Centre Court
Chapter five
Wimbledon arrived with its usual demands — the pristine white clothing, the unpredictable English rain, and the quiet, intense pressure that settled over the All England Club like a low-hanging cloud.
For Blake, the tournament was a proving ground.
He had won the Australian Open in January, a victory that had pushed him to number four in the world and silenced the critics who had wondered if his game was too rigid for the modern era.
But grass was different. Grass required instinct, improvisation, and a willingness to move forward.
Doug had spent the last three weeks drilling him relentlessly, forcing him to serve and volley, to chip and charge, to trust his hands at the net.
The work paid off. Blake moved through the first two rounds with clinical efficiency, dropping only a single set. His serve was firing, the ball skidding low off the slick surface, biting into the turf and sliding away from his opponents’ rackets.
His third-round match, however, was a different proposition entirely.
He was scheduled on Court 1 against a towering South African whose serve regularly clocked in at a hundred and forty miles per hour. The man moved poorly, but on grass, movement was secondary if you could hit your spots.
The match began under a heavy, overcast sky. The air was thick with humidity, making the balls heavy and the court slightly damp. Blake lost the first set in a tiebreaker, unable to read the South African’s serve, guessing wrong on the big points.
He sat on his bench during the changeover, staring at his racket strings, the roar of the crowd washing over him.
Doug was sitting in the player box, his arms crossed, his expression unreadable.
Blake didn’t need to look at him to know what he was thinking.
Step in. Take it early. Don’t let him dictate the rhythm.
Blake won the second set 6-4, breaking the South African’s serve in the final game with a sharp, angled backhand return that dipped at the man’s feet. He took the third set 6-3, finding his rhythm, his own serve becoming untouchable.
But the South African refused to yield. He came out swinging in the fourth set, hitting massive, flat forehands that skidded through the court. Blake found himself pushed back, defending, scrambling to stay in the points. He lost the set 5-7.
They went into a fifth set.
The tension on Court 1 was palpable. The crowd, sensing a marathon, had settled in, their applause growing louder, more sustained.
Blake’s legs burned. His shoulder ached with the repetitive strain of serving.
But his mind was clear. This was the space he understood best — the narrow, brutal corridor of competition where nothing mattered except the next point.
At four-all in the fifth, Blake found an opening. The South African missed a first serve.
Blake stepped inside the baseline, took the second serve on the rise, and drove it deep into the backhand corner. The South African lunged, floating a defensive slice back over the net.
Blake moved forward, his feet light, his eyes locked on the ball. He let it bounce once, then drove a clean, crisp forehand volley into the open court.
Break point.
The crowd roared. Blake walked back to the baseline, bouncing the ball on his racket frame, his breathing steady.
The South African served — a massive, flat delivery down the T.
Blake guessed right, blocking the return back deep.
The rally extended — five shots, ten shots, fifteen.
The South African tried to end it with a drop shot, but the ball caught the net cord and fell back onto his side.
Blake had the break. He served out the match in the next game, finishing with an ace out wide that made a clapping noise as it kissed the sideline.
He walked to the net, exhausted but victorious, the applause ringing in his ears.
He shook the South African’s hand — the man nodded, a grudging respect in his eyes — and turned to the crowd, lifting his racket in acknowledgment.
The ovation washed over him, warm and sustaining, the sound of twelve thousand people who had watched him refuse to break.
In the player box, Andre was on his feet, clapping slowly, his dark eyes bright with pride. Doug was beside him, arms still crossed, but the corner of his mouth was twitching — the closest thing to a smile Blake had ever seen from the man during a tournament.
Blake walked off Court 1 and into the tunnel, the cool air hitting his sweat-soaked skin.
He sat down on the bench in the corridor, his legs finally giving way, and pressed a cold towel against his face. His hands were shaking — not from nerves, but from the sheer physical expenditure of three hours and forty-seven minutes of elite-level tennis.
Doug appeared first, dropping into the chair beside him. “Fifth set. Grass. Against a guy serving a hundred and forty.” Doug shook his head. “You’re an idiot for letting it go to five, but that break at four-all was the best game you’ve played all year.”
“Thanks, Doug. Very warm.”
“I’m not warm. I’m accurate.” Doug stood up, slapping Blake’s knee. “Ice bath. Twenty minutes. Then we look at the draw for round four.”
Doug disappeared down the corridor, and a moment later, Andre slipped through the security door. He was wearing a navy linen shirt, open at the collar, his dark curls slightly windblown from the afternoon breeze. He looked effortlessly, infuriatingly beautiful.
He didn’t say anything. He just walked over, sat down on the bench beside Blake, and pressed his knee against Blake’s, a silent, steady presence.
Blake turned his face, pressing his lips against Andre’s hair. He smelled like sandalwood and the faint, lingering sweetness of the strawberries they had been eating in the player box.
“You scared me,” Andre said quietly. “When he broke you in the fourth set, I thought —”
“I know,” Blake said. “But I had it. I always had it.”
“Menteur,” Andre murmured, but there was a smile in his voice.
They sat there for a long moment, the sounds of the tournament — the distant crack of balls on other courts, the murmur of the crowd, the rumble of a passing aircraft — filtering through the concrete walls.
“Dinner tonight?” Blake asked.
“I am making lamb,” Andre said, lifting his head. “With the rosemary from the window box. You will eat protein and vegetables and you will not complain.”
“I never complain.”
“You complained about the Brussels sprouts for three days.”
“They were burnt.”
“They were caramelized,” Andre corrected, standing up and brushing invisible lint from his shirt. He leaned down, pressing a brief, firm kiss to Blake’s mouth. “Go do your ice bath. I will see you at home.”
He walked away, his footsteps echoing in the corridor, and Blake watched him go, a slow, helpless smile spreading across his face.
He had survived. And he was going home to lamb.
Andre’s tournament ended three days earlier, on a gloomy Tuesday afternoon on Court 14.
He was playing a young Spanish qualifier, a kid who had grown up on clay but who moved on the grass with surprising agility. Andre had started well, winning the first set comfortably, his heavy topspin pushing the Spaniard behind the baseline.
But as the match wore on, Andre’s focus began to drift.
He found himself looking at the sky, watching the heavy gray clouds gather over the stadium.
He thought about the studio. He thought about the large canvas he had left unfinished, the one with the broad strokes of vivid green and deep, bruised purple.
He wondered if the paint had dried too quickly in the damp London air.
He lost the second set. Then the third.
By the fourth set, he was simply going through the motions.
He hit his forehands with pace, but without purpose.
He served adequately, but without the sharp, aggressive intent that characterized his best tennis.
He was present physically, but his mind was miles away, wandering the narrow streets of Waterloo, smelling oil paint and coffee.
He lost the match 6-4, 3-6, 4-6, 2-6.
When he walked off the court, he didn’t feel angry. He didn’t feel the sharp, biting disappointment that usually accompanied an early exit at a Grand Slam. He felt nothing at all. Just a quiet, hollow emptiness, and a profound desire to go home.
Liam and Talia had been in his player box, sitting next to Doug. It was their first time at Wimbledon, and Liam had spent the entire match leaning forward, his green eyes wide, absorbing the spectacle of it all.
Andre met them outside the locker room an hour later, his hair damp from the shower, his racket bag slung over his shoulder. “I’m sorry,” Andre said, offering a tight smile. “That was not a very good performance.”
“Are you joking?” Liam said, his voice loud in the quiet corridor. “That was incredible. The speed of it! I couldn’t even track the ball half the time. You were brilliant.”
“I lost, Liam.”
“Well, yes. The other bloke was also brilliant. But it was magnificent to watch. The tension! It’s pure theatre.”
Talia stepped forward, placing a hand on Andre’s arm. Her dark eyes were perceptive, seeing past the polite smile. “Are you alright?” she asked quietly.
“I am fine,” Andre said. “Truly. I think I am just tired.”
“Go home,” Talia said. “Rest. We’ll see you next week.”
Andre nodded, grateful for her understanding. He walked out of the All England Club, found his courtesy car, and rode back to South Kensington in silence, watching the London streets blur past the window.
That evening, the flat was quiet.
Blake had returned from his practice session, his muscles sore, his mind already focused on his upcoming fourth-round match. He found Andre in the living room, sitting on the floor, sketching in a charcoal pad.
Blake dropped his bag by the door and walked over, sitting on the sofa behind Andre.
He reached out, his fingers brushing the back of Andre’s neck, tracing the line of his spine. “You played well today,” Blake said softly. “I played terribly,” Andre corrected, not looking up from his sketch. “I was not there. My body was on the court, but my head was in the studio.”
Blake didn’t argue. He had watched the match on the television in the players’ lounge, and he had seen the exact moment Andre had checked out.
It was a subtle shift — a slight drop in intensity, a fraction of a second lost in reaction time — but to Blake, who knew Andre’s game better than anyone, it was glaringly obvious.
“Come here,” Blake said.
Andre set down the charcoal pad and shifted backward, leaning against Blake’s legs.
Blake moved his hands to Andre’s shoulders, his fingers pressing into the tight, knotted muscles at the base of his neck.
Andre let out a long, slow breath, his head falling forward.
“You’re tense,” Blake murmured, his fingers working deep into the muscle, applying firm, steady pressure.
“I am frustrated,” Andre said, his voice low. “Not because I lost. Because I did not care that I lost. That is the worst part, Blake. I walked off the court at Wimbledon, and all I felt was relief.”
Blake’s hands paused for a fraction of a second, then resumed their steady rhythm. He moved down to Andre’s shoulder blades, kneading the tension away, his touch gentle but authoritative.
“It’s okay to feel that way,” Blake said.
“Is it? I am ranked seventh in the world. I have sponsors. I have Doug. I have my father, who thinks I am throwing my life away.”
“Your father thinks English flour is a personal insult. You can’t live your life based on what Pierre wants.”
Andre leaned his head back, resting it against Blake’s knee. He looked up, his dark eyes searching Blake’s face. “And what do you want?”
“I want you to be happy,” Blake said simply. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”
He leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to Andre’s forehead. Andre closed his eyes, leaning into the touch, letting the warmth of Blake’s hands seep into his skin. They stayed like that for a long time, the only sound in the room the distant hum of traffic from the street below.
Later, after Blake had fallen asleep, his breathing deep and even in the quiet bedroom, Andre slipped out from under the covers.
He pulled on jeans and a sweatshirt, grabbed his keys from the bowl by the door, and walked out into the cool London night. The studio on The Cut was a fifteen-minute walk, the streets quiet and empty at this hour, the air smelling of damp pavement and the river.
He let himself in, flicked on the single overhead lamp, and stood in front of the large canvas. The fierce green, the bruised purple. It was chaotic, unresolved, full of conflicting energy.
He picked up a brush, dipped it in turpentine, and began to paint. He worked for hours, the silence of the studio wrapping around him, the agitation in his chest slowly bleeding out onto the canvas, stroke by stroke, until the sky outside the high windows began to turn the color of ash.