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