Five
THE GYM WAS quiet. Most of the hardcore gym rats had already been and gone, leaving a Sunday morning lull that belonged to a trio of middle-aged women encouraging each other through their cardio, some serious lifters, and me.
I pulled myself onto a bike to warm-up, body and mind heavy and not just from all the food.
I pushed the pedals into motion and pulled up Danny’s notes.
He wrote everything down because I wasn’t good over the phone, but today my eyes kept glazing over.
Exhaustion, I told myself, though I had slept fine.
Eventually. After lying awake thinking about that kiss for far too long, thinking about what it absolutely didn’t mean and where it absolutely wouldn’t have gone until I was jerking off to an entirely imaginary Miles Callahan.
Not for the first time either, my fifteen-year-old self reminded me.
Back then, his cocky confidence had been no small part of the appeal, though it had become what I hated most about him in the years that followed.
On court, Miles Callahan was a force to be reckoned with, consistent rather than flashy, purposeful rather than spontaneous, every shot deliberate.
Somehow, spending time with the man beneath the facade had been like that, the real Miles a man with a deeper, steadier sort of confidence that had been all too appealing.
And in the wake of that kiss, I had imagined that intent stare and those strong hands and moaned into my pillow.
With a quiet groan of embarrassment, I closed Danny’s notes and brought up the message Katie had sent half an hour before.
Katie Zhang
How was the steak?
Honestly, it was the best steak I’ve ever had
There’s now almost a whole chocolate mousse cake in our fridge too
Wow, you should shout at people more often
I didn’t shout at him! I just told him he hadn’t earned his wins
Which, when I say it like that, sounds worse than shouting
Yup
I would say you’re not making any friends like that, but he bought you steak and chocolate cake so I guess I’m wrong
I’m sure it was a one off. He’s probably already on his way to a nice hotel
I checked the clock. Five more minutes, then I could make use of the restlessness gathering in my limbs. I might have lost my touch at tennis, might have a terrible record of bad-idea kisses, but training I could do.
And then Miles walked in, sending my heartrate through the roof.
He paused in the doorway to look around, his dark-maroon shirt a surprisingly good colour on him.
The hint of a frown only added to the tortured poet look that absolutely, definitely wasn’t entirely my thing. Catching sight of me, he strode over.
“Morning,” he said, dropping his bag at the next bike. “Getting an early start working off all the cake?”
Ah, so we were going to play the pretend-it-didn’t-happen game. “It’s not that early,” I replied, keeping my tone light. “I’ve been up for a while.”
“At least you weren’t woken by that damn cat scratching at your door.”
I grinned. “Yeah, we took that apartment once and never again. Between the cat and the water pressure, it was hell.”
“Are you telling me your shower actually works?”
“Like a charm.”
“Fuck, you’re cruel,” he laughed. It was a cheerful enough sound, but it soon faded into the ambient symphony of clinking weights and feet thumping on treadmills.
And in its wake, an awkward tension grew, plucking at my ribs.
He leaned folded arms on my bike’s display. “Hey, so about last night, I—”
“You drank too much and weren’t thinking and it really doesn’t mean anything because you’re straight,” I said, a familiar knot tightening in my gut. “I know.”
His brows twitched into a frown beneath the fall of his hair. “Why do you think I was going to say that?”
“Because I hear it a lot.” I went on pedalling, wishing I could ride away from this conversation. “Do you remember Lukas Ibsen? Pretty decent junior who went off to become a lawyer or something within a year of going pro?”
“Yeah?”
“I was his ten-second gay panic. Also Oliver Hru?ka. And Ryan Alling, although that was more like a whole gay minute in a dingy bar somewhere in Paris. Oh, and I was Maria Adamo-Forza’s straight panic before she gave up and dated Elena Hammond.
And,” I went on when he said nothing. “There’s a very respected coach on tour, who shall remain nameless, who once took me out with a bunch of his friends, bought me lots of drinks and expected me to be very, very grateful for the attention. ”
Those expressive brows dropped into a scowl. “Who?”
“Nameless,” I repeated. “It’s fine, I handled it.
My point is just that as the only openly gay player on tour, I’ve gotten used to being the guy people have a quick, experimental thing with and make excuses to afterwards.
So, this is not new territory for me and I assure you I didn’t think anything of it. ”
Much.
Miles tilted his head, considering me as I went on pedalling past the end of my warm-up because stopping now would leave me no outlet for the nervous energy this conversation was producing. “And if that wasn’t what I was going to say?”
“Then I’ll be very surprised and shall attempt to prise my foot out of my mouth. Though it wouldn’t make what I said untrue.”
I met his gaze, silently daring him to prove me wrong but too world-weary to hope. After a few seconds, he looked away. “All right, fine, yes, I was going to say something like that but not for the reason you think.”
“Sure.” I laughed softly. “Look, it’s fine, Miles, really. It’s just . . . one of those things. Although, it hasn’t happened for a while. I guess being a nobody isn’t as attractive to people.”
“You aren’t a nobody.”
“World ranking says otherwise. But seriously, don’t sweat it. I’m used to it.”
His frown was back. “That sucks.”
In a world where people had said I’d deserved to get hit by a car for being gay, it was hard to be angry at those who just wanted to see what kissing me was like, but he wasn’t wrong. It still hurt every time someone hastily backpedalled. “Yeah, I guess it does.”
I hit stop and swung my leg off the bike. “I don’t know what your plans are, but I’m doing some lifting then heading to the group workout room for ladder drills and such. They let me use it after the aerobics class. You can join me if you want.”
“That’d be great,” Miles said, climbing onto his bike. “Thanks. Especially after . . .”
“After you kissed me?” I said when he left the words hanging. “Surprisingly, I don’t find being kissed by another man embarrassing. Even if you didn’t mean to, it was still nice.”
Leaving him to both warm-up and digest that unfortunate piece of honesty, I headed across the gym to the lifting racks determined to forget he existed. I almost achieved it, until he came to lean against the wall and watch me finish my last set.
“You like training,” he said as I racked the bar, his words an accusation.
My cheeks flushed. From the effort, I told myself, not because I thought I’d caught an appreciative gleam in his eyes. “Sure. Don’t you?”
“Not particularly. I like playing well and I like winning. That takes training, but I don’t enjoy it for itself.”
“Sucks for you.”
“Ah, but thankfully, I have a match tomorrow so nothing too heavy for me today.”
The aerobics class had finished while I was lifting, leaving the moderately-sized room empty of all but the equipment they kept stacked against the walls and an abandoned water bottle lying on the matting. Miles kicked it out of the way while I dropped my training bag and unzipped the top.
“What do you want to do?” I asked, pulling out cones and tape.
“Go back to bed, personally,” Miles said. “But my conditioning coach would have other ideas if he was here.”
I raised my brows at him. “Is he a taskmaster too?”
“Extremely so. I’m lazy, you see, so it’s the only way to make me do anything.”
The words were flat, like a statement of fact rote-learned, and in their wake his silent stare dropped my stomach.
It must have shown on my face, for he barked a sudden laugh. “God, Mat, you look so concerned. It’s fine. I’ll just do some ladder drills and throws, that sort of thing.”
“Right, well, why don’t you set up how you like and I’ll get a medicine ball. You want two kilos? Five?”
“Urgh, it’s too early for weight conversions.” Miles screwed up his nose. “Ten pounds would be four and a half, so I guess five.”
I went to get the ball, glad to step away for a moment because this whole new thing where we were not just talking but training together felt strange. Although, despite the awkwardness of last night’s kiss and this morning’s excuses, also remarkably easy.
We started with stretches and ladder drills, jumps and footwork exercises using cones on the floor – all the things that could be done without assistance, and though Miles was taking it easy, he was impressive to watch.
His speed, the hair trigger of his reflexes, and his explosive movement were all more impressive up close than on the court.
And when he took breaks, he didn’t retreat to his phone but stood, hands on hips, barking encouraging commands at me.
“Faster. Go. Go. That’s it.” He clapped, keeping time. “Go again. Push harder.”
“Are you channelling your conditioning coach?” I asked, sucking breaths.
“God no, you don’t want that,” he said, and before I could ask why, he picked up the medicine ball, adding, “I’ll throw with you after your next run.”
“It’s fine, I can ask one of the guys in the office.”
Miles folded his arms over the ball. “You would rather a guy with a desk job over me? I’m insulted, Matteo.”
“What? No! I just mean you’ve got your own shit to do.”
“Yes, but I have to regain standing with you somehow. How better than by torturing you?”
“Why do you need—?”
“Catch!”
He threw the ball to my left, forcing me to lunge to catch it and throw it back. “I thought you said after another run!”