Steady Hands #2
“Your father is wrong,” Talia said firmly.
“Scones are magnificent. And you, with all your bakery training, are going to learn how to make them properly. I’ll teach you what I learned from following my grandmother's recipe. I’ll trade you — what I've learned about scone technique for your father’s croissant recipe. ”
“Deal.”
They shook on it, both grinning, and Andre felt that same lightness he had felt the first time they talked in the cafe — the simple, uncomplicated pleasure of connection.
The match at Queen’s Club was on a Wednesday afternoon, a second-round encounter against a young German player ranked forty-third in the world.
Andre had decided, at the last minute, to play — partly because Doug had insisted, partly because Pierre had given him a look over breakfast that communicated, without words, that skipping another tournament would result in a conversation Andre did not want to have.
Blake was playing on the adjacent court, a first-round match against a veteran Spaniard. They had kissed in the locker room before going out, a quick, fierce press of lips that tasted of nerves and adrenaline.
“Good luck,” Blake had said.
“I don’t need luck. I need my forehand to work on this stupid surface.”
“Your forehand is fine.”
“My forehand is designed for clay. This is grass. Grass is an abomination.”
Blake had laughed, squeezed his hand, and walked out to his court.
Andre’s match was a struggle from the first point.
The German was young, fast, and fearless, with a flat, penetrating game that was perfectly suited to the low-bouncing grass. He attacked Andre’s serve relentlessly, stepping inside the baseline, taking the ball early, rushing Andre into errors.
Andre fought back with his topspin, trying to push the German behind the baseline, but the grass neutralized his biggest weapon. The heavy, kicking shots that dominated on clay sat up on the faster surface, inviting punishment.
He lost the first set 4-6, his frustration mounting with every missed shot.
During the changeover, he sat on his bench, toweling off, trying to reset. He could hear the crowd on the adjacent court reacting to Blake’s match — sharp gasps, bursts of applause, the particular roar that accompanied a spectacular point.
Blake was winning. Blake was always winning these days.
Andre pushed the thought away and walked back to the baseline.
The second set was better. Andre adjusted his tactics, moving forward more, shortening the points, using his touch at the net — a skill he had developed over the past year, partly out of necessity, partly because Doug had told him that if he was going to play less tennis, the tennis he did play needed to be smarter.
He took the second set 7-5, breaking the German’s serve with a delicate drop volley that drew a murmur of appreciation from the crowd.
The third set went to a tiebreaker. Andre’s legs were heavy, his concentration fraying at the edges. He was thinking about the painting he had left unfinished in the studio, about the Whitfield exhibition, about the commission he still needed to start.
He was thinking about everything except the ball.
The German won the tiebreaker 7-4. Andre shook his hand at the net, offered a tight, professional smile, and walked off the court.
In the locker room, he sat on the bench for a long time, staring at his racket. The strings were frayed, the grip worn smooth. He couldn’t remember the last time he had restrung it.
Blake found him there twenty minutes later, still in his match kit, his hair damp with sweat, the quiet satisfaction of a straight-sets victory softened by the concern in his blue eyes.
“Tough match,” Blake said, sitting beside him.
“I lost.”
“I know. I saw the score.”
“I wasn’t there. Mentally. I was somewhere else the entire time.”
Blake didn’t say anything. He just put his arm around Andre’s shoulders and pulled him close.
“It’s okay,” Blake said quietly.
“It’s not okay. I’m ranked seventh in the world and I’m losing to a qualifier because I can’t stop thinking about paint.”
“Then maybe you need to make a decision.”
Andre looked at him. “What kind of decision?”
“The kind you’ve been avoiding for six months.” Blake’s voice was gentle, careful, but his eyes were steady. “You know what I mean, Andre.”
Andre did know. He had known for a long time.
The tennis was slipping away — not dramatically, not in a single moment of crisis, but gradually, like sand through his fingers.
Every match felt like an obligation. Every practice session felt like time stolen from the studio.
“I’m not ready to retire,” Andre said, though the word felt less frightening than it once had.
“I’m not asking you to retire. I’m asking you to be honest with yourself. ”
Andre leaned into Blake, resting his head on his shoulder. “I’m honest with you. Isn’t that enough?”
“It’s a start,” Blake said, pressing a kiss to the top of his head.
That night, they made love with a slow, aching intensity that left them both breathless.
It started in the kitchen, while Andre was cleaning up after dinner.
Blake came up behind him, his hands sliding under Andre’s shirt, his fingers tracing the hard lines of his stomach.
Andre turned, his back pressing against the counter, and Blake kissed him — not the quick, familiar kiss of routine, but something deeper, more urgent, as if he were trying to communicate something that words couldn’t reach.
They moved to the bedroom, shedding clothes along the hallway, their mouths never separating for more than a breath. Blake pushed Andre onto the bed, climbing over him, his weight pressing Andre into the mattress.
“I want to taste you,” Blake murmured, his lips moving down Andre’s neck, across his collarbone, down the center of his chest.
Andre’s hands fisted in the sheets as Blake’s mouth traveled lower, his tongue tracing the line of dark hair below Andre’s navel. Blake took his time, pressing kisses to the inside of Andre’s thighs, his breath hot against the sensitive skin.
When Blake finally took him into his mouth, Andre arched off the bed, a sharp, broken sound escaping his throat. Blake’s tongue was slow and deliberate, working the underside of Andre’s shaft, his hand gripping the base, his rhythm patient and maddening.
“Blake,” Andre gasped, his fingers tangling in Blake’s golden hair. “Please.”
Blake pulled off, looking up at Andre with dark, heavy-lidded eyes. “Turn over.”
Andre obeyed, rolling onto his stomach, his face pressed into the pillow. He felt Blake’s hands on his hips, lifting him slightly, and then Blake’s mouth was on him — his tongue pressing flat against Andre’s entrance, licking in slow, firm strokes that made Andre’s entire body shudder.
“Putain!” Andre breathed, his hands gripping the headboard. “Blake — oh, putain —”
Blake worked him open with his tongue, patient and thorough, his hands holding Andre’s hips steady.
The sensation was overwhelming — intimate and raw and impossibly tender.
Andre felt himself unraveling, the tension of the day, the frustration of the loss, the confusion about his future — all of it dissolving under the relentless attention of Blake’s mouth.
When Blake finally entered him, it was slow, careful, his chest pressed against Andre’s back, his mouth at Andre’s ear. “I’ve got you,” Blake whispered, his voice raw and strained. “I’ve always got you.”
They moved together, finding a rhythm that was as familiar as breathing and as urgent as the first time. Andre reached back, gripping Blake’s thigh, pulling him deeper, needing to feel the full weight and presence of the man he loved.
Blake’s hand slid around Andre’s hip, wrapping around his cock, moving in time with his thrusts. Andre buried his face in the pillow, his body taut and shaking, the pressure building to a point that was almost unbearable.
“Let go,” Blake said, his voice breaking. “Andre. Let go.”
Andre came with a shout that he muffled against the pillow, his body clenching around Blake, pulling Blake over the edge with him. Blake followed seconds later, his forehead dropping to Andre’s shoulder, a low, guttural groan vibrating against Andre’s skin.
They collapsed together, tangled and sweating, their hearts pounding in unison.
After a long silence, Andre said, “The Whitfield Gallery offered me a solo exhibition.”
Blake lifted his head, looking at Andre with surprise. “When?”
“Three weeks ago.”
“Three weeks? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because it means I’ll need to produce fifteen new pieces by September. And that means…” Andre trailed off.
“That means less tennis,” Blake finished.
“That means almost no tennis.”
Blake was quiet for a moment, his fingers tracing lazy circles on Andre’s back.
“When do you need to give them an answer?”
“I already said yes.”
Another silence. Then Blake pulled Andre closer, wrapping both arms around him, his chin resting on the top of Andre’s head.
“Good,” Blake said. “I’m proud of you.”
Andre closed his eyes, pressing his face against Blake’s chest, listening to the steady, reliable beat of his heart.
He wanted to believe that this was enough. That love and pride and the smell of fresh bread in the morning were enough to hold a life together.
But somewhere, in a part of himself he didn’t want to examine, he felt the recurring tremor of something shifting. An unease. A hunger for something he couldn’t name.
He pushed it down, held Blake tighter, and told himself it was nothing.
The idea came from Liam, as most terrible ideas did.
“If I’m going to sit in a player’s box at Wimbledon,” he announced over drinks at the flat the following Saturday, “I refuse to be the idiot who claps at the wrong time. I need to understand what’s happening.”
“You’ve been watching tennis on YouTube for a week,” Talia said, curled into the corner of the sofa with a glass of red wine. “You told me you understood it.”