Two #2
As I set my bag down, Callahan stepped out and the roar that met his arrival could have shaken leaves off their trees. I forced myself to focus on my preparations—water, racquet, towels, electrolytes—trying not to think about how many people were watching, or who I was facing, and failing at both.
You’ve played him before. You’ve beaten him before – words I needed to hold like a shield.
I was at the net before him. A grim smile to the waiting umpire, and I jogged on the spot, warming up while Callahan took his time organising his towels and drinks. Eventually, he took off his headphones and strolled out to join us.
“All right, same as before,” the umpire said, beginning his run through of the match conditions. Line calling system, towel boxes, video review requests – the words washed over me, all meaningless, until he held out a coin to Miles. “Heads or tails?”
With a shake of his head and a nod my way, Miles passed. It was a simple act of sportsmanship, but it pissed me off – he a man with plenty throwing me crumbs because it made no difference. He was going to win either way.
“Heads,” I said, and the coin went up.
The umpire bent over as it landed. “Tails.” He looked to Callahan. “Serve or receive?”
“Receive.”
“All right, a photo that side, then this side please.”
The chair umpire stepped back, leaving us to pose for the pre-match photo. We turned shoulder to shoulder, and Miles’s fingers lightly brushed my back as I forced a smile.
“Good luck,” he murmured as we turned the other way to pose again for the faceless cameras. “You’re going to need it.”
“Fuck off,” I hissed back.
Callahan shrugged as he stepped away, his grin lacking all humour. “May the best man win.”
I ESCAPED THE court as fast as I could, thoughts spinning into a panicked tangle. Fuck. I wanted to scream, an instinct stayed only because cameras would still be on me. Fuck! Fuck!
The first set had gone exactly as anyone would have predicted.
Callahan was a force and my game plan had failed.
He’d seen everything coming. But while losing was one thing, losing to him was quite another, so when, at the start of the second set, he’d smiled at me like he was humouring a child, my chest had flooded with fury.
I had been the better junior. I had been called world number one in waiting.
I had won the junior slams and risen through the pro ranks.
And then with a screech of tyres and a shattering of glass it had all been over.
The career that ought to have been mine had become his.
For half a set that fury had fuelled me and I’d had him.
I’d broken his serve. I’d held with ease.
I’d felt the energy in the crowd shift—the excitement of an underdog putting up a fight—but anger was a terrible motivator, unstable and exhausting, and by the end of the set my fears had crashed back in and I’d fucked it all up.
The third set had just been embarrassing.
Now, I was half sweat and half shakes as I sped into the locker room.
I skipped my cool-down and went straight to the shower, wanting nothing but to get out of there as fast as possible.
The hot water helped, taking the edge off my tension and sluicing off the sweat, but as it washed down the drain like any chance for those ranking points, I was left with a heavy, bitter disappointment.
I had dried and dressed and was shoving everything into my bag when Callahan walked in. He’d had to stick around for his on-court interview and hadn’t even changed his sweat-laden shirt, and it pissed me off that it only made him hotter.
“You going to admit it now?” he said, dropping his bags.
“Admit what?”
“That I’m better than you.”
I snorted, pulling my gaze from the way his shirt clung. “Still just richer.”
Scowl fixed, he stalked toward me, all sweat and muscle.
His infuriating extra three inches made him imposing at the other end of a tennis court, but even more when he stood close enough that I could feel the heat radiating off his body.
Those inches forced me to look up, too, such that I felt like a mulish child as I lifted my chin to meet his glare.
“You’re such a bitter shit, Russo,” he said, his upper lip curling into a sneer. “It just eats you up that you never made that comeback, doesn’t it?”
“You have no idea,” I laughed, too raw to pretend. “But that doesn’t make it untrue that you have all the help in the world. When I broke your serve in the second, you had a whole fucking team to give you advice between games, and what did I have, huh?”
His scowl darkened. “You make it sound like I rely on them, like they’re the reason I’m here, but they’re not. I have worked so hard to get where I am.”
“No, you haven’t, because you don’t know what hard work is.
You’ve never had to train on your own, never had to travel twice as far from shitty apartments where you don’t sleep because of the noise, never had to drag your own fucking laundry around Paris and live on rice and beans because buying meat could leave you unable to afford your next fucking airfare.
So, don’t you dare talk to me about working hard.
You couldn’t even play the way I’ve had to.
I’ve earned every moment of my success, but you are nothing without your team. And your bank account.”
I shoved him out of my face, but before I could walk away, his hand closed around my arm, each finger as hot as a branding iron on my bare skin.
“I could play just as well on my own,” he said, bending close. “You know I could.”
“Then do without them,” I snapped back. “Try spending only what I can and see how far you fall.”
Callahan’s dark gaze flicked from one of my eyes to the other, his jaw hardening like he’d gritted his teeth – a look I’d seen dozens of times when he had to dig deep during matches, refusing to give up. But instead of lifting his chin for the fight, he looked away.
“Didn’t think so,” I said, the triumph tasting sour.
“You’re a coward, Callahan, just like everyone else.
” I nodded toward the empty locker room behind him.
“And now you should probably let me go before someone walks in and gets the wrong idea. I don’t think you could handle the talk.
Gayness is so contagious, don’t you know? ”
I glared the challenge up into his face, leaving a frown carving a deep cleft between his brows.
With his height and his proximity, he loomed over me, all lithe muscle and drying sweat.
His cheeks were still flushed from the heat and he looked like he hadn’t shaved for a few days, leaving short hair darkening his jaw and upper lip – a look frustratingly designed to bypass even what remained of my unspent anger and start sliding heat directly to my groin.
He needed to move. Why didn’t he move? The chance to retort had come and gone and if he was thinking about coming out with some pitying bullshit about being sorry my life was so hard, I was going to punch him.
“Miles?”
He let go, stepping back and pushing me away in one hasty movement as a member of his team walked in looking ridiculous in his sponsor-emblazoned shirt. “Here, Tarelli,” Miles said. “We’ve just been discussing the match.”
The man—Tarelli, apparently—shot me a suspicious look, but said, “Cool-down and stretching, then discussions, yeah?”
“Yeah. I’m coming,” Callahan said, and with a last searing glance my way, was gone.