Sixteen
I WATCHED MILES play from the safety of the player’s gym.
Having finished on the practice court with Katie, I set myself up on one of the bikes for a light recovery ride and tuned in to centre court.
It had been strange watching him walk out at Queen’s knowing him differently, but these weeks had changed the sensation from a curiosity to an odd, possessive sort of anguish.
I wanted the camera to both linger longer and not look at him the way it did.
Wanted to be right there courtside with him and had to remind myself why I’d refused.
He won easily, the commentators making almost as many references to the Callahan freight train as they made speculations about his empty player’s box.
And it was empty. No Emily Rose Johnson had turned up to smile for the crowd, and there was still no team, though how much pressure he’d had to withstand from his father to keep it that way I wasn’t sure – these the things we didn’t talk about.
At the end of the match, the on-court interviewer asked about the empty box.
At Queen’s, he had shrugged it off, but this time he nodded thoughtfully and ran a hand through his sweat-laden hair before saying, “Yeah, a lot of people have been asking if it’s going to stay that way throughout the tournament and the answer is yes.
I’m still with my team, I’m just doing my Wimbledon swing without them.
A lot of tennis fans might not know,” he went on, looking around at the crowd as he spoke, “that it’s expensive to have a team travel with you, which means lower-ranked players often can’t afford them unless they’re lucky enough to have financial support.
And yet without a team, it’s harder to maintain the sort of level that ensures success, rather like a chicken and egg sort of deal, you know?
So yeah, I’m doing without them while I’m in the UK this year because I think it’s important to acknowledge that having them is a privilege, and that our sport isn’t as fair and open to all as we like to think. ”
Resounding applause followed this speech, and it was a few long seconds before I realised I’d stopped to stare.
“Well!” the interviewer said with a surprised laugh. “I don’t think anyone expected that. An important issue, though! And I’m sure other players will be grateful you’re bringing attention to it. Though it must feel strange to be on your own.”
“Yeah, it’s been a challenge, having to do a lot more things myself than I usually would,” Miles admitted.
“But it’s also been the most fun I’ve had on tour for quite some time, so you take the good with the bad.
Though it’s a little sad knowing that when you’re out here pumping your fist after excellent points, you’re doing it in the direction of an empty box. ”
He mimed a fist pump toward his empty box and the crowd laughed. God, charisma just dripped off him like he had buckets to spare and it was both utterly unfair and a delight to watch.
“Well, perhaps you can invite some friends next time,” the interviewer suggested over the laughter. “Miles Callahan, ladies and gentlemen, through to the second round.”
The crowd cheered and he acknowledged them with a wave and I watched, grinning, as he made his way off court.
He paused at the camera, and while I had been too stunned to do more than scribble my signature on the lens the day before, he wrote: come watch me play?
With a wink to the camera, he then formed a heart with his hands, and walked off screen laughing.
I wanted to bury my face in a pillow and scream.
Why was he like this? So fucking perfect, showing in the space of mere minutes that he was not only ridiculously good at tennis, but was eloquent and kind and cute to an unbearable degree.
I wanted to grab hold and never let go, the desire to call him mine leaving my chest tight with all I couldn’t say and shouldn’t feel.
I killed the stream, swiping the app away like I had to swipe away those thoughts. I had another match tomorrow and I needed to focus on that, not this weight on my chest that was getting harder and harder to ignore.
Congratulations, I messaged. Or is congratufuckinglations our thing now?
i like it, so let’s make it our thing. glad you were watching.
Of course I was watching. Saw the interview too. Thank you.
Thank you. Two words that were a mere shadow of how I felt, yet the tangle of emotions were too great to allow anything more eloquent.
no, thank you, he wrote back. someone needed to say it and you weren’t going to
Not a question, just a statement of fact and he wasn’t wrong. When lower-ranked players say it, it’s just complaining. Besides, I already rocked the boat once.
He didn’t answer, though I wasn’t sure if it was because he had nothing else to say or because phones didn’t do well in showers and press rooms.
MILES JOINED US for dinner that night, the three of us sitting in the apartment’s tiny lounge eating off plates on our knees, the night session on in the background.
Katie seemed to have forgiven him for showing up at 3am and being sick, and with her there we were just a trio of tennis players watching a match and complaining about the traffic around the All England Club.
It didn’t matter that the very sight of him sitting on the terrible old couch made me smile.
It didn’t matter that every time I got up, I had to fight the urge to touch his hair or his shoulder in passing.
Didn’t matter that he was the fucking sun to which I kept turning.
Katie’s match was first up on one of the outer courts the next day, so she turned in early, leaving us with strict instructions to take all horny noise across the hall.
While she pottered through her bedtime routine, Miles pushed me flat on the couch and climbed atop me, pressing his lips to mine before I could protest.
“I’m still here, you know,” Katie called from the kitchenette.
“We know,” Miles lifted his head to call back. “And have you heard a single horny noise yet?”
“No, but the promise of it is very loud.”
“The promise is always loud,” he murmured against my lips before kissing me again, his hair falling to tickle my cheeks and his weight on me a joy. I kissed him back, unsure whether I ought to try to keep it light and friendly or push hastily for the destination.
He must have sensed my ill-ease, for he pulled back, propped on his hands to ask, “Do you just want to rest tonight? Your match is early, yeah?”
“Early afternoon, but . . . kind of? Yeah?”
“Hmm,” he said, dropping a light kiss on my lips. “Then I am very jealous of Ambrose Fuller. Saving yourself for him instead.”
“Only because I have to play him!”
“You played me and look where that ended up.”
I stared bemusedly up at him. “If you’re worried I’ll call Fuller a coward in the hope of fucking him too, you can relax. I have zero interest in that outcome.”
A notch of suspicion appeared between his brows. “You don’t think he’s hot?”
“I don’t think he’s gay!”
“Since when has that mattered?” Miles said. “You didn’t think I was gay and you still jerked off thinking about me.”
“When I was like fifteen! Oh my god, why are you pouting?”
“I am not pouting.”
“Yes, you are.” I kissed his lower lip, drawing it slowly into my mouth before letting it go. “Look at that pout.”
Miles scowled down at me, and most definitely pouted. “Fine, you were supposed to say Fuller is gross and awful and extremely not your type, thereby implying that I am hot and gorgeous and very much your type.”
“Was that ever really in doubt?” I asked, lifting my head from the couch to kiss around his still pouting lip. “Especially with the last few weeks taken as evidence.”
“No,” he said and paused, before catching one of my kisses and adding, “but that doesn’t mean I don’t want to hear you say it.”
“You are hot, and gorgeous, and very much my type. In fact, I think if you opened the book titled Matteo Russo’s Type, you would find yourself the first, last, and only page.”
His lips twitched into a smile, a brief flare of utter delight before it turned into a frown. “What about that cute French guy you missed my first-round match in Paris for?”
“Arnaud?”
“Oh, he has a name?”
“Of course he has a name, he saved my laundry and took me out for coffee. And since your match was on, we spent half the damn time talking about how hot you are.”
“Sure you did.”
“We did! He said you have come-fuck-me eyes.”
Miles gave me a glimpse of his come-fuck-me look only to heave a mock sigh. “And yet you fucked him instead.”
“Ba-bow,” I said, crossing my arms into an X behind his head like he’d given the incorrect answer on a game show. “Wrong again. What I actually did was go home and sulk, and end up getting mad at your press conference because you said it had been two years since we last played.”
His eyes widened in sudden horror. “Hadn’t it been?”
“No. It had been one year and eleven months.”
“That’s close enough!”
I laughed at his disbelief and covered his chin in kisses. “Is it? Is it really? Is one inch outside the line close enough to still win the point?”
“I’ll give you one inch outside the line,” he growled, grinding his semi against me.
“Only one?”
Katie strode past on the way back from the bathroom. “Horny noises out, remember? I’m going to bed now.”
As she closed her door firmly behind her, Miles pulled himself to his feet with a tired, little sigh. “I should go, before I can’t take my hands off you.”
The urge to change my mind and go with him was strong, but it was too great a risk when it wasn’t sex I wanted, rather to fall asleep beside him. “Probably for the best.”
I stayed lying where I was and he bent a kiss to my forehead. “Then I shall say goodnight. And hey,” he added, straightening up to leave. “You’ve got this match too.”