Trophy Son(46)

Andre Agassi invited me to play in a pro-am in Los Angeles to benefit his foundation. I’d have said yes anyway because I liked what I knew of Agassi and wanted to meet him. He’d also asked Ana to be one of the celebrity amateurs. There was a strong current going my way.

We played the event on the courts of the UCLA campus where Agassi sold tickets to watch and auctioned off lunches with his celebrity friends. Some calls from my agent secured Ana as my mixed doubles partner and we played against Steffi Graf and some guy from Dancing With the Stars.

Ana got to the court after me, wearing a pleated white tennis miniskirt and a white jog bra, and she started stretching by the net. I stood like a kid on the beach of Cape Canaveral watching a shuttle launch. I’d have been caught staring except no one was looking at me. We were all watching the same thing, even the women.

You can know the whole of a woman’s body from seeing her calves and shoulders. If those are great, everything between is great too. Ana had perfect lines of feminine muscle along her thighs and hamstrings to a skinny knee then a rounded calf muscle and slim ankle.

“Hey partner,” she said.

“Of all the gin joints, etc., etc.,” I said.

She laughed. “Don’t give me that. Your agent’s request was passed on to me for approval. Or disapproval.”

“Glad you approve.”

“Well, I plan on winning this thing. Steffi’s past her prime.”

Ana played very well for a social player. She had the natural form people get only if they’ve had lots of lessons at a young age. It gave me hope that she’d been concealing what a fan of tennis she was.

Steffi was composed and kind and as the gracious hostess, she let us win the match, despite Ana deliberately hitting her serve into my back three times. Really the paying ticket holders wanted to see Ana leap up and down in victory and at an event like this you’ve got to give the people what they want.

We had two hours before a cocktail reception that Andre was hosting and after that day I had no idea when I’d see Ana next. The four of us in the match took photos at the net then I said to Ana, “Come with me.”

Ana had an assistant and a security guard who met her at the side of the court but I took her hand and said, “We have urgent business.”

“I’ll see you later,” she told them, and I led her off in a jog so people couldn’t stop us for autographs. Agassi had converted the lobby of an administrative building near the courts into a player lounge away from the crowds. It was a five-story building of offices and I had hopeful and perverted thoughts of what might happen tucked away in one of them.

“Where are we going?”

Years of playing it cool up in smoke, an explosion of a pent-up, childish crush. “Somewhere quiet to talk.”

We came through the lounge still hand in hand and jogging because I couldn’t stand the idea of anyone stopping us. There were some hellos that I brushed away with a wave and kept running like a halfback at half speed, ready to accelerate to the opening when it appeared.

There were double doors at the end of the room with the kind of latch that released by pressing on the horizontal bar. I rammed through and we slowed to a walk on the stairs.

“Are you okay?” Ana said.

“Yeah,” I said. “I’m great.” We were still holding hands. “You played really well. I had no idea.”

“Don’t patronize me.”

“I’m serious. You looked great.”

She smiled. “Why are we running around an office building?”

We were on the landing, halfway between the first and second floors. I pulled her hand and brought her into me like a waltz partner and my other arm went around her lower back. She pressed her hips and stomach against mine. Different answers sprinted through my head. Because I need to kiss you. Because I need to hold you. Because I need to tell you that I love you. I brought my hands up so that my palms went along her cheeks and jawline, barely touching, just enough for the tender act of contact the way an archeologist would lift the Holy Grail, and I kissed her. First soft, then harder, then harder still as she kissed back and brought her arms around my shoulders.

I tasted the salt of her drying sweat and lowered a hand down her back to her tennis skirt and pulled her in tighter.

“This was a long time coming,” she said.

“Yes.”

She affirmed the moment by kissing my cheek then neck and held my shoulders.

The door just below us swung open and banged into the wall. It was Adam.

“Hey,” he said, staring, unmoving, embarrassed but not embarrassed enough to retreat. “They,” he paused, “said you came through this way.”

“Correct,” I said, pissed off that he hadn’t left yet.

“I need to have a word.” He held up his phone. “It’s Gabe and Bobby.” Adam had travelled with me to the pro-am. Gabe and Bobby were back in Florida. I’d never before had a conference call with the two of them.

“Ana, I’ll be right back.” I realized how absurd it would be for her to wait in the cement stairwell. “I’ll see you in the lounge. This should be only a few minutes.”

I walked down and took the phone from Adam. “I’m here.”

“Are you someplace you can talk privately?” said Gabe.

His tone pushed aside my annoyance over the interruption. “One minute.” I walked through the lounge to the lawn outside. “Okay. Shoot.”