One #3
She caught the cushion I threw at her, which didn’t interrupt her snigger for even a second.
“All right, all right,” she laughed. “But maybe a little less woe-is-me, huh? At least until we both lose. For now, I’m feeling really good about my match tomorrow, and you’re in the second round. That’s a first and it’s huge.”
I didn’t point out that in the season before my accident, I’d gotten to the third round or better at every slam but the French, because she had never known that Matteo Russo.
The one who had, for a brief moment, actually seemed capable of living up to the potential everyone had seen in him.
Instead, I sighed, envying her ability to live in the moment.
“It is huge,” I said. “And the money takes a lot of pressure off the rest of the year. You know what? I’m ordering us food.
People who win matches at the French Open shouldn’t have to boil up rice and beans.
There’s probably a police department in France that arrests people for such crimes against food. ”
“Oh, I can help if—”
“No. Until you get paid as much for winning matches, I get the food. So shush and see if the night session has started.”
While I pulled out my phone, Katie turned on the TV to find them filling time with a highlight reel from the day’s play.
The commentary rolled by in French over the ever-present sound of the tiny kitchen sink dripping, and the chatter echoing up from the restaurant below.
And then because I just couldn’t escape him today, they ended on a clip of Miles Callahan’s press conference.
He looked far more at home behind that table than I had felt, though he tapped one finger impatiently like the whole thing was a waste of his time.
Come-fuck-me eyes, Arnaud had said. Right now, they just looked bored.
A mumbled question, barely caught by one of the micro-phones, and Callahan nodded.
“Yeah, it was a challenging match. Adán played great, but I felt really good out there – definitely found some of my best tennis. Hopefully, it’ll last through the rest of the tournament. Wouldn’t want to peak too soon.”
He had an easy smile, and muffled laughter sounded as I scrolled food options, trying to brain through translating French into English and euros into dollars as I went.
“Russo, yeah,” Callahan said, the sound of my surname making me flinch. “It’s been a couple of years since we last played, but he was the star of the junior tour when—”
“We played year before last at Wimbledon, you shit,” I grumbled.
“He said a couple of years,” Katie pointed out.
“A couple is two, that’s not two years ago.”
“One year and eleven months is close enough!”
“Close enough is not good enough in this game.”
Katie rolled her eyes. “He was saying nice things about you.”
“Of course he was, that’s what we all have to do in press conferences. Talk the tennis talk, thank everyone, and don’t be up yourself. Beef or chicken?”
“Hmmm . . . beef.”
“—to worry about, no.” For some reason, Miles was still talking, though he’d dialled his boredom up a notch.
Before I could ask Katie to mute the TV, the coverage cut back to the presenter.
I couldn’t understand a word he said, but he must have been talking about Callahan’s upcoming match, for my name tripped off his tongue – facing the world number four at a grand slam a sure way to earn a sliver of spotlight.
Which meant the timing of my outburst to the press couldn’t have been worse. A clip of it played as they went on talking, the word ‘gay’ recognisable amid the French. I had time only for my stomach to lurch sickeningly at the sight of my own scowl before they cut away again.
“You didn’t tell me about that,” Katie said.
“What’s there to say about it?” I glared at my phone, determinedly adding extra sides despite the rising cost and the familiar panic bubbling in my gut. “They ask stupid questions, they get stupid answers.”
Katie said nothing, and it wasn’t until I’d finished the purchase that I found she’d picked up her own phone and was slowly scrolling. “Have you looked online since?” she asked.
“No?” I watched her, wary. “I know better than that. And please don’t tell me what people are saying about it, I don’t want to know.”
“Not even if it’s supportive?”
“Not even if it’s supportive, because for every person who thinks I’m right there’s always another saying they don’t see why it matters, or telling me to focus on tennis instead of politics, or saying they really don’t want to think about where I stick my dick.
And those are just the ones without slurs.
So, no thanks, I’m good. I’d rather pretend no one saw it. ”
“Fuck them,” she said, setting her phone down. “You should invite the cute French guy to sit in your box next match and really give them something to talk about.”
I dropped my phone on the table. “But I don’t want them to talk about anything except my tennis. I don’t want to be just That Gay Player forever.”
She shot me a look, but the TV coverage chose that moment to start a replay of the earlier match between Louise Fosse and Berenice Silvestri, and I sensed escape.
“Oh nice,” Katie said. “Berenice has such a good game.”
“You mean you like it when the camera gets close to her arse.”
“Shhh,” she hissed, settling on the floor to stretch. “It’s the same thing and you know it.”
PLAYING ONE’S BEST needed not only good food and training, but also good sleep.
Food could be bought, but despite turning in early, I lay awake staring at the strange ceiling.
Having a different ceiling to stare at every week was as much a part of tennis as the sweat, yet I still hated it.
And someone down the hall was having a party.
Loud music vibrated through the walls, and imagining smashing their sound system wasn’t helping me get to sleep.
Nor was thinking that wherever Miles Callahan was staying, he wouldn’t be kept up by loud music.
God, the man was infuriating. Come-fuck-me eyes?
More like come-punch-me face. He could talk the humble tennis talk as well as anyone, but unlike most, it failed to fully paper over the insufferable size of his ego.
What I wouldn’t give to send him packing in the second round of a grand slam, and wipe that self-satisfied smile from his face.