After Happily Ever Afte- Astrid Ohletz Page 0,51

cutlery. What would she have done? And why was she even wondering? The woman was probably a tennis fan, someone who’d recognised her, nothing more. She’d probably been summoning her courage to ask for an autograph.

“Alina.” Mikhail stood next to the table. She hadn’t seen him approach. He stood waiting, as he always did, for her to rise and kiss him. Other players might want to pass unrecognised during a tournament. Not Mikhail—he thrived on the recognition.

She stood, kissed his cheek, and let him usher her into her seat as if she hadn’t just risen from it a second ago.

“You look stunning.” Mikhail covered her hand with his own. “That blue dress is my favourite.”

“Thank you. You look delectable too. Very handsome.”

“We make a good couple.” He tapped the menu. “Have you already decided?”

She nodded. Mikhail summoned the waiter and ordered fillet steak, well done, and salad, no dressing. Exactly as she’d known he would. The waiter was looking at her patiently. Chicken or steak? Did it even matter? She ordered steak simply to avoid a lecture on nutrition from Mikhail.

He was a good conversationalist, which was one reason she was happy to spend time in his company, and he knew more of the tour gossip than she did.

“Michi Cleaver is now sponsored by Nike,” he said. “Watch out. She may be after your number one ranking.”

“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