put a layer of coolness in her voice. Keep her at a distance.
Tova rested one hand on the wall, effectively cutting off Alina’s exit.
Alina drew herself up, tilted her head, and raised an eyebrow.
“I want to interview you, Alina Pashin. You’re an intriguing person, quite apart from your incredible tennis talent. I’d like to shadow you for a few days while you’re in Melbourne.”
“Such requests need to go through my agent. If you’ll excuse me.” Alina brushed past Tova’s arm. Tova was too perceptive. Her questions, innocuous as they seemed on the surface, put her off balance. It was like being poised on a precipice, waiting for Tova’s next question, the one that would surely make her fall.