Two
WE LEFT THE apartment early the next day, having booked a session on one of the outside practice courts.
The park at Roland Garros was humming when we arrived, fans already gathering for the day’s play, though no one looked twice at us as we made our way through the crowd.
Clay crunched as we stepped onto our designated court and dropped our bags.
“Let’s keep the warm-up quick, I want to practice my slice,” Katie said, grabbing a racquet from her bag and heading for the baseline.
Worn out from the previous day’s match, three qualifying rounds and the worst sleep I’d had since arriving, it took a while to find my usual rhythm.
For some people, competition was everything, but I had always loved training almost as much, loved drills and morning runs and aiming for my spots on an empty court.
It cleared my mind of every other thought.
“Mat?”
I turned to find Katie gesturing that she was done. We had a few minutes left, though it didn’t feel like it with Callahan’s team already on the court opening their bags.
Determined not to be bullied out of the way, I took my time serving my last few balls before joining Katie near the fence. “I think I’ll head to the gym for a bit,” she said, bag already over her shoulder. “Keep my legs moving. Might see you for lunch?”
“Sure.” I started packing away my racquets. “And if for some reason I miss you before your match, good luck, huh?”
“Yeah.” She hitched up a determined smile. “Catch you later.” And dodging Callahan’s coaching team, she slipped out the gate and away through the crowd.
Miles had finally extricated himself from his fans and was now taking out a racquet, which at least meant I wouldn’t have to push past him as I made my escape. I shoved my last racquet away and pulled the zips, swinging my bag onto my shoulder as a footstep scuffed beside me.
“Morning, Russo. A day earlier than I was expecting to see you, too.”
I looked up to Callahan’s amused smile. And it was up – a rare thing at six foot two to have to look up to anyone, but three inches had always made far too much difference. “Callahan,” I said. “You could have avoided that by booking a different court.”
“And here I thought you could do with some good press after yesterday.”
“Oh, so this is a pity chat? Fuck off, Miles.”
“So happy to see me!” For a moment, he smiled like he’d unexpectedly run into an old friend, before folding his arms and letting that smile slip into a smirk. “Are you hoping tomorrow will be just like old times? You know, instead of recent times. Did you even win a set off me last match?”
The urge to punch him was strong, but somehow, I restrained myself.
Annoyingly, Arnaud had been right. Miles was, objectively, gorgeous.
He was a graceful, long-limbed six-foot-five made of lithe muscle, with a jawline worth killing for.
Add a light, infectious smile, thick brows and an untamed crop of dark-blond hair that gave him the vibe of a tortured poet, and he may as well have been drawn directly from a secret folder deep in my brain labelled Everything Mat Finds Hot.
Another truth I would take to my grave.
I forced a dismissive shrug. “I’m still the only one standing here who’s lifted a grand slam trophy. Two, in fact! While you were just my runner-up.”
He couldn’t hide the flash of irritation, but managed his own light shrug. “And yet I turned out better.”
“Better? Bullshit. You just have more money.”
Callahan rolled his eyes. “Oh, come on, money doesn’t buy wins.”
“No, it just buys you a coach and a trainer and a physio to travel everywhere with you, and what does that guy do?” I pointed to a member of his team I didn’t recognise. “Is he your hairdresser?”
“Funny.”
His coach stood waiting at the other end of the court, arms folded. Leo Mannering was famous for having coached at least three past world number ones, and while Miles hadn’t gotten there yet, it seemed only a matter of time.
“Boss is getting impatient,” I said, nodding toward the man. “Though you muscled in on a bunch of my time already.”
“He’s not my boss,” he growled and it was nice to have hit a nerve. Perhaps Mannering’s reputation for being a hard taskmaster was well-founded, or perhaps there was trouble in paradise.
Either way, I felt a little sorry for making him scowl with so many fans watching, and said, “Sure looks like he wants to be.”
“Now that’s true.” He breathed out a soft laugh and threw a sidelong glance toward his coach. “Best described as a grumpy old shit, if I’m honest.”
The unexpected admission drew a laugh from me, and for a moment his lips twitched into that infectious smile.
But only for a moment, before it once again twisted into a smirk and he stepped back.
“Well, I’ll see you tomorrow. Another chance to find out which of us actually turned out better. Although I already know how it’ll go.”
Without giving me time to reply, he strode off leaving me seething.
KATIE DIDN’T WIN. Such was tennis, and she soon spun her frustration into fresh energy and spent the evening alternately packing and negotiating travel plans with her coach.
I sat slumped on the couch, trying not to let doubt eat me alive.
After my run-in with Callahan, I was more determined than ever to beat him.
Not just because he’d pissed me off, but because winning meant more money and double the ranking points.
Winning could make this the season I finally made my comeback.
When it was late enough for my coach to be awake on the other side of the world, I called him. “Hey, Danny,” I said, lying on the couch and staring up at the stained ceiling.
“Hey, Mat, pulled up well?”
“Yeah, I’m feeling good. Physically at least.”
“Physically has always been your forte,” he returned with a faint laugh. Injuries were common in tennis, but my accident aside, I’d been lucky so far. It wouldn’t last. Not the way I had to travel. “So,” Danny went on. “Tell me your thoughts about Callahan.”
That he’s an irritating shit? “I don’t know,” I said aloud, heaving a sigh.
“Come on, you know his game. You’ve beaten him before.”
“Years ago.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
Kind of does, I wanted to say, but didn’t. “He’s got a big serve. Long reach. You can never count him out of points. Good touch at the net, too, damn him. He can do everything.”
“Right, people think he’s a flashy player because he’s got a big serve, but no.
Callahan is methodical. He plans and he executes, finds your weakness then exploits the shit out of it.
Do you remember that training camp he came out here for?
You two were what? Fifteen? And there was Brad Tindale, sixteen going on twenty-six, wiping everyone off the court.
Callahan was the only one who beat him, because he saw a weakness no one else did.
” Danny laughed. “While Brad got nowhere because he was so used to winning easily that he never developed the ability to problem solve.”
“What’s my weakness?”
Silence hung on the end of the line until, eventually, Danny admitted, “I don’t know. Not that you don’t have any, but you were the only player he couldn’t beat back then, which means he never found one he could consistently exploit.”
“Well, he can beat me now, so he must have figured one out.”
“Then we try to exploit his.”
We talked for a while, my confidence fluctuating as we went over a game plan that, at least on paper, sounded like it might work.
When I hung up, Katie was waiting. “I’m off to bed, since I have to fly out early,” she said, giving me hug. “I hope you’ll be sticking around for longer.”
I grimaced, caught between determined confidence and tenacious pessimism. “I’ll do my best.”
“Which is all we can ever do. But, Mat? I know you can win.” She squeezed my shoulder. “Give it your all. And whatever happens, I’ll see you in London.”
I WAS A fighter on the tennis court, but giving it my all rarely seemed enough these days.
And because I was playing the world number four, whatever happened would take place in front of an enormous crowd and be televised live across the world, giving me the chance not only to fail, but to fail spectacularly.
Callahan was already in the plush waiting area at Court Philippe Chatrier when I arrived, slowly pacing back and forth, headphones on.
He nodded at the sight of me, a tiny, amused smile flickering on his lips.
He looked comfortable, untroubled by either the big venue or the occasion, and in a small knot at the end of the hallway his team chatted amongst themselves – support I lacked as I waited alone, tense and grim.
A pair of eels seemed to be wrestling in my stomach.
When the tournament staff gestured me into position, I desperately wanted to hit pause so I could remember how to breathe, but the noise of the crowd was like a riptide and I could not escape.
Time spun on, slipping from my hold. It seemed barely a second before an announcer Frenched his way through an introduction and I had to tear my feet from the carpet and walk, heart thudding like a drum.
“Représentant l’Australie, Matteo Russo!”
I stepped out as applause rang through the stadium, the crowd so large that even the mildest cheer thundered. It shivered through me, the atmosphere intense. Crushing. I lifted a hand in acknowledgement, though every movement felt like it was being made by someone else.
Get a grip, I told myself as I walked to my chair.
This isn’t new, you’ve done this before.
Lots of times. And I had, but not on centre court at Roland Garros.
And nothing this big for years. And this one mattered.
I needed the ranking points. Needed the money.
Needed to prove I wasn’t just the gay disappointment.