One #2
“Uh,” someone said, the single elongated syllable intensely apologetic. I opened my eyes to find a young man with curly dark hair and a cute nose gesturing at my washing machine. Rapid-fire French tripped off his tongue in a way that only made him cuter.
“Je suis désolé,” I tried in my atrocious accent. “Je ne parle pas francais. I know how to ask for the bathroom and the laundromat, but that’s about it I’m afraid.”
“Oh, well, your machine has an error.”
I scrambled up, curious gazes flitting my way. “Shit.”
“Yeah, I don’t know why but that one is always a bit . . . uh . . . risky.”
In the way of troubled whitegoods, a mystery error code had appeared on the screen, but when I tried the washer door it was firmly locked.
From inside, my tennis shorts pressed against the porthole, trapped.
“Shit,” I hissed again, running a hand through my hair.
And feeling cursed, I looked around for the customer service number.
“Here.” Cute Nose pulled his phone from a pocket surely too small to fit it. “Let me. They may not be good with English.”
“Oh, uh, thank you.”
Phone already to his ear, the young man just nodded and looked into the middle distance in the way of people on phones everywhere. Barely a minute later, he’d already hung up, sliding it back into the tight shorts. “Someone is coming.”
“Thanks,” I said again, feeling all too like a damsel in distress.
Within a few minutes, a man stepped in off the street trailing muttered French.
He threw an apology my way, exchanged a few words with my knight in short shorts, then began the delicate process of fixing the washing machine with a kick.
A second kick made the error code disappear and the machine started rumbling, its timer set right back at the beginning.
I groaned, but the proprietor just shot me a shifty glance and hurried off, leaving me to Cute Nose’s pitying look. “It usually only does it once,” he said. “Were you in a hurry?”
“Not exactly.”
The young man shrugged, lips turning into an inviting smile complete with dimples. “Well, I was about to go for a coffee.” He pointed across the road at what looked more like a pub than a café. “Would you like to join me?”
Was that a hint of interest? Or just plain curiosity? I’d been better at telling the difference once. Either way, he was cute enough to take the risk, especially when what I really needed was a few minutes not thinking about tennis.
“Sure,” I said, and held out my hand. “I’m Mat.”
“Arnaud.”
We shook hands, and leaving our machines rumbling, headed out into the humid street.
On closer inspection, the place across the road was neither café nor pub but something like a small sports bar with a collection of tables and a large TV.
And because I was not allowed to escape, it was showing the tennis or, more accurately, showing Miles Callahan sliding across the clay to reach a frankly ridiculous shot.
My expression must have betrayed me, for as Arnaud chose a table, he said, “You don’t like tennis? It is popular in France while it’s here.”
“But not when it isn’t?” I dropped onto a chair, muscles weary. “It’s the same in Australia. People seem to think the Australian Open is the only tennis tournament all year.”
“Exactly, yes. But you are not a fan? I quite enjoy it myself. The men are . . . very nice to look at.”
Unable to hide my smile, I said, “Oh, tennis and I have a very complicated relationship, but who loves their job all the time?”
He laughed, those dimples back as he pointed toward the TV. “Your job is tennis? No wonder I liked the look of you. Are you here for Roland Garros?”
God, I felt like a bird puffing up its feathers with importance – embarrassing enough without then having to admit I wasn’t even close to the top hundred. “Yeah,” I said. “I played this morning.”
“But if you’re in the French Open, why are you moping around a laundromat?”
“I was not moping!”
“You were extremely moping,” Arnaud said, his eyes alight with laughter as bright as the cheerful chatter dancing around us. “Did you lose?”
“No. Although based on that score—” I jerked my head at the TV. “I’ll be playing him next round.”
Arnaud slapped the table, causing a few people to glance over. “Him? Miles Callahan? How I envy you!”
“Envy?”
“What can I say? He’s gorgeous. And . . .” He leaned forward conspiratorially. “I think maybe he knows how to have a good time.”
Thankfully, a waitress arrived, saving me from having to come up with an answer, and by the time we’d ordered, Arnaud had lost interest in the American superstar on the TV. “So,” he said. “Why did I find a tennis player in a laundromat rather than at Roland Garros?”
“Because even tennis players have to do laundry.”
“You don’t have people who do that for you?”
“Not if you can’t afford to travel with a team. Or stay at a fancy enough hotel.”
An admission certain to rob him of any interest in me, but the desire for people to understand how tennis really worked always won.
Arnaud’s brow wrinkled. “Isn’t the prize millions?”
“For grand slams sure, for the few who can win one. The rest of us make do with quite a lot less. And we pay for almost everything ourselves – coach, physio, airfares, accommodation, food, health insurance, gear if you don’t have a sponsor.
So if you don’t have a rich family, it can be—” I stopped, forcing a laugh.
“You know what? Let’s not talk about it. Why were you at the laundromat?”
“That’s a much easier answer.” His grimace was apologetic. “My apartment doesn’t have a laundry.”
Our drinks arrived, his an espresso, mine a black tea because I’d kicked my coffee habit when I couldn’t fit it into my budget. On the TV, the camera was lingering on a close-up of Miles’s face as he towelled it dry.
“See? Gorgeous. Look at that jaw,” Arnaud said, turning in his chair. “He was on the cover of L’officiel a few months ago. He has, uh, how do you say . . . come-fuck-me eyes.”
I heard the words but was caught watching as Hernandez served onto the line yet somehow Miles still reached it, turning all that power back with a blistering cross-court forehand. Hernandez returned it even harder, but when Miles was switched on, he was like a wall.
“Will you beat him?” Arnaud asked when I brought my attention back from the TV.
“Hard to believe, but I’ve beaten him before. A few times.” I forced a self-deprecating smile that hurt more than expected. “When we were juniors though. I beat him for both the Australian and the US Open title.”
Arnaud lowered his cup so fast he lost a splash of coffee over the side. “You won the US Open? And the Australian Open?”
“Just the junior titles, but yeah.”
“Don’t say it like it’s nothing! It’s very impressive.
And perhaps you will beat him again.” He tilted his head toward the TV, where Miles had just dropped into his courtside chair, towel in hand, long legs spread wide.
“Either way, I will enjoy the show. Two gorgeous men duelling it out is better than just one. You will make a very nice pair.”
My first reaction ought to have been gratification.
Instead, it was horror at being coupled with Miles Callahan.
We’d come through juniors at the same time, and though we’d never been friends, there had been a deeply embarrassing couple of weeks at a training camp when my horny teenage dick had been painfully obsessed – a fact I would take to my grave.
“I’ll do my best to make it a long match then, just for you,” I said, lifting my cup in salute.
“Ah, yes please. Many shirt changes.”
Rather than explain why I never changed my shirt on court, I changed the subject by asking him about Paris, and we spent the rest of our drinks talking about the city, Miles Callahan forgotten.
When we returned to the laundromat, my machine had completed its cycle, and while I separated out everything that couldn’t go in the dryer, Arnaud emptied his dry clothes into a patterned laundry bag. Amid the lingering scent of warm sheets, he leaned against the machines and watched me.
“I don’t know what tennis players do after wins other than laundry,” he said, flicking dark hair out of his face and smiling down at me. “But if you’re free, you could come over tonight.”
I had been trying not to think about the possibility he would ask while absolutely thinking about the possibility he would ask.
At eye height now, his tight little shorts left nothing to the imagination, yet my imagination sped away all the same, filling the evening with the sight of him kneeling in front of me, as well as not one but two glorious and much needed fucks.
He lifted a questioning brow. “Well?”
“YOU SAID WHAT?” Katie stopped throwing things out of her tennis bag to stare at me.
“I said no, and maybe another time, and we exchanged numbers,” I repeated and set her clean clothes beside her.
Katie pinched the bridge of her nose. We’d travelled together often enough that I hadn’t spared her any details, and now she didn’t spare me her withering look. “But why?”
“Because random hookups with cute French guys is only for players who can afford good food and personal trainers, or at least to have their fucking coach travel with them. I need to eat and rest and focus on the next match or I’ll never be one of those players.”
Halfway through my speech, Katie had rolled her eyes. By the end, she grimaced and went back to sorting her bag. “I know, but you also have to live, Mat. And who knows, he might have fed you afterwards.”
“I am not going whoring just for pity food.”
“Whoring makes it sound like you wouldn’t have thoroughly enjoyed it. How cute was he again?”
I groaned and dropped into the scratchy armchair. “Very. And he was keen on me despite my rant about tennis expenses.”
“So not very clever then.”
“Hey!”