Eighteen
Miles C
Goddamn that was so close
what can i say? i’m skilled at losing semifinals
I’m sorry
don’t be. although i was hoping for a more us message than that
Alright, how about commisefuckingrations?
there you go. i feel better already
Miles C
saying goodbye to my roommate. even if she did abandon me
might actually miss this place
Even the shower?
definitely not the shower
Miles C
The worst thing about coming home at this time of year is how fucking freezing it is
isn’t australia warm like all the time? it’s always baking for the open
That’s in summer. Currently it’s 12 degrees and cloudy
don’t make me look up what that is in fahrenheit like a pleb
Omg how many countries do you visit where they use Celsius? Isn’t it like . . . everywhere but the US? That’s a lot of tournaments
no idea what you’re talking about. you must be stuck in a snowstorm
You’re so full of shit
“I think even with the most pessimistic outlook, it’s going to be fine, Matty,” Mum said, bumping my shoulder.
I stared at the spreadsheet open on the screen.
I’d spent all morning filling it in, checking, double-checking and second-guessing every estimate.
It looked like even if I failed to get past the first round at my next handful of tournaments, I could still afford to take a coach with me to the US.
It looked like that wouldn’t even be too painful a stretch, especially if I continued to win matches. Still, I gnawed my lower lip.
“Hey.” Mum gripped my shoulder. Somewhere in the distant recesses of the house, the twins were laughing at something, and I envied so carefree a sound. “What are you worried about specifically?”
“Everything?” I said, leaning back in the chair and running a hand down my face.
“Specifically,” she repeated.
I gestured at the screen. “All right, how about going over there and not winning a single match.”
“Okay, let’s see.” She adjusted her glasses, slipping into Serious Business Mode.
“Your current ranking can’t drop fast enough to stop you automatically qualifying for Canada, Cincinnati and the US Open, right?
Which means as a bare minimum, you’re earning this—” she pointed to one of the columns—“just from the next eight weeks. That means you’re not even going to touch your Wimbledon earnings, even if you take a coach.
So, tell me again what you’re worried about. ”
“Fucking up and not having enough for next season if I crash and burn.”
She pointed to the entry I’d labelled, Next Season Basics. “You mean the amount you budgeted for right here?”
“Getting injured and not being able to play for months?”
Mum laughed and squeezed my shoulder again. “Then take a physio with you too. And maybe a trainer.”
I groaned, wrapping my arms over my face.
“What? You need them if you’re going to keep playing these big matches. Unless you want to get injured?”
“No, of course not! I finally feel like I can play again.”
She dropped a kiss on the top of my head. “Then grab it and run, darling. Don’t regret later, because you might not get another chance.”
They were wise words, I knew they were, and the numbers on the spreadsheet weren’t lying. Probably. Yet still I went on gnawing my lip and wasn’t sorry for the interruption when my phone rang.
“Hey, Danny,” I said, answering it after a prolonged wince at the numbers on the screen.
“Mat,” he said. “How are plans going for that US swing?”
“They’re . . . going.”
He laughed. “Better get a move on. You don’t have as long as usual.”
“Yeah, I know. We still on for Friday?”
“We are! I’m not calling to cancel, but I want to bring someone along for you to meet.
His name is Tomas Cheverall. Top fifty player in his day, hasn’t coached long but he’s young and hungry and full of flare, just like you.
I’ll send over his credentials, but I think he might be a good fit. At least in the short term.”
I stared unseeing at the computer screen as his meaning slowly sank in. “Is this you tendering your resignation?”
“You know I’ll always be here for you, but I can’t travel, and we both know you need someone who, uh, has more flexibility than a concrete block.”
My laugh huffed into the phone. “You don’t have to listen to Miles.”
“No, I don’t, but I’m glad you did. I don’t think he’ll thank himself for it when he next comes up against you, but that’ll be his problem, not yours.”
Never had he been more wrong.
“So, what do you say?” Danny went on when I didn’t answer. “Shall I bring Tomas to meet you?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“I’ve got my eye on a couple of trainers too, though I think in the short term, taking a physio with you is more important if the finances allow. The priority is keeping yourself injury free. Everything else can come later.”
He said it like it was obvious, like whether or not I invested in myself wasn’t even a question worth asking, and somehow that helped.
“So, I’ll see you Friday, yeah?” he finished.
“Absolutely.”
Miles C
sending you some sunshine
Jerk
Damn that looks nice
I almost didn’t go to the gym this morning it was so cold
it is very nice. don’t even need a shirt
Give me an existential crisis why don’t you
ok
“MAT?”
I looked up from the selfie Miles had sent of himself lying in the sun, his silver necklace gleaming on his bare chest. “Yeah?”
Dad stood at my open bedroom door, his skin extra tan against his pale knit sweater. “Thought we might celebrate your birthday a week early. Since you’ll be in Washington for it this year. So, what’ll it be? Red velvet cake? Black forest? Tiramisu?”
He smiled as he spoke, this conversation a tradition we’d had almost as long as he’d been making me birthday cakes.
Every year he made a bunch of random suggestions and every year I asked for the same thing, my choice so predictable that the recipe was written in the family cookbook as Matteo’s Carrot Cake.
He’d probably already bought the carrots and cream cheese.
“How about . . .” My intention had been to play into the joke by dramatically stretching out my answer, yet as I paused, I found a different answer leaping to my tongue. “Chocolate mousse cake.”
Dad’s brows shot up. “Mousse cake?”
“Yeah.”
“Who are you and what have you done with my Matty,” he laughed, stepping in to set a hand to my forehead. “You’re not feeling sick, are you?”
“No, I just thought I’d pick something different.”
“Sure. I’d better warn Nonna though so she doesn’t have a heart attack.”
He turned to go, but before I could return to Miles’s bare shoulders and teasing smile, Dad looked back. “You still taking Nico tomorrow?”
“Yeah, if that’s okay.”
“Sure, I think it’ll be good for him. Needs to make up his mind if he wants to take the game seriously or not, and sooner rather than later.”
He went out, leaving me to smile at the handful of messages Miles had left in the mere minutes I’d been distracted.
nothing
seriously?
or did my pecs murder you?
oh my god mat are you jerking off?
at least call me if you’re going to do that
Not murdered! I was just talking to my dad
Which is also why I’m not calling you to jerk off. I live with my parents, remember?
Hell, I can hear my brothers arguing and its not conducive to getting hard no matter how hot you are
The phone rang.
“Challenge accepted,” Miles said, the words a purr in my ear. “I hope you’re alone or this is going to get embarrassing for you real fast.”
“I said we’re not doing this!” I laughed. “Can you hear that?” I added as in the next room Nico complained that Benji was cheating and told him very loudly that he could get fucked.
“Oh, you’re not doing anything. You’re just going to listen and tell me how hard you get.”
I looked around at the mess that was my room, a space caught between still being the bedroom of a sporty teenager and the storage closet it had become.
Next door, the argument was getting heated.
“It’s not happening,” I said, lying back to stare at the handful of glow-in-the-dark stars I’d never bothered to peel off the ceiling.
“Mmhmm,” he agreed sceptically. “Sure, so imagine it. It’s sunny, it’s hot, and I’m lying beside my pool in just a pair of shorts.”
“Jealousy doesn’t make for boners.”
“I’ll tell you what does though, any time I think about you. About your hands in my hair and your tongue in my slit. About the little groan you make when you push into me like you can’t believe how good it feels. And the way you dig your fingers into my hips when you get close.”
My pulse sped. I let out one of those small groans as, on the other end of the phone, there was a sound like he was shifting his weight.
“Now, imagine you’re lying here beside me in the sunshine, and I’m teasing you through your shorts.”
Just like he’d done that day in the tiny London bathroom before dropping to his knees.
“I’m stroking gently and you’re getting hard. Mm, I love the feeling of you growing in my hand, but what’s even better is you swelling in my mouth. Let me pull down your shorts so I can suck you.”
Hardly thinking, my hand crept toward my definitely-swelling-now dick.
“I suck you slowly, taking you right into my throat until you’re rock hard and wet. Then with a final spit for good measure, I slowly lower myself onto your cock. Your hands holding my ass, keeping me spread. God, you feel good, Mat. Filling me right up.”
Through the wall, I could hear Dad telling the twins that it was too early for them to be at this already, but it had all become background noise to Miles’ voice, to the way his breathing had quickened and the gravelly catch when his words became groans.
He was absolutely stroking himself while he spoke and it was absolutely blowing my mind.
I leapt off the bed and closed the bedroom door, and because this house had no locks anywhere but the bathroom, I wedged my back against it before pulling out my cock.
“Now, I’m just sitting here waiting to be used,” he said. “Are you going to wreck me, Mat?”
“Yeah,” I whispered.
“Going to grip my hips and fuck me until my eyes roll?”
“Yeah.”