Hello, Privet! #1: Hello/Привет

Chapter 18

SOPHIE

Oh no. He's not going to walk out is he?

"Look, I am tired of answering all the time these stupid questions," Anton growls and then stands up without preamble.

He's leaving. He's really leaving? He is. Why am I still surprised after three days with this guy? I run after him, forgetting for a second that I'm supposed to act all dignified and self-possessed as his PR person.

Immediately, flashbulbs start exploding in front of his face, and people run up to him, shouting, "Hey, we still have twenty minutes—"

He just makes a face at them and then marches out of the press room.

He didn't just do that.

I follow him, my head bowed low.

Kirill motions us to get into the waiting car. And then my phone rings.

"Does your ringing have to be so loud?" Anton asks, annoyed.

I glare at him. "Yes," I tell him tersely.

Above Anton's grumbling, John says, "Good afternoon, Sophie. Mr. Dolan just told me that Anton walked out of his press conference. Please tell me it's not true."

"Okay. It's not true," I say.

"Where are you now?"

"In the car, on the way back to the hotel."

"Is Anton with you?"

"Yes."

"I want to speak to him."

I turn on the speaker and hand Anton my phone. "It's John."

John says, "Hello Anton. Congratulations on the win against Viljoen."

Anton says, "I want to pull out of the tournament."

"Why?"

"I am going to rest."

"Anton—"

"I am tired. My shoulder—it hurts."

"Yes, Anton, we're all tired, but pulling out of all the tournaments is simply not an option."

"Why?"

"Look, why don't you come visit me at the office when this is over and we'll talk about this, yeah?"

Anton turns off the phone and hands it to Kirill, who hands it to me.

"John won't let me quit," he tells Kirill.

"Yeah," I mutter. "I gathered as much..."

Kirill and Anton ignore me.

Kirill shrugs. "You have contracts with the sponsors. They need you out here playing."

Later in his hotel room, Anton asks us, "Okay, what happens if I quit?"

"I think it means they can sue you for maybe ten to fifty million dollars?" I shrug. "Depending on how much they can convince the judge you can earn from endorsements."

Anton, despite himself, pales. "That's too much."

"Maybe it's even more. I don't know." I'm lying through my teeth, of course, but he doesn't have to know that. "And they'll never work with you again, and everyone else will know about this—"

"What do we do?" he asks me.

He's asking for my advice now? Nothing like the threat of losing a lot of money to scare someone into behaving.