“Sashka!” The coach calls out. “The court is heated! Not the entire backyard!”
“Let’s get you bundled up.”
“Oh yeah,” Sasha says, as if he’d gotten so wrapped up in his win that he’d forgotten about the little matter of the freezing cold.
He bounds off toward the bench next to the court where his bag and winter gear are. I follow him, stepping over the threshold onto the court, heated air rising up to greet me. It’s so warm, in fact, that I unzip my coat and pull off my gloves.
While Sasha gets ready to go, the coach strolls over to me, wiping his hands on a towel hanging from the waistband of his shorts. He’s tall and athletic with long brown hair tied back with a band, a bushy mustache under his nose.
“Viktor Petrov,” he says, offering a large hand to me.
“Amalie Denning.” We shake, his grip unsurprisingly firm.
“So, you’re the new member of the staff. The one looking after our little Roger Federer-in-training?”
“That’s me.”
He nods. “Good. He’s a special boy. But as you’ve noticed, a little shy.”
“Very special. Brilliant, even.”
Another nod, this one more enthusiastic. “He’s got a full team now. I’ll push him out here on the court, you nourish his mind.”
“I like the sound of that.”
For a moment, we watch Sasha as he takes a few more practice swings with his racket.
Then Viktor clears his throat. “I have to say, you have courage.”
Something tells me this doesn’t have to do with Sasha.
“Thank you,” I reply. “I think.”
He lowers his voice to a conspiratorial tone. “Most women would never step into a house like that on purpose, you know.”
My back straightens. I keep my polite smile in place. “Good thing I’ve always been bad at being most women.”
His eyes flick briefly toward the mansion in the distance. “Barinov, he’s a dangerous man.” Before I can reply, he raises his palms. “This is not gossip. Roman knows I know. When you’re a man in a position like his, you pay your staff not just for skill, but for discretion.”
I purse my lips for a moment. “I’m still getting the lay of the land. But it’s nothing I can’t handle.”
He chuckles. “You are brave.”
“I’m careful.”
“Good,” he says, another nod of approval. “Careful will get you far. But so will good judgment. It’s not too soon to step away from this.”
I open my mouth to speak, but before I can say a word Sasha bounds over, bundled up now, his racket slung over his shoulder.
“Ready?” he asks.
“Ready.”
“You needn’t decide anything now,” Viktor says. “Just be careful not to walk blindly into a world you can’t so easily walk out of. A pleasure, Miss Denning.” He flashes me one more smile before heading off toward his own gear.
Sasha’s quiet during the walk back. I try to gently press him to chat about the tennis lesson, only managing to get a few words out of him. But when we step into the room Roman had prepared as an art studio, his entire demeanor changes. He quickly shrugs off his coat, hurrying inside.
The room is gorgeous—bright and warm, sunlight pooling in through tall windows, the air thick with the scent of paper and paint. It’s decked out with easels, tables, and every art supply one could imagine, far beyond what Sasha has in his room upstairs.
