CHAPTER 12
George
‘You haven’t heard from her since yesterday?’ I ask Jack as he jogs alongside me.
‘Nope, and you behaving like a complete arsehole probably means I won’t for a while.’
‘She really said that?’ What did I even do?
‘No, she said she was having trouble with some spoilt athlete. I didn’t realize it was you!’
‘I didn’t realize it was her! I wouldn’t have been so rude if I did.’ If I knew she wasn’t just another posh twat of Cece’s.
‘I’m not sure that’s any better, George. Wouldn’t kill you to be slightly more approachable, you know? Your fans, the press, they don’t know you beyond this fuck-off persona you’ve created. She doesn’t know you beyond that. I know you and you’re not like that.’
‘You’re not always trying to take advantage of me. I trust you.’
‘Well, you can trust her too. She didn’t even tell me she was looking after you.’
We run in silence for a while, equally paced, the only sound our even breathing.
Trust. Not something that comes easily to me.
I had never trusted my family with any real feelings growing up, learning that I was unable to express anything other than perfunctory emotion, performing the part of a perfect son when it suited my father.
My mother was largely absent and totally uninterested in anything I had to give beyond looking handsome at her parties.
I had trusted Gordon with my career; he was my big brother after all and he hadn’t failed me yet.
He knew enough of what happened last year to understand that I sometimes needed support, but I still hadn’t been able to share how bad things had become.
My relationship with Olivia wasn’t built on trust but expectation; I was expected to date her, expected to propose, expected to provide her with the life she had expected for herself, a life I realized I didn’t want.
The same life my parents had and her parents had, everyone around us had.
I performed correctly for years, to the point that I really thought I loved her.
The minute I realized the pattern I was falling into, I started to panic.
It didn’t help that the pressure of tennis became such that I found myself collapsing under its weight, crushed by the fear that I wasn’t good enough, that I’d get injured, that I’d lose it all.
I was terrified to show her any weakness, but when I realized that she didn’t care to see it anyway, I knew it was over.
I shake the thoughts from my head and take Hope’s advice; I focus on my steady breathing, on our footsteps beating in time against the gravel, the early evening sun twinkling through the trees lining the path through to Grange Home Farm. I turn my face to feel its warmth, my mind calming.
‘You OK, mate?’ Jack turns his head, bumping his shoulder against mine. ‘Lost you there for a sec.’
‘Yeah, yeah, sorry.’ I shake my head again.
We slow down, coming to a stop outside Grange Home Farm, my friend Harry’s new venture.
One of the few actually decent guys I went to school with, he came to me a few years ago with an idea to transform some of the old barns on the estate.
Once I convinced Dad he wouldn’t have ‘locals trudging through the garden’, he offered his blessing.
Harry took a year to fully renovate the two spots with his interior designer girlfriend, Milly.
He added plumbing, power and a proper chef’s kitchen.
He planted a vegetable garden, found the right barista, convinced a previous chef contact from London to relocate and gave some local teenagers their first jobs.
The result is a warm, welcoming and incredibly stylish community hub that has vastly improved the area.
People actually travel to come here. We’re lucky it’s on the doorstep and I always visit when I’m home.
Now I’m living here between tournaments, it’s a lifesaver.
We order our coffees and flop down on the deep sofas in front of the log burner; I’m still sweaty from our run. It looks pretty and homely, comforting.
We sit in silence for a few minutes before Jack speaks tentatively. ‘I didn’t mean what I said, you don’t give ‘fuck-off’ vibes, most of the time. They just make you out to be that way.’
I laugh, breaking the slight tension and erasing any worry from his face. ‘It’s OK, mate. If I’m being a prick, I’m glad I have you to call me out on it.’
He smiles contentedly, sipping his coffee.
‘So what should I do?’
‘About Leo?’ He looks surprised.
‘No, my serve. Yes, Leo.’
He grins at me. ‘Well, your serve still needs fixing, but you’ll survive. Leo, that might be slightly harder.’
I grunt in response.
‘Just open up a little. She’s a good friend to me, a good person. She’s also in a shitty position. You know she doesn’t even look after members any more, and her twat of a boss has just assigned her to look after you?’
‘Cece? He’s a clown.’
‘Exactly. She no more wants to do this than you do. Just try to make it a bit easier for her.’
‘She’s not exactly being easy herself . . .’
‘I can’t imagine why?’ He smiles. ‘And please ask her to reply to me when you see her.’
‘Why don’t you ask tennis dress?’ It’s my turn to grin.
‘Rosa? Fuck off, they’re both just friends.’
‘Yeah, I always go bright red around my “friends”,’ I tease.
‘You don’t have any friends. Except me.’
‘And Harry,’ I laugh, as he comes over.
‘How are you, gents? Need anything else?’ His bright blue eyes crinkle at the corners as he smiles at us both.
I swear Harry gets better-looking with age, his boyish face maturing with a smattering of dark stubble.
Always popular with the girls, even at an all-boys school, local hearts were broken when they discovered the equally lovely Milly.
They make a picture-perfect pair, taking to the countryside well, after they realized finance jobs in London were filling their bank accounts but slowly draining the life from them.
‘All good.’ I finish my cup and go to stand, my legs aching slightly. Must get a massage in Paris. ‘Off to Paris tomorrow morning and probably should start to pack.’
‘Roland-Garros?’ Harry asks. ‘We’ll be cheering you on, Georgy.’ I don’t mind my childhood nickname when it comes from him. ‘Good luck. Although, Milly does like the new Spanish guy . . .’
‘Fernando Rainez? He’s a kid!’
She comes up behind Harry, collecting our cups. ‘He’s twenty-four, perfectly acceptable. Such a gorgeous face, and have you seen his arms?’ She exhales.
I mock-frown, pouting at her.
‘You’re handsome too, George, you certainly don’t need me to tell you that.’ She walks back to the counter, muttering, ‘These boys and their egos . . .’
Jack and I say our goodbyes and head back out to stretch before jogging home.
‘Just be nice to her, OK?’ he tells me as we draw level near the house and he heads to his car. ‘Reach out first. She’ll be freaking out about the whole thing, I’m sure.’
‘She seemed perfectly capable of handling me this morning,’ I call over. It was me that felt out of control. An image flashes through my mind of her lips, shiny and plump, and my cock twitches. I need to cool down. Running shorts don’t exactly hide a semi . . .
‘Just be you, and good luck. Call me,’ he shouts as he drives off. ‘Love you!’
I laugh, once again thankful. I may not have many friends, and I might not be able to say I love him back, but I’m damn glad I have Jack.
——
I managed to avoid supper with Gordon and Dad by excusing myself to prepare and actually pack for the next two weeks.
I always feel superstitious taking enough clothes for the whole tournament.
What if I’m knocked out in the first round?
But I focus on the positives. I’m doing better this year, really fucking well compared to last. I feel competitive again on the court, my body feels good, my mind catching up, but getting there.
I’m starting to feel the buzz again, the excitement of leading the game over my opponent, not dominating as I was before, but setting the pace and style of play. I’m ready.
Still in my running gear from earlier, I head to my en suite and rip it off, tossing everything in the laundry basket tucked just inside the door.
I switch the shower on, glancing in the mirror.
My face looks older, tired, with dark circles under my eyes.
No wonder Milly’s rooting for Rainez. Thirty isn’t much older than twenty-four but, in tennis terms, I’m practically ancient.
I give my eyes a rub and breathe out slowly, before stepping in under the hot flow.
A thought pops into my head. ‘I wonder how old Leo is?’ Surely a similar age if she’s hanging out with Jack?
I think of my hand in the crook of her waist this morning and the way she looked up at me with those eyes, vibrant, green and full of fire. She barely came up to my shoulders, but the power of that glare . . . I recall how good she smelled, how tempting, and my cock thickens.
Before I can help myself, my hand is wrapped around my hard length, pumping slowly as I think of her, allowing myself to enjoy the fantasy.
I imagine my hands trailing down from her small waist, grabbing handfuls of that fantastic arse to lift her up against the tiled shower wall, my rock-hard cock slipping inside.
My hand strokes faster as I brace myself with the other over my head.
I imagine pushing in and out slowly at first, then harder, faster, until she’s moaning against my chest, gripping onto my shoulders as I plunge deeper.
I think of her biting down on her pillowy lips in pleasure while looking up at me with those eyes and it tips me over the edge.
I come quickly, faster than normal, and hard, almost thrown back against the shower door with the force of it.
A few seconds later, chest heaving and blinking slightly as I come down, I groan out loud. I have two weeks with this woman. And she hates me.
I’m absolutely fucked.
——
Before going to sleep, I remember Jack’s advice and decide to reach out. Feeling reckless and unable to get her off my mind, I flirt a little.
George Hampden:
See you in Paris. I guess we can discuss ‘my preferences’ in person now.
Yep. Fucked.