Twenty-Six
THE PARIS MASTERS was, thankfully, an indoor tournament, given the variability of late autumn weather.
We’d arrived a week in advance because we could and to get used to the surface, and though we took care not to schedule practice courts at the same time or travel together in the days leading up, I made sure we overlapped once so I could watch Miles work with his new team.
Leo Mannering had set a low bar, which Marcel cleared merely by not calling him a lazy faggot, but I wanted to see what they were like on court together.
Marcel was a man of few words and those words were considered and encouraging, and on the practice court, Miles looked impressive.
He was swinging with ease, nothing restrained or hesitant about his shots.
He often managed half his wins just by being near impossible to break, but now he was hitting earlier, attacking harder, and watching him sent a little thrill up my spine.
God, he was good. Yet, somehow, he’d stepped away for a couple of months and come back even better – something I had never managed in my life.
I had to give up watching them when we took a break for Macca to work on my still-offending shoulder. He’d laid a towel out beside the court, and ordered me to lie face down and not complain this time.
“Do you want my opinion?” Tomas asked, crouching beside me amid the echoing symphony of the indoor stadium, all balls getting smashed and squeaking shoes.
“I always want your opinion,” I said, gritting my teeth as Macca dug fingers into my back. “Pretty sure that’s how this coaching thing works.”
He grinned like perhaps I would regret that carte blanche one day.
“Well, I think they’re good for him. Marcel is thoughtful about his work, and very strategic on the court.
We had a long talk the other day, and he said he’s trying to balance the need to keep pushing Miles against the need to heal his confidence.
And no, I don’t mean his confidence after the US Open, I mean his confidence in having a coach. In trusting people again.”
While Macca shifted position, I risked a glance up to see Marcel standing with Miles on the next court, gesturing through an explanation of something. Miles was nodding along, wholly focussed.
“Anything is a step up after that Mannering wanker,” Macca said, smushing me back into the towel. “But I like them.”
“No hint they might be . . .?” I let the question hang.
“Secretly a bunch of raging homophobes?” Macca finished for me.
“Nah, they’re good. Cam is great, Jada is hilarious, and Marcel is quiet but very relaxed.
I think they couldn’t give two shits that he’s gay and are just glad you make him happy.
Get the feeling they’re a bit protective though, and might bristle up like angry bears if you break his heart. ”
I grumbled that I had no intention of doing so, while on the next court, Jada made Miles laugh as he prepared to serve.
“Is this likely to be a regular thing, do you think?” Tomas asked, still crouching at my head. “All of us staying together in a house? It’s not a problem if it is,” he hastened to add. “I’m just asking.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Since I’ve spent the last two months afraid he and I were done—”
“We noticed.”
“—I don’t want to make any predictions. Since the next swing is Australia though, you’re safe until after that at least.”
Tomas gave me a withering look. “I said it was fine, I was just curious. They’re good company, and your happiness off-court is important to your ability to play on-court.”
My happiness off-court was certainly greatly improved by falling asleep beside Miles every night and waking beside him every morning. Waking to his warmth and his scent and the serious little notch that sometimes dug between his brows when he slept.
And when we weren’t practising or training or sleeping, we had all the time in the world to just exist in the same space.
Tina was often out, on her laptop or taking calls, while the others relaxed around the house when they weren’t needed.
Macca had found cards and a stack of board games in one of the cupboards, and on the day before the tournament started, Tomas and Macca, Marcel, Jada and Cam sat gathered around the dining table with a small collection of games and a larger collection of wine glasses.
We might have joined them, but with Jada’s help, Macca had updated the physical therapy plan for my shoulder based on our current resources, which now meant time in the pool.
“You said having a pool would be fun,” I said, standing beside it and eying the grey sky distastefully.
“Look, in my defence, I forgot how cold it is here in fall.”
Miles had changed into his own swimming shorts, but while I tested the water and found it wanting, he went back inside only to return with a blanket. Gathering it around himself, he settled on one of the deck chairs like a woollen burrito with sunglasses.
“Seriously?” I said.
“Look, you’re lucky I’m sticking around for moral support at all. It’s too cold to even be out here let alone in that water.”
“Coward.”
I sat on the edge of the pool, hoping the water would warm up as I acclimatised.
Instead, my skin grew goosebumps all over, and when a sharp wind blew through, I decided being in the water might actually be better.
I slid in and, envious of Miles’s blanket, started swimming short laps back and forth in the too-small-for-laps pool, as much to keep myself from freezing as for active recovery.
After ten minutes, I’d warmed up a bit but was getting sick of the frequent turns, and stopped for a break.
“You’re pretty good at that,” Miles said when I folded my arms on the side of the pool nearest him.
“At what? Freezing to death?”
“Swimming, idiot.”
“I’m Australian,” I said. “The whole surrounded-by-ocean thing means swimming lessons are practically compulsory.”
His grin was the only visible part of him between the sunglasses and the blanket drawn up to his chin. “Matteo Russo, exemplary student. I’m afraid I can’t imagine it. I bet you were a handful at school.”
I had been the kind of student who’d been good at some things and terrible at others, my obsession with reading having failed to translate into either high grades or an ability to focus.
A few months ago, I might have said so, might then have shared the mixed feelings I had about having missed out on much of the normal high school experience due to my junior career, but now I wasn’t sure he actually wanted to hear it.
So, instead, I said, “I’m more of a handful now. Although, even more of a mouthful.”
Miles gave a little groan, while a cry of triumph came from the game inside.
“You should join me,” I said, shifting the water around so it lapped at the walls of the pool. “While no one is paying us any attention.”
“Nothing you say will make me move. My desire to enjoy your mouthful would be destroyed by putting even a single toe in that icy water.”
“I’ll have to come to you then.” I braced my hands on the side of the pool and very slowly pulled myself out, streaming water, smugly aware that a wet me was one of his weaknesses. I dripped all the way across the deck, and while he was distracted by the way my shorts clung, I tore off his blanket.
“Hey!”
Throwing a leg over the chair, I lowered myself onto his lap and lay atop him, his warmth glorious against my cold skin.
I smothered his complaints with a deep, hungry kiss and he slid his hands down onto my wet shorts as I lightly ground against him.
It was difficult to care about being cold once we were both rock hard and moaning into every kiss, his hold on my arse encouraging the increasing need with which I rolled my hips like I was riding his cock.
Footsteps emerged from the house behind me, but rather than look up, I ignored them because we could – joy in that safety. “Yeah nah,” Macca said with a laugh as he went back inside. “He hasn’t drowned.”
Miles made a sound between a groan and a chuckle. “Fuck, if they weren’t just there, I would rip these damn shorts and have you ride me right now.”
“Too bad we’re not sitting beside your pool then. Maybe we can do that next time.”
It was absolutely a veiled attempt to see if he ever intended to invite me to his house again, though rather than reassurance, it earned a fleeting grimace. “If it’s even my pool by then.”
I sat back at the bitter note in his words. “What?”
“I don’t directly own the house,” he said. “It’s owned by the company my parents set up years ago, and now they’re using it to be vindictive shits.” He pulled me back down, chest to chest. “You’ve made me too cold to escape being my blanket that easily.”
“Oh, I didn’t realise about the house,” I said. “Or about your parents being awful about it. You didn’t say.”
I was careful not to make it sound like an accusation while hopefully making the point that I couldn’t know things he didn’t tell me.
“It felt important to deal with it on my own. A kind of healing, I suppose.”
“You still could have told me,” I said before I could stop myself. “Otherwise, I feel like I’m only important for being where you get this.” I rubbed our still-hard dicks together. “Which is fine if that’s all you want from me, of co—”
“Which is not fine!” he cried, gripping my arms and holding me a little away from him to better see my face. “Good god, Mat, of course I want you to be more than just dick. I hate that you could even think that. Though I guess I can’t blame you. I’m shit at sharing.”
Undeniable when more than half the things I knew about his life outside of me I’d learned from articles and interviews.
When I’d even had to look up his parents’ names.
But I couldn’t shake the feeling that his lack of communication was still my fault for beating him in New York, and thinking of how Tomas had said Miles needed to learn to trust people again, I shrugged and said, “You’ve got Tina to talk to. ”