Whenever her eyes would fall on me either during a warm-up or in the locker rooms, I would feel a cold disdain, cold and hard like I imagined her heart to be. She got to where she was by a Nietzschean effort of will, and she could see quite clearly that I was where I was (financially at least) with the generous help of my figure, my long blond hair, my party-girl image, and the pictures of me on the covers of fashion and sports magazines looking kittenish, coquettish, and just plain slutty.

From my own point of view, the only people who complain about it are people who can't do it themselves, but I will admit that I've had more press coverage than the top ten women in the world, and I've never been ranked higher than twelfth. I don't blame her.

She first spoke to me as I walked off the court about two days before the Open. I was having a great day on the court, which bothered me, because I thought I would curse my game if I was too good during the warm-up. I feel better when I am less than my best until the day of the matches. Somewhere in my mind, I believe that you only get so many good games and you need to save them up for the right time.

"Your name is Anna?" she asked as I walked off the court.

I nodded but stayed silent.

"Anna Gramovitch?"

We both smiled weakly at each other. I rubbed a towel up my arm, across the upper half of my chest.

"Do you know who I am?" she asked, gaze following the rag as I slid it across the back of my neck.

"A variant rival to a man," I answered.

There was a pause as she drove her hard blue eyes into mine.

"Let me tell you something…" she leaned close. "Think more about your game, less about hockey players."

I rolled my eyes and headed for the locker room, but Mariana fastened an iron grip around my triceps and held me in place. "Gravenfort will eat you alive if your return is not better." She looked me dead center.