Nineteen #4
We flew out the same day for the Canadian Open, glances shared across bustling airports.
His team stood around in clumps, while Miles and Tina mostly kept to themselves.
I couldn’t but think about what he’d said about his team being there for his game, not to be his friends, as beside me Tomas and Macca shared a bag of fries and argued amicably about football.
It left me with a sad sort of yearning that was still with me later when I sent him my room number.
When he showed up so hot and raring to go that he almost tore my shirt off.
When he begged me to hold him down and pound him into the bed.
I did, gladly, but once we lay tangled and messy and pressed close like even the smallest space was too great, I said, “I miss that shitty apartment.”
“Why?” he asked. “This room is nice. The carpet even looks clean.”
“Sure, but I would give it up for you not to have to leave.”
Even as I said it, I knew I shouldn’t have, knew I’d stepped outside the fuckbuddy narrative I was only ever clinging to by the skin of my teeth.
Yet when a silence followed into which I could have said something about wanting to fuck him all night, I didn’t.
He meant more to me than that and though I couldn’t say how much, I wanted him to know he wasn’t just arse.
Miles drew a deep breath and let it out on a sigh, and those dark eyes looked away. “Me too.”
God only knows what might have been said and regretted in the moments that followed, had footsteps not scuffed to a halt outside the door.
Before I could wonder who it might be, the door opened with a faint beep, sending Miles and I snatching at pillows and sheets in a desperate bid for privacy.
Tomas walked in, only to avert his eyes with a, “whoa, sorry!” And keeping a hand up like a shield, he headed straight back out, letting the door close heavily behind him.
“Shit!” I hissed. “Forgot I gave him the other key, sorry.”
Miles had frozen into a wary statue, clinging to a pillow. “Is he safe?”
“Yeah. I haven’t told him anything, but he was a closet tennis gay himself, so you’re in good hands. But I’ll make sure.”
He thawed a little, though it was hard to tell whether his lingering tension stemmed from Tomas or from what had come before. “Okay, good.” The pillow was unceremoniously pushed aside. “I’d better go.”
Miles dressed and departed at speed, a quick kiss all the goodbye I received before he was out the door and gone.
I found Tomas in his own room soon after.
He answered the door with an expression I couldn’t read, and gestured for me to enter with a jerk of his head.
“I’m sorry,” he said once the door had closed.
“I wanted to fetch a couple of racquets for the stringer, but I should have knocked. I thought you were out at dinner.”
“Well, since I told you that’s where I was, that’s my fault,” I said, standing somewhat awkwardly in the middle of his room, feeling like a child expecting a reprimand. “So, uh, I’m sorry too. You know, for lying and sneaking around.”
That earned a soft smile. “I thought something was up, but this being our first swing together, I didn’t say anything. I might have if I’d thought your someone was a someone, or that that someone was Miles Callahan.”
We were alone, yet still I hushed him quietly. “Look, it’s a long story but yeah, this is a thing. He’s, uh, not out though, as you probably know, so . . .”
“You know I won’t say a word, but . . .” He gave a little grimace, which I was fast learning was his standard precursor to being insufferably right about something.
“Look, I know why you didn’t tell me, but if I’m going to be your coach, and if getting and keeping your head in the game is our main focus—”
I braced for the obvious piece of advice I knew was coming.
“—then you need to be honest with me as much as you can. I can’t help you if I don’t know what I’m working with.”
I blinked. “Oh.”
“Oh?”
“I . . . thought you were going to tell me I should break things off with him. That I need to focus. And that being involved with him is a bad idea, which I do know, by the way.”
Tomas shrugged. “Tennis can’t be everything. Keeping a healthy mindset about the game means having a life off the court. I’m not going to say you’ve made an easy choice, but that probably just means it wasn’t really a choice, was it?”
“No. He was just there and now he’s—” everything. I shook my head, holding in that last word like a stopper plugging my chest.
“Got it,” Tomas said, clapping a hand on my shoulder.
“Just remember, I’m not here to tell you what to do, I’m here to advise and to help you achieve your goals.
If you tell me you want to increase your serve accuracy, we work on that.
If you tell me you want to improve your fitness, we work on that.
If you tell me you’re involved with a top-five player and need to stop that fucking with your head, especially when you have to play him, then we work on that. ”
I shut my eyes on sudden tears, and let out a long sigh like a deflating balloon. “Thanks. I . . . think I needed to hear that.”
“Hey.” He squeezed my shoulder. “This is exactly what I’m here for.”