Opening Night
Chapter eight
The Whitfield Gallery was located in Mayfair, a sleek, minimalist space with polished concrete floors and lighting designed to make everything look expensive.
On a Thursday evening in late July, it was packed.
Andre stood near the back of the main room, holding a glass of sparkling water he hadn’t tasted, watching the crowd. He was wearing a dark, tailored suit that Claire had insisted on buying for him, his curls pushed back from his forehead, his expression a carefully constructed mask of calm.
Inside, he was terrified.
This was his first solo exhibition. Fifteen paintings, the culmination of six months of obsessive, relentless work in the studio on The Cut. They hung on the pristine white walls, exposed and vulnerable, stripped of the privacy of his workspace.
There was the large abstract in blues and grays, shot through with the vivid malachite green that had been inspired by Liam’s eyes.
There was a series of smaller canvases capturing the geometry of tennis — the tension of a serve, the blur of a racket head, the stark white lines of a court — rendered not with the anger of his early work, but with a fluid, kinetic grace.
And in the center of the room hung the piece he had finished the night Blake was in Connecticut: a study of morning light in their bedroom, the dust motes suspended in a warm, golden haze.
“Stop looking like you are attending a funeral,” Pierre said, appearing at Andre’s elbow with a glass of champagne. “People are buying them. The woman in the terrible red dress just bought the one with the green stripe.”
Andre blinked, looking at his father. Pierre was wearing a suit that looked ten years old, his thick baker’s hands looking strangely delicate wrapped around the stem of the champagne flute.
“She bought it?” Andre asked.
“Yes. For a ridiculous amount of money. I could buy a new oven for what she paid for that canvas.” Pierre took a sip of champagne and grimaced. “English bubbles. Like drinking sparkling water with a bad attitude.”
Claire appeared on Andre’s other side, slipping her arm through his. She looked elegant in a simple black dress, her eyes bright with pride.
“Do not listen to him. He has been telling everyone who will listen that he is the artist’s father.”
“I am the artist’s father,” Pierre grumbled. “It is a fact.”
Andre smiled, the knot in his chest loosening slightly.
He looked around the room, spotting Liam and Talia near the front entrance.
Liam was talking animatedly to a gallery assistant, gesturing wildly, while Talia stood beside him, looking impossibly chic in a dark green jumpsuit, laughing at whatever Liam was saying.
It was a perfect night. Almost perfect.
Blake was in Germany. The Hamburg Open was a mandatory ATP 500 event, and Blake had a second-round match on Wednesday and a third-round match on Friday.
They had spoken on the phone that morning, Blake apologizing again for not being there, Andre assuring him that he understood.
And he did understand. Tennis was their job.
The schedule was unforgiving. But as Andre watched the crowd move from painting to painting, a small, quiet part of him wished Blake was standing beside him.
“Andre!”
Talia waved from across the room, gesturing for him to come over. Andre excused himself from his parents and navigated through the crowd, accepting congratulations and shaking hands with people he didn’t know.
“You’re a hit,” Talia said as he approached, kissing him on both cheeks. “The gallery director looks like the cat that got the cream. Half the room has red dots next to them.”
“It is overwhelming,” Andre admitted.
“It’s brilliant,” Liam corrected, clapping Andre on the shoulder. “I told you, mate.
You’re a proper genius. I’m going to start telling people I knew you before you were famous.”
“I am already famous, Liam. For hitting a yellow ball over a net.”
“Yes, but this is art,” Liam said, waving his hand at the walls. “This is culture. Tennis is just… aggressive geometry.”
Andre laughed, shaking his head. He turned to look at the front door, expecting to see another collector or critic walk in. Instead, he saw Blake. Andre froze.
Blake was standing just inside the entrance, wearing a dark suit, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder.
He looked exhausted — his hair slightly messy, dark circles under his blue eyes, the pale, washed-out look of someone who had spent the night on an airplane.
But when his eyes found Andre across the crowded room, he smiled.
Andre didn’t think. He just moved. He pushed past a group of art critics, ignored the gallery director who was trying to introduce him to a buyer, and crossed the concrete floor until he was standing in front of Blake.
“What are you doing here?” Andre asked, his voice breathless, his heart hammering against his ribs. “You are in Hamburg.”
“I was in Hamburg,” Blake corrected, dropping his bag to the floor. “I played my match yesterday afternoon. Won in straight sets. I took the first flight out of Frankfurt that I could get this morning.”
“But you play again tomorrow.”
“I have a flight back at six a.m.”
Andre stared at him, the reality of what Blake had done sinking in. He had flown across Europe, sacrificing a night of sleep in the middle of a major tournament, just to stand in this room for a few hours. “You are insane,” Andre whispered, his eyes burning with sudden, unexpected tears.
“Doug is going to kill you.”
“Doug doesn’t know,” Blake said, his smile widening. “I wasn’t going to miss this, Andre. I wasn’t going to miss your opening night.”
Andre didn’t care about the critics, or the buyers, or the gallery director.
He stepped forward, wrapping his arms around Blake’s neck, and kissed him.
It was a fierce, public kiss, full of gratitude and love and the overwhelming realization that this man would cross a continent for him without a second thought.
Blake kissed him back, his hands settling on Andre’s waist, grounding him.
When they pulled apart, the gallery was still buzzing around them, but the noise seemed distant, irrelevant.
“Come,” Andre said, grabbing Blake’s hand. “I want to show you.”
He led Blake through the exhibition, stopping in front of each painting. Blake looked at them with the same quiet, intense focus he applied to a tennis match, studying the brushstrokes, the colors, the movement captured on the canvas.
When they reached the painting of the bedroom — the study of morning light — Blake stopped. He stood in front of it for a long time, his eyes tracking the golden haze, the familiar angle of the window, the quiet intimacy of the space they shared.
“It’s beautiful,” Blake said softly.
“It is our room,” Andre said.
“I know.” Blake turned to look at him, his blue eyes dark and serious. “You’re incredible, Andre. You know that, right?”
“I know that I am very lucky.”
They spent the next two hours navigating the crowd together.
Blake charmed the gallery director, shook hands with the buyers, and patiently answered questions from people who recognized him from the sports pages.
He was exhausted — Andre could see it in the slight tightness around his eyes, the way he leaned against the wall when he thought no one was looking — but he never stopped smiling.
Around ten o’clock, the crowd began to thin. Pierre and Claire had left an hour earlier, Pierre complaining about his feet, Claire promising to make a celebratory breakfast the next morning. Liam and Talia had gone to a pub down the street, promising to save them a table.
Andre pulled Blake into the small storage room at the back of the gallery, shutting the heavy door behind them.
The room was dark, smelling of packing materials and dust. The sudden silence was deafening after the noise of the exhibition.
Andre pushed Blake back against the wall, pressing his body against him, and kissed him hard.
Blake groaned, his hands coming up to grip Andre’s hips, pulling him closer. The kiss was heated, intense, fueled by the adrenaline of the evening and the sheer, overwhelming relief of having Blake there. Andre’s hands tangled in Blake’s hair, his mouth opening, his tongue sliding against Blake’s.
Blake’s hands slid under Andre’s suit jacket, his fingers pressing into the small of his back, his touch firm and possessive. He kissed Andre down his jaw, his teeth scraping lightly against the skin of his neck.
“We can’t,” Blake murmured against his throat, his voice unsteady. “We’re in a gallery.”
“Je m’en foue," Andre whispered against Blake’s mouth, pressing his hips against Blake’s, letting him feel the hard, aching evidence of his desire. "Je m'en foue. I don't give a shit," he repeated.
Blake let out a shaky breath, his forehead dropping against Andre’s shoulder. “I have to be at the airport in six hours. If we start this now, I’m going to miss my flight. And then Doug really will kill me.”
Andre laughed, a soft, breathless sound, and pressed a kiss to Blake’s temple.
He stepped back, putting a few inches of space between them, though his hands remained on Blake’s chest. “You are right,” Andre said, smoothing the lapels of Blake’s jacket.
“You need to sleep. Even if it is only for a few hours.”
“I don’t want to sleep. I want to look at your paintings. And I want to look at you.”
“I will be watching you tomorrow. On the television. And you will be winning your match.”
Blake smiled, reaching up to cup Andre’s face. “I’m so proud of you, Andre. Tonight was… it was everything.”
“It was perfect,” Andre corrected. “Because you were here.”
Blake’s third-round match in Hamburg on Friday afternoon was a brutal, grinding affair.
He was playing a veteran clay-court specialist from Argentina, a man who hit with heavy topspin and refused to miss. The red clay was slow, the rallies long and punishing.
Blake’s legs felt like lead. The lack of sleep, the travel, the emotional high of the exhibition — it had all caught up with him. His reaction time was a fraction of a second slow, his serve lacking its usual bite.
He lost the first set 4-6.
During the changeover, Blake sat on his bench, toweling off his face, avoiding Doug’s eyes in the player box.
He could feel his coach watching him, could practically hear the silent fury radiating from the stands.
Doug couldn’t say a word — on-court coaching was prohibited — but his expression said everything.
You’re flat. You’re not moving your feet.
What the hell is going on? Blake took a long drink of water, stood up, grabbed his racket, and walked back to the baseline.
He fought. He dug deep into the reserves of discipline and stubbornness that his father had drilled into him, refusing to yield. He shortened the points, coming to the net more often, taking risks to avoid the grueling baseline rallies.
He won the second set in a tiebreaker, 7-6.
The third set was a grinding, relentless battle.
Both men were exhausted, the red clay sticking to their clothes, their breathing loud in the humid German air.
At five-all, Blake found a final surge of adrenaline.
He broke the Argentine’s serve with a stunning running forehand down the line, then served out the match in the next game, collapsing onto the clay when the final ball sailed long.
He had won. 4-6, 7-6, 7-5.
In the locker room afterward, Blake sat on the bench, his head in his hands, too tired to even take off his shoes.
Doug walked in, carrying a bottle of water and a clipboard. He sat down next to Blake, handing him the water. “That was the ugliest win I’ve seen from you in three years,” Doug said quietly.
“I know.”
“You went to London yesterday, didn’t you?”
Blake looked up, surprised. “How did you know?”
"I saw the photos online this morning. You and Andre at the gallery.” Doug shook his head, a mixture of exasperation and reluctant respect in his eyes. “You flew to London and back in less than twenty-four hours, in the middle of an ATP 500.”
“It was his first exhibition, Doug. I had to be there.”
Doug looked at him for a long moment. Then he sighed, tossing the clipboard onto the bench. “You’re lucky you won today, Harlan. If you had lost, we would be having a very different conversation.”
“But I didn’t lose.”
“No. You didn’t.” Doug stood up, clapping Blake on the shoulder. “Get in the ice bath.
You play the quarterfinal tomorrow. And for God’s sake, get some sleep tonight.”
Blake nodded, watching his coach walk away. He was exhausted, his body aching in a dozen different places, the prospect of another match tomorrow looming like a mountain.
But as he pulled out his phone and saw a text from Andre — a picture of the gallery, empty and quiet, with the words Thank you. I love you. — Blake smiled.
He would do it again in a heartbeat.