Game of Love Synopsis:
Game of Love is set in the high-stakes world of professional tennis where fortune and fame can be decided by a single point.
Gemma Lennon has spent nearly all of her 21 years focused on one thing: Winning a Grand Slam. After a disastrous and very public scandal and subsequent loss at the Australian Open, Gemma is now laser-focused on winning the French Open. Nothing and no one will derail her shot at winning - until a heated chance encounter with brilliant and sexy Andre Reyes threatens to throw her off her game.
Breaking her own rules, Gemma begins a whirlwind romance with Andre who shows her that love and a life off the court might be the real prize. With him, she learns to trust and love… at precisely the worst time in her career. The pressure from her home country, fans, and even the Prime Minister to be the first British woman to win in nearly four decades weighs heavily.
As Wimbledon begins, fabricated and sensationalized news about them spreads, fueling the paparazzi, and hurting her performance. Now, she must reconsider everything, because in the high-stakes game of love, anyone can be the enemy within… even lovers and even friends.
In the Game of Love, winner takes all.
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CHAPTER TWO (Excerpt)
“Hollywood is a place where they’ll pay you a thousand dollars
for a kiss and fifty cents for your soul.”
~Marilyn Monroe
“We’re ready,” her security lead said.
She slid
on her sunglasses, slipped on the noise-canceling headphones, and rose. She
pressed play and turned the volume up―as high as
possible―hoping maybe System of a Down would drown out the voices.
Her
security, one man on the right and another on the left, held her by the arms.
Bedric took the lead. They marched toward the lobby doors. On the other side of
the glass, the hordes ignited into motion and surged forward, while the hotel
staff tried to push back unsuccessfully. Gemma’s gaze lowered to her feet and
stayed there.
When the
doors opened, the noise hit fever-pitch. She shut her eyes and held her breath.
Through the music, she could still hear them call her name. Gemma. Gemma. Gemma. Security rammed their way
through, their bodies pressing hers, her feet barely touching the ground.
Three. Two.
One. Zero.
She was in
the car.
The door
slammed behind her and the locks engaged. She slowly opened her eyes and
breathed again. The paparazzi smelled, a putrid stink of the unbathed who had
given up hygiene for the opportunity to get the one picture that would earn
them a payday or a month’s rent.
She slid
the headphones to the back of her neck, then turned to Bedric, who was perusing
the scouting reports on her next opponent.
“Doesn’t
all this bother you?” she asked.
“They’re
here for you, not me,” he said, eyes trained on the papers.
“Did it
bother you when you played?”
“No one
cared about me when I played.”
“Am I
bothering you?”
“You have
been bothering me for nearly six years now. But I am a patient man.”
“And a
lovely man as well.”
He
snorted.
Gemma grinned.
Bedric was dry as a cork, but lovely nonetheless. She couldn’t have asked for a
better coach and match strategist.
Through
the madness of the crowd, she caught a glimpse of a little girl―maybe eight or nine―trying to see through the
forest of people, saying something, tears in her eyes. She read the girl’s
lips. “Gemma.”
Gemma
scrambled toward the driver’s privacy window just as the car pulled away.
“Don’t leave,” she told the driver. The car came to an abrupt stop. “Do you see
that young girl in the crowd?” she asked the security guard in the passenger
seat while she dug into her bag. “She’s wearing a red top.”
“Yes, but
Miss Lennon, we really should leave.”
“As soon as you give her these.” She handed
him match tickets, then grabbed a tennis ball from her bag and wrote a note.
“And this. Please.”
The
security guard leapt out of the car, and Gemma returned to her seat, watching
intently. The guard made his way to the girl and handed her the ball and
tickets. The girl’s eyes widened. A warm smile spread on her lips just as she
spun toward Gemma’s car, waving vigorously.
This is the
prize. Moments like these kept her sane.
“What did
you write on the ball?” Bedric asked.
“You are the magic.”
Because
life was so vicious, and often unfair, Gemma wanted girls to believe in
themselves—if they did that, no matter the obstacles, they could make it.
After all,
hadn’t she?
Ara Grigorian Bio:
Armenian by heritage, born in Iran, lived in Barcelona, and escaped New York until he found his home in Los Angeles, Ara’s first eleven years were both busy and confusing. The fruit salad of languages would slow down his genetically encoded need to tell stories. Until then, an alter ego would be required…
He received an engineering degree from California State University Northridge and earned his MBA from the University of Southern California. Today, he is a technology executive in the entertainment industry. True to the Hollywood life, Ara wrote for a children’s television pilot that could have made him rich (but didn’t) and nearly sold a video game to a major publisher (who closed shop days later).
But something was amiss until his wife read him the riot act. “Will you stop talking about wanting to be a writer and just do it?” So with her support (and mandate), and their two boys serving as his muse, he wrote stories.
Fascinated by the human species, Ara writes about choices, relationships, and second chances. Always a sucker for a hopeful ending, he writes contemporary romance stories. He is an alumnus of both the Santa Barbara Writers Conference and Southern California Writers’ Conference (where he also serves as a workshop leader). Ara is an active member of the Romance Writers of America and its Los Angeles chapter.
Ara is represented by Stacey Donaghy.
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