Three #3
“I’m sure you could if you still played like that.”
If I kept glaring at the machine, perhaps it would catch fire.
“I saw it for a bit there, you know,” he said, not taking the hint to shut up. “At the French. During that second set you opened up and let rip, and I couldn’t for the life of me guess where that ball was going. Felt like I was tripping around in the dark.”
“I was just angry and careless and got lucky.”
“Lucky?” he scoffed. “Bullshit. That was your real game.”
I scowled up at him over my shoulder. “What are you talking about?”
With a suffering glance flicked toward the ceiling, Miles heaved a sigh.
“Fuck, I’m going to regret this,” he muttered, and pulled me around to set his hands on my shoulders.
“You have more instinct for this game than anyone I have ever met,” he said, his dark irises like magnets.
“You have the sort of talent the rest of us would kill for, you just . . . don’t use it anymore.
And that’s a shame, because even when you were beating me, the sight of Matteo Russo in top form was a thing to behold.
You didn’t just used to be fucking brilliant. You are fucking brilliant.”
He dropped his hands and looked away, the huff of a laugh ghosting past his lips as though in disbelief at his own words. A disbelief I shared, my heart thumping so hard I felt dizzy.
“Um,” I said, because I had to say something, had to acknowledge the enormity of all that. “I . . . Thank you.”
“Yeah, well, don’t get used to it.” He gestured at the washing machine continuing its thankless task. “Consider it repayment for teaching me how to do laundry.”
I laughed because it was easier than finding something to say.
“But seriously,” he added, glancing back as his machine finished its cycle with a clunk. “Don’t listen to Danny. You’re not a plan-your-points by-the-book player and you never will be, no matter what he says.”
He yanked open the washing machine, spilling a pair of boxers onto the laundromat floor. “Do I just stick all this in the dryer now or what?”
“Yeah,” I said, glad to have something else to talk about, something mundane that didn’t leave me feeling like my insides had been raked out. “But not your compression shorts. You have to lay them out to air dry.”
“Lay them out? Where? That apartment isn’t exactly spacious.”
“Personally, I prop the dishrack over the shower when we’re not using it and put them on that.”
Miles got to his feet, a bundle of damp clothing in his arms and a disgusted look on his face. “The dishrack.”
“Got to be resourceful.”
Dumping the pile on the bench, he started sorting through it for his compression shorts, pushing aside not only tennis gear but a pair of jeans and a faded hoodie.
And a whole collection of loose socks and underwear.
Something about the sight was uncomfortably intimate – a ridiculous thought when I’d often thrown Katie’s through the machine with my own.
He shoved it all into the nearest dryer when he was done. “Coins?” he said, looking over his shoulder. “Honestly, who even carries coins? Someone needs to make these card-operated.”
“Some are, just not this one,” I said, and tossed him my coin pouch. “Could be worse. Some places take notes, but if there’s even the tiniest wrinkle in one, the machines spit them out and you have to stand there smoothing—”
Miles made a disgusted sound, shaking his head. “No. Uh-uh.”
“What? It’s all just part of the solo-life-on-the-road experience.”
“I don’t care!” he said, laughing as he threw back the pouch. “I swear to god, Mat, if you take me to one of those, I will never ever speak to you again.”
WE WALKED BACK in silence, Miles following me all the way to the top floor, only to stop outside the first apartment across the hall. The grey cat from his photo was stalking back and forth leaning against the door.
“She seems to think it’s her apartment,” he said, digging in a pocket for his key.
“Maybe it is. Maybe you’re her Katie rather than the other way around. Well, catch you later,” I added and walked on, not wanting him to think I was lingering presumptively.
“Yeah, see you round.”
My door was a bit farther along and not once did I glance back, but as I jiggled open the old lock, the floor creaked behind me.
Miles had dropped his bag and followed, and in the late afternoon sunlight now spilling through my open door, he ran a hand through his hair. A glance at me quickly shied away.
“Hey, uh, do you have plans tonight?” he asked.
Far from the first time someone had asked me that, but normally they weren’t scowling like their mother had forced them to play nice. “Not exactly,” I said, letting the words lengthen in confusion. “Why?”
“Because we could order in and hang out. If you’re up for it.”
Ordering in and hanging out had always been my favourite precursor to making out and hooking up, but this was Miles Callahan not a cute piece of arse, and there was no way he meant it as anything but friends.
But we had never been friends and I couldn’t see why he gave a shit about changing that now.
“My treat,” he added when I didn’t answer. “Consider it thanks for helping me out today.”
“I thought your earlier compliments were for helping you out,” I said.
He lifted his hands and let them fall in exasperation. “Just accept the offer, Mat. Or don’t. Whatever.”
“I just don’t get it, all right? You haven’t talked to me for years and now we’re just friends all of a sudden?”
“No! Not friends, I just—” He ran a hand through his hair again. “Look, I’m not used to this, all right? I always travel with my team. And Tina. My sister. I don’t . . . sit around by myself on the road very often.”
“Ohhh,” I said, grinning. “You need a pity friend!”
Miles groaned, dragging a hand down his face and leaving behind a glare. “Must you?”
“Yes. Admit it and maybe I’ll let you stick around.”
“Fine! I need a pity friend, okay?”
“Damn that was beautiful. I should have filmed it.”
“Oh my god, fuck you.”
He spun to stride away along the corridor, but I grabbed his arm, laughing. “I’m kidding!” I said, pulling him back. “You can come over. Though you have to buy me real, actual meat.”
Suspicion lingered, but he said, “Give me permission to exclude tonight’s meal from the budget and I’ll buy you whatever you like.”
It was tempting to be sanctimonious and point out that I didn’t have the luxury of just excluding things from my budget because I felt like it, but a really good meal I didn’t have to pay for was even more tempting. “Fine. Permission granted.”
A smile twitched through his annoyance. “Good. What do you want?”
“An amazing steak. One that’s so good it melts in your mouth. And vegetables. God, I miss fresh vegetables.”
“Steak and vegetables? Wow, Mat, you are truly boring,” he said, an amused light shining in his eyes. “But your wish is my command. I’ve got some shit to see to first though.”
“Sure. Take your time.”
With a shake of his head, he walked back toward his own apartment, muttering, “Steak and vegetables.”