Seventeen #3
“Oh no. Were you at the place with that chocolate mousse cake? Because if so, I cannot live up to what you have lost.”
“Shut up,” he growled, and made it so by kissing me deeply, one hand gliding down to grasp my hip while the other slid into my hair.
He was all weight and heat and silken limbs, and no small part of me wanted to tear his shirt open heedless of the fine little buttons.
“God, Mat, I want you,” he said with a breathy groan as he dug his fingers deeper into my hip.
“Can I? I’ll be gentle so you won’t feel it tomorrow, I promise. Say no though, if you don’t—”
“Yes.” No thought, only a desire to be his, especially now I knew the rarity with which this particular mood overtook him.
I should have known how it would be. Should have refused.
But since I hadn’t, Miles took me to bed and then took me apart.
From the moment he pulled off my clothes and slid in deep, I was lost. He was good to his word, slow and gentle, every movement as purposeful and sure as his shots on the court, but it was me who had his whole attention.
Me who was never coming back from this, every kiss a fresh chip in my armour, every gasp and moan of my name a fresh precipice from which I could never return.
Until all I could do was look up into those intent dark eyes and drown, the words I love you echoing like a song through the cavern he had carved in my heart.
I loved him. God, it had been stupid to ever deny it, like it was possible to slap Band-Aids on a gaping wound.
I loved him. Not just a little, but with an enormity that frightened me, the size of it like the impossible depths of the ocean. And lying there, laid bare as he touched me and filled me, it was almost unbearable. Like if I did not speak, my chest would burst and I would bleed out in his arms.
Yet fear won. Fear that as much as Katie might have been right, so had I, because one way or another an admission would be the end.
Whether it was his family or his sponsors or his fans he most feared, I would not force him to come out, but neither would I hide.
To be nothing but an easy fuck was the only way I could keep him.
THE ICE BATH felt extra cold, the locker room extra quiet. I didn’t look at my phone.
Losing had felt different this time. I hadn’t played badly, hadn’t tensed up and shanked the ball all over the place, but neither had I been able to find my rhythm, like I’d been caught on shifting sands.
Janicek had played an excellent match and perhaps he would have won anyway, but it felt like I’d taken the wrong brain with me onto the court.
Or like I’d left myself behind that morning, held within the circle of Miles’s arms.
Thankfully, the press kept their questions simple and I was able to escape without fresh bruises, both glad and sorry to be leaving the All England Club behind.
Making it to the fourth round of Wimbledon had been huge, the points and paycheque life-changing, yet the precipice I stood upon contained as many dangers as possibilities and I needed space to breathe.
So, before I’d even stepped out of the taxi, I’d booked a flight home for the next day.
I was clearing out the fridge when Miles arrived fresh from a practise session. He walked in, a small frown gathered between his brows. “Did you get my messages?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Sorry, my head’s been elsewhere.”
He stilled, a few steps inside the door, gaze skimming over the suitcases and bags I had lying open on the floor. “Already packing?”
“Have to. I fly out in the morning.”
“Wow, leaving fast. Not even staying an extra day to commiserate with me if I lose too?”
Light words, yet he had his dark gaze fixed on me, no doubt trying to read what I wasn’t saying. I forced a laugh and hoped it sounded genuine. “Sorry. Habit, I guess. I’ve never had reason to stick around after I lose tournaments before.”
Miles finally unfroze from the middle of the floor and came to stand close, taking the bag of uneaten apples out of my hand and setting it on the bench. “Why don’t you rebook?” he said, sliding his hands into my back pockets. “Why don’t you stay? What if I win my first major?”
“Oh? You want to have your celebratory sex already locked in just in case?”
“That’s not—” He let out a sharp laugh, frowning at himself. “That would be pretty selfish of me, huh?”
He pulled his hands free and stepped back, yet the intensity with which he held my gaze was like he’d clamped those hands around my chest. “What if that’s not why I want you to stay?” he said. “What if . . .” His breath caught as he left the words hanging, a hint of fear widening his eyes.
And because I had to save us both, I said, “Remember how you asked about the press the other day, after my win against Esser?”
A frown flickered. “Yeah?” he said, wary. “You said they hadn’t been any worse than usual. Although considering what they said in Paris, that’s hardly comforting.”
“Well, this time they asked about my history of advocacy. Whether that was something fans could always expect from me. And when I asked what they meant, they pointed to my sexuality, like I’d chosen it to make a political statement.
Or perhaps just because they can’t get through a single press conference without asking about all the ways being gay affects my game.
” I shook my head, realising I was failing to make my point.
“What I’m trying to say is that some people wonder why no one else has come out since I did, but I don’t.
I know why and I can’t blame them, but .
. .” I forced myself to look at him, to meet those dark eyes to be sure the shot would hit home.
“I also can’t join them. For better or worse, I chose this path and I’m stuck with honesty.
With being out in every sense of the word. ”
Miles nodded, slow and solemn, his lips pressing into a flat line.
“Yeah, I understand,” he said, and I knew by the weight of his words that he did understand, that whatever he had been about to say would be swallowed down where it couldn’t hurt us.
I wasn’t even sure what I most wanted those words to have been, because while my heart yearned for I love you, my head knew that really meant I love you, but not enough.
“I’m sorry,” he added, lightening the moment with a shrug and one of his easy smiles.
“I shouldn’t have asked you to stay. You should take as much time at home with your family as you can.
It would be nice to catch up in New York though, just for a drink or dinner as friends or whatever, if that’s—”
“How about in Washington?” I said. “If you’re playing that. I got a wildcard.”
His eyes brightened and he clapped my shoulders, “Fuck, yes! Look at you go! Yeah, I’ll be there. It’s always a good opener to the US swing.”
“Great,” I said, and because I was too weak to actually give him up, I added, “I’m booked in at the main hotel, so I’ll be close at hand if you need someone to rail you before a match again.”
A moment of surprise, then his smile slowly spread into the broadest grin. “What an offer,” he said, and slid an arm around my waist, the gesture more question than demand. “Doing my career a service like that.”
I shrugged and lifted my arms around his neck, breathing in the intoxicating scent of him. Perhaps if I filled my lungs with it, I could take him with me. “What else are friends for?”