Game of Love by Ara Grigorian

marched her through fans, reporters, and paparazzi.
    She was inundated by the voices, the inane questions…
    –
Is it true? Are you quitting tennis?
    …Odd requests…
    –
Can you sign my car?
    …Pleas for surprising details.
    –
Is it true you and Johnny Flauto have rekindled your romance?
    On that one she wanted to deliver a few choice words, but she kept her composure and maintained a steady gait until she slid into her waiting car. The locks engaged.
    “Xavi, you didn’t have to pick me up.”
    “I wanted to pick you up,” he said with a warm smile. “To welcome you home.”
    “It’s lovely to be back.”
    “The bastards got word about your flight hours ago.” His eyes hardened. Always her protector and guru.
    With the help of her security team and airport police, the car rolled away.
    “How’s Mari?” she asked.
    “Now that you’re home, she is happy. She is preparing
Crema Catalana
for you.”
    The mere mention of the Catalonian dessert made her salivate. “I can’t wait.”
    “We will eat, then over coffee and dessert, we will talk.”
    Finding Xavi and Mari three years earlier had been serendipitous. She had been searching for information on her birth parents when she’d met them. Like her birth father, they were also from Spain. They had been friends with her birth mother before the tragedy that left newborn Gemma an orphan. In no time, they became part of her extended family, and when Xavi and Mari’s son started college in Los Angeles, Gemma purchased a home in Malibu and transplanted them there. She trusted them with everything–home and soul. They offered unconditional love and respect. When she came to Malibu, she was home.
    “Yes, there is plenty to talk about,” she said. But the urgency for visiting seemed to have vanished. After the French Open loss, she’d felt dizzy again and her insides churned, just like in Australia. She had wanted to curtail the anxiety before it spun out of control. Somehow, it was all but gone. Was that because of Andre? In so many ways, his story was her story. Had she found her kindred spirit?
    She removed the napkin with Andre’s number from her purse and took a whiff, hoping the scent of his cologne was still detectable. She wanted–needed–to see him again.

    Andre didn’t wait for Roger. He rushed off the plane and practically ran to the customs gate, beating the large crowd. He walked past the awaiting company car, toward the taxi station. He was in a great mood and didn’t want Roger to irritate him.
    “Where to?” the taxi attendant asked.
    “Santa Monica.”
    He rolled down the window in the cab. The dry afternoon heat rushed in, practically choking him. And although the air-conditioner blew cool air, he needed real air. Each city had its distinctive smell, but all airports and the surrounding areas smelled the same: like fuel. He longed for the scent of the ocean.
    He texted Roger. “
Sorry, had to run. Talk to you later.
” He hoped that would keep the man at bay.
    Andre entered his condo with a singular goal in mind: get fresh ocean air. Fast. After a quick shower, he took Pacific Coast Highway. Convertible top down, he inhaled the warm rush of the air and exhaled slowly. The scent of the sea always took him back to his youth in Spain. His safe haven.
    He parked his car at Zuma Beach, the north end of Malibu. It was early Sunday afternoon and beach-dwellers littered the coast, sunbathing and swimming. Farther north, a film crew marked off an area. A typical day at the beach.
    He sat on the sand, absorbing everything around him. A large wave crashed, and the white wash came up to his feet, sinking his toes. Seagulls drifted overhead, their cries hoarse. After a few waves, his feet were completely submerged in the wet sand. One wave at a time, he was sinking deeper and deeper. In trouble, on many levels.
    He wanted to spend more time with Gemma, but time with her meant time away from work, jeopardizing his contract, his bonus, his