Five #2
“Yeah, well, I changed my mind.” He threw it again, and for the next half hour, got his exercise by making me suffer.
From catches to resistance bands to drilling my reaction time, the whole session became an arm wrestle, Miles increasing the speed and intensity over and over like he was testing what I could do.
And every time I met the challenge, his eyes brightened and he pushed me harder.
Part of me screamed that I ought to slow down, but it was drowned out by the thundering of my pulse as I rose to that fucking challenge because I would not back down.
By the time he called a halt, I was hot and sweaty and breathing hard, and hadn’t felt so alive in a long time. High on the adrenaline, I was sure I could have kept going, so when he shrugged and said, “I guess that was passable,” I’d taken half a dozen steps toward him before I could stop myself.
Miles didn’t retreat, just grinned as his gaze slid down my body and back. “You look like you want to fight me,” he said and ran his tongue along his teeth, all dare.
I sure wanted to do something, but it was less throwing punches than throwing him against a wall and fucking him, and I needed to step away before I did something I would excessively regret.
After years of being careful never to get riled up in a tennis setting, of course it would be Miles Callahan who ruined it.
Miles Callahan who stood his ground with that wicked smile.
“You like training because you like a challenge,” he said, slightly breathless himself. “Whereas I like someone who can keep up with me.”
Come-fuck-me eyes. I could see it now, the dare in his expression having a dark, glittering edge.
What the fuck are you doing? the sane, sensible part of me screamed. This is Miles Callahan, not some cute piece of arse trying to pick you up in a laundromat. Get a grip!
I forced out a laugh. “Well, I keep up with you passably, apparently.”
“Ooh, nice to know I can hit a nerve too.”
He was temptation manifest, all loose damp hair and heavy-lidded eyes, that maroon shirt slicked to his skin.
I wanted to slip my fingers into his waistband, wanted to slide my tongue between his teeth, wanted to drag a moan from that bared throat.
Standing close was far too dangerous, so I spun away to snatch up my towel.
As I ran it through my hair, Miles’s phone rang. He groaned. “I have to take this.”
To show it was none of my business, I lifted a dismissive hand and moved away to walk off the adrenaline.
“Hey, Tee, what’s up?” Miles said, phone to his ear. “I’m at the gym. Time difference, remember?” Pause. “But you’re always interrupting, it’s your job,” he laughed, setting his free hand on his hip. “Don’t let a few thousand miles stop you.”
Again he paused to listen, and absently started moving one of our tennis balls around with the toe of his shoe.
“Yes, of course I remember. Afternoon tea at three, dinner at seven and they want me an hour before both for the stylist.” Another pause, but this time he looked up, meeting my gaze across the room.
“No. I told you, I’m attending this one on my own.
Don’t. It’s been ages since Miami, Tee, I’m good.
No one will think it strange when I’m out of the country. ”
He fixed his gaze on me as he spoke, and though it was in the absent way people tended to stare when they were concentrating on something else, it felt it like it had weight.
“Of course it would be easier if you were here,” Miles said, turning away with a sigh. “But I’m doing this swing on my own, yeah?”
Whatever was said on the other end made Miles look back at me, a hint of that wicked smile returning. “You can talk to him now if you like. He’s right here.”
“What?” I said as Miles approached across the gym mats.
“We were training,” he said. “But I’m sure he can spare you a few minutes.”
“A few minutes for what?” I cried, panic spiking as he halted before me.
“Yeah, here, I’ll hand you over.”
He held out his phone. I didn’t take it, frozen like a deer in headlights. “I don’t—I—”
“It’s my sister, Tina. Be nice. Say hi.” His grin spread. “She wants to talk to the man who dared me into this ridiculous stunt. Her words, not mine.”
“Uh . . .” He gave the phone an impatient shake, and realising this was just another of his damn challenges, I took it and set it to my ear. “Hello?”
“Why hello!” a cheery voice replied. “So, you’re the man I have to blame for not getting my trip to England this year?”
“Um, I guess so?”
Miles, wearing a shit-eating grin like he’d just played the ultimate checkmate, dropped into some stretches at my feet.
“Well, I would tell you what I think of that,” Tina Callahan said, all high-speed American socialite. “But honestly, it’s fine. I was joking when I said I would give the man who challenged him to this a piece of my mind and so of course he’s called my bluff. Though I’m not sure I caught your name.”
“Mat,” I said, while on the floor Miles was showing off a frankly upsetting degree of flexibility like it was nothing and still grinning.
“Mat. Lovely. I’m Tina, but you already know that.
I’m often at Miles’s matches so you might have seen me around.
Depending how this experiment of his goes, I bet I can pitch a piece to one of the major publications, you know, about the experience of lower-ranked players trying to make do.
Miles will complain about more interviews because he always does, but I’ll talk him around, and the media attention might be good for you. ”
The very idea sank my stomach like a lead ball. “Thanks, but I really don’t need it.”
“Nonsense, everyone needs it. Public interest builds brands and brands make hype and hype gets sponsorships, and then—”
Miles got up off the floor with a small groan of effort. “Do you want to keep working after this? Or are you done?”
“Oh, I’m done,” I said, interrupting Tina’s flow. “Sorry. Miles just asked a question. But look, I really don’t want to be known as the guy who complained about the tour so much he made the world number four feel bad.”
“Hmm.” Tina sounded genuinely thoughtful, and in the moment of silence I tried to recall her face.
I’d certainly seen match coverage cut to her reactions in his player’s box, but I’d never paid enough attention to decide whether they looked alike.
“I’ll think on it,” she said after a pause.
“See if I can come up with a better angle. In the meantime, can he hear me?”
Away in the centre of the room, Miles was collecting my cones into a neat stack. “No? Probably not.”
“Good. I just . . .” She sighed down the line, the sound coming with a brief jingle of music like she’d walked through a room with a radio on. “How is he? I’m the family worrier, you see. Do you have sisters, Mat?”
“No, two younger brothers.”
“Ah, then allow me to inform you that a big sister’s job is to worry and be nosy, and as his publicity manager and social media human, it’s doubly my job, so . . . is he okay?”
Seeming to sense something was amiss, Miles glanced over, a faint frown collecting between his brows.
“I think so?” I said, not meeting his gaze. “Not that I know him very well.”
“The best I’m going to get, I suppose. Thank you, but don’t keep him training too long, now, all right? He has a high tea at Queen’s at three and the stylist needs him by two, and if he’s not there, I’ll have to murder someone and it might just be you.”
“I’m not his keeper!” I cried, and Miles, clearly deciding this prank had backfired quite enough, abandoned packing up to stride over.
Tina laughed. “You are for today! Please! What’s your last name, Mat? So I know who to thank when he gets there on time.”
“Uh, Russo,” I said, and as silence met this, Miles snatched the phone out of my hand.
“Don’t need a babysitter, Tina,” he snapped at her, and the sound of her shouting something faded as he strode away across the floor. “It’s fine. You want to make sure I leave on time then call me. No. Bye, Tee.”
He hung up, and with a rueful laugh, ran a hand through his hair. “Sorry,” he said. “Sometimes I forget she’s even pushier than I am.”
“Yeah, well, maybe we should head back,” I said. “So you have time to shower and have lunch and . . . whatever else you need to do.”
Miles gave me a faintly disgusted look. “Are you trying to take care of me?”
“No! I’m trying not to die! You might not need a babysitter, but I don’t want to get murdered by your sister.”
We walked back together, him frowning at his phone, me hauling my heavy training bag.
He took it from me at the bottom of the stairs, and though it wasn’t his to carry, my arms were too tired to complain.
“Hey, so that shower of yours that has good water pressure,” he said as we reached our floor. “Can I use it after you?”
“You can use it first if you like,” I said, pushing through the stairwell door and holding it open for him.
“No, I refuse to steal your hot water. I can wait, I just don’t think I can make myself high-tea presentable with water that barely drips.”
I dug my key from my pocket. “Sure, just come over when you’re ready. I won’t be long.”
“Take your time. I’m not in a hurry.”
A glance at my phone suggested he actually was in a bit of a hurry, but I refused to point this out. In no universe was Miles Callahan’s media schedule my problem, and even if it had been, I would rather fail that job than have him ask again whether I was trying to take care of him.
I had planned to be quick, but between the amount of sweat I had to wash off and the need to dress behind closed doors, I took longer than I’d meant. When I finally escaped the bathroom, apology tripping off my tongue, I found him sitting on the couch with my e-reader.
“Uh,” I said, struggling to unravel horror from amusement as he reluctantly looked up. “Shower’s ready.”
“Thanks.” He set the reader down and unfolded to his full height like he might just keep going until he hit the ceiling. “You have a lot of books.”