Twelve
KATIE AND I had shared accommodation often enough to develop traditions.
Our biggest was that we always went sightseeing the weekend before a tournament.
It helped to divert our minds, and was the only time we were sure to have in any city before packing up and moving on when we lost. The first year in London we’d seen the usual attractions—the Tower of London, Buckingham Palace, that park with the big dinosaur statues—and the second year we’d splurged on a day trip out to Stonehenge.
This year we’d decided to be cultured and go to some museums, though after dinner on Friday, Katie had suggested we also walk around Hyde Park.
“Don’t all the characters in your romance books go there at some point?” had been her argument.
“Only in regency romances,” I’d said, “but I don’t read a lot of those. Not many are gay.”
From the couch, where he’d once again become deeply absorbed in my e-reader, Miles had said, “You’ve got a couple.”
And somehow that had been that.
In the end, we’d decided on laundry and Hyde Park on the Saturday, and a picnic and museums on the Sunday. Neither had seemed likely to interest Miles, but while we stood waiting for our laundry to finish the next day, Katie invited him anyway.
“Oh, I’m invited?” he said, flicking an amused look my way. “Mat said you were going sightseeing, but not that I was allowed to come.”
“I didn’t think you would want to!” I cried as Katie rolled her eyes.
“I figured you would have far more important and interesting things to do with your weekend than wander around museums with us. You know, like sponsorship events and high teas. Things Tina will call you a thousand times to make sure you aren’t late for. ”
Ignoring this, he shot his warmest, most charming centrefold-smile at Katie. “Thank you so much for inviting me. I would love to wander around museums with you.”
“You’re very welcome. And you,” she added, pointing a finger at me. “Are an idiot.”
While Miles and Katie might not have chosen to spend time together in other circumstances, they got along far better than I’d expected. Miles was relaxed and considerate, Katie cheerful and clever, and with a common desire to make fun of me, conversation never flagged.
Ambling around Hyde Park and Kensington Gardens was hardly thrilling on paper, but nothing could be boring in such company.
We admired the plants, enjoyed what passed for sunshine in England, and marvelled at the sheer number of ducks.
And whenever we saw a squirrel, Katie and I would point excitedly, leaving Miles shaking his head.
“I get you don’t have them in Australia,” he said when we stopped to watch a pair darting up and down a tree trunk. “But they’re just squirrels.”
“You mean squirrels,” I corrected as we moved on.
“That’s what I said.”
“Is it though? How many syllables does it have?”
Miles scowled at me, though his sunglasses reflected more of my grin. “Are you mocking my accent? Because that’s rich coming from a pair of Aussies.”
“How many syllables, Callahan?” I repeated.
“Two. What of it?”
Shaking her head and laughing, Katie patted my shoulder and walked on. “Leave the poor man alone, Mat.”
“No, this is important. For all squirrel kind.”
“What’s more important though,” she threw back over her shoulder. “Getting one up on an American or getting laid?”
I glanced at Miles, who raised his brows. “It’s cruel to make me choose,” I groaned. “They’re both so important to me.”
“Wow,” Miles said. “Just wow.” And as we walked on, he jabbed an elbow into my ribs and said, “squirrel,” slurring the sounds together in the thickest accent he could manage.
With a theatrical shudder, I said, “You’re lucky you’re hot.”
On Sunday, we went to a bunch of museums. I had thought that of all the places we could go, a museum was unlikely to contain people who recognised Miles, yet across the course of the day, we were approached by upward of a dozen people requesting an autograph or a photo or both.
He took it in his stride, always gracious.
And each time, Katie and I would step back and wait while he worked his charm, no one sparing us a glance.
Until one of them—having accosted us in an ironwork exhibit of all places—had turned to me afterward and said, “Hey, you’re Matteo Russo, right? Can I get your autograph too?”
“Mine?” I said, too shocked for a more polished response.
“He would be delighted,” Miles said, stepping in to save me from further foot-in-mouth failures. “He’s just too modest for his own good.”
The young man held out his notebook and pen. “Thanks,” he said. “I’ve followed your career since you won the US boy’s title. I didn’t realise you two were friends, though,” he added, glancing at Miles.
“Yeah,” I said. “Well, we’ve known each other for years.”
Seeming to take that as his cue to step away, Miles retreated to where Katie stood laughing at my lack of people skills and, leaning an arm around her shoulder, bent to whisper something in her ear.
It was an entirely friendly gesture, the height difference meaning he was treating her more like a post to lean on than anything else, but it struck me as being the first time I’d seen them touch all weekend.
I dragged my attention to the notebook, and having hastily signed, handed it back with a smile that was nothing like the ones Miles could conjure.
“Thanks,” the young man said. “And hey, I just want to say that I think it was really brave of you to come out like you did.”
“Oh. I . . . think it was more stubbornness than bravery, but thank you.”
“Well, it was good for the sport. And for the queer community. You know, to show we belong everywhere. But sorry, I didn’t mean to keep you. Good luck at Wimbledon.”
He walked away without awaiting a reply, which was probably for the best since I wasn’t sure I had one.
Miles was still leaning on Katie’s shoulder when I rejoined them, not that Katie seemed to have noticed. I was probably overthinking it, the gesture nothing, the timing coincidental, though I couldn’t help wishing Miles had heard what the man had said to me.
“Well look at that, you’ve got a fan,” he said, removing his arm as I joined them.
“I’m sure Mat has lots of fans,” Katie said. “Yours just do a lot more fapping over torn out pages of GQ.”
With a dramatic little retch of disgust, Miles scrunched up his nose. “Oh my god, I did not need that mental image. You’re a monster, Katie Zhang, I hope you know that.”
“Oh, I know,” she said, and I had never seen her look more pleased.
All in all, even with my momentary lapse into overthinking, it was a great weekend.
Miles was always so relaxed and present wherever he went, easily pleased despite how dull our plans were compared to what he was used to.
He didn’t let us dwell on our upcoming matches either, just calmly told us we would do great whenever it came up, in a tone of unbending steel like he was telling the universe how it would be – a tone he used again when he came to see me off Monday morning.
“I’m not going to wish you luck,” he said, walking in while I was checking the contents of my bag for the fourth time. “Because you don’t need it. You’re going to tear through qualifying.”
“And how do you figure that?” I asked, though his confidence added a spark of excitement to my usual nerves.
He shrugged, a small smile playing about his lips. “I just know.”
IN ANY OTHER situation, I might have been annoyed that he was always right, but for the second grand slam in a row, Katie and I both made it through three rounds of qualifying and the relief was exquisite.
It had been a tough few days, playing Monday then Wednesday then again Thursday morning, each win only making the next more desirable.
I’d always been driven, but this time the hunger felt visceral.
If I made it to the second round of the main draw again, I wouldn’t have to worry about money for the rest of the season.
Might not have to qualify for the US Open.
Might be able to keep going a little while longer.
told you so, Miles messaged before I even made it to the shower. how are you planning to celebrate?
I don’t know, I wrote back. I haven’t thought that far ahead. Sleep for a week maybe?
not an option. katie’s going out with some other friends because apparently unlike you she has those
I have friends, arsehole
believe it when i see it. in the meantime, i have some ideas
His idea, once I had seen a tour physio and closed my eyes for the entire cab ride home, was to be waiting in my apartment with plate of assorted cakes and a large vase of brightly coloured flowers.
He was lying the length of the couch, my e-reader in hand, and it took him a few seconds after I opened the door to drag his gaze from the page he was reading.
“Hey, Champ,” he said, dropping the reader and pulling himself upright.
“Champ? Really?”
He flashed me a grin. “I can go back to Princess if you prefer.”
“Such choices!”
As I dropped my tennis bags, his phone buzzed on the arm of the couch. Dad flashed up on the screen, and after one glance, Miles declined the call and pushed the phone until it landed with a thud on the carpet.
That was the opposite of an invitation to ask about it, so I pointed to the flowers instead. “You bought flowers?”
Miles looked at them like he’d forgotten they were there. “Yeah.” His cheeks reddened a touch. “Although, if you don’t like flowers, then they’re for Katie, and you just get cakes.”
“And if I do like flowers?”
“Then I got you flowers.” He shrugged, leaning on the arm of the couch. “Your apartment always looks sad, and since you’re now here for a little longer, I thought it could do with some life. You’ll have to cut the stamens out of the lilies when they open though, or they’ll drop pollen everywhere.”