Nineteen #3
Tina spread her hands. “Of course it would. Popularity equals endorsements, and endorsements equals money you don’t have to play for, and that is an investment in your game because you don’t have to worry as much about getting injured or having a slump.
” She sipped her coffee like she’d just laid down a winning card.
“I might not be very smart about tennis, but I know about harnessing popularity. Trust me. You need a manager. A media agent. Something. Unless you have an as yet un-tapped panache for self-promotion.”
“Oh, he definitely doesn’t have that,” Miles murmured, his easy smile back now we were no longer in danger of talking about him.
“Shush, you.” Tina smacked his arm. “The grown-ups are talking.”
Grinning, Miles pulled out his phone. A moment later, my phone screen lit up by my elbow. the effort it took just to get laid
Fuck you, I wrote back, fighting a smile.
Across the table, Miles bit his lip, and shot me one of his heated looks as he hit send. yes please
“Hello? Yes, I am still here,” Tina said with an exasperated sigh. “Don’t make me confiscate your phones like some militant parent, it’ll make me feel old.”
“You are old, Tee.” Miles shrugged, but tucked his phone into his pocket. “Almost thirty.”
“Not for another year! Urgh, you are so annoying!” She turned her shoulder on him. “So, Matteo. Manager. Get one. Better now so you can harness this early popularity, because it could be the difference between a splash and a tsunami if you keep rising up the rankings.”
I shook my head, a little dazed. “I’m not even sure what popularity you mean.”
“Do you ever look at social media?”
“Not if I can help it.”
Tina looked bemused. “What do you do in your downtime?”
“He reads,” Miles said, a mischievous gleam in his eyes. “Don’t you, Mat?”
“Oh? What do you read?” Tina asked.
“Books, but that is extremely beside the point. I just don’t really see what about me is worth promoting. I haven’t won a pro title. I’m not even ranked inside the top fifty.”
She threw up her hands. “Is tennis all you think about?”
“No,” I said, as Miles said, “Yes.”
Ignoring both of us, she went on, “From my admittedly limited research into the matter, your major selling points seem to be that you’re good looking—”
“True,” Miles said, nodding sagely.
“—that you’re exciting to watch play—”
“Also true.”
“—that you smile a lot on court—”
“It’s very cute.”
She shot him a warning look. “And that you’re gay.”
“That,” I said, latching on to the one I could cope with, “has not been a selling point in my experience.”
“Do you mean in the press room?” Tina waved a dismissive hand. “Those stuffy fools wouldn’t know a good story if it bit them. Thankfully, there are plenty of people who would love to make a big deal out of it if you let them.”
I heaved a sigh and slumped back. “Look, thanks for the advice, but I didn’t set out to be The Gay Tennis Player.
I just want to be a tennis player who’s open about being gay because I think it’s important, you know?
While I might not be someone, I’m also not no one, so my honesty has more power to help normalise queerness in sport than the average man on the street.
And since I owe my freedom to the generation who came before me, I pay that back by standing tall for the next generation of gay kids.
But that doesn’t mean being gay is my defining feature. ”
Belatedly, I realised I shouldn’t have said any of that.
I’d been careful not to share my opinions on solidarity with Miles, because if he agreed with any of it and still chose silence, it would be so much harder to keep my disappointment locked away where it couldn’t hurt us.
Now, he sat watching me with that intent stare of his, like he was trying to read me, while beside him, Tina pressed out a flat smile beneath her sunglasses.
“I get that, Matteo,” she said, “but Miles didn’t set out to be the American Freight Train, yet here we are.
You don’t always get to choose what people find compelling about you.
I know that’s not exactly comparable, but my point is that I don’t think it’s automatically a bad thing that some people think you being gay makes you more worth cheering for.
” She shrugged. “You give people hope and you make them happy. If that’s not helping the next generation of gay kids then I don’t know what is. ”
An unexpected lump formed in my throat and I looked away, squinting along the street to keep tears from prickling my eyes.
“God, Tina, don’t make the man cry at breakfast,” Miles said with a soft laugh, his foot touching mine beneath the table.
“I wasn’t trying to!” Tina protested. “I’m just trying to say—”
“Ah, food, what good timing,” he interrupted as the waitress brought our plates, mine smoked salmon, avocado and eggs on toast. “Now, not another word about media agents, Tee,” he added, gesturing at my plate. “Mat already had enough of a crisis ordering meat this morning. He doesn’t need another.”
He tapped my foot before pulling his away, and while Tina laughed and told him he was ridiculous, I was left staring across the table.
As always, a small part of me hated that my foolish agonies were so transparent to him.
But the rest of me wanted more, wanted to be seen and understood and accepted and loved for everything I was – a feeling I needed to shove so far down that even Miles couldn’t see it.
The rest of the morning disappeared without further talk about media managers or queer solidarity, and when Miles had to leave for his press commitments, I messaged Tomas and headed back to prep for practice.
It took longer than I’d expected and, in a hurry, I pushed open my hotel room door only to freeze on the threshold.
Almost every available surface was covered in flowers.
Most were arranged in vases or little boxes, though some lay loose like the entire contents of a flower shop had been spilled across my room.
There were roses and lilies and maybe those were carnations, but after that my knowledge was running out and I could only breathe in the mixed scents and grin.
A card sat on the table just inside the door. Happy Birthday, Idiot
It was just a plain little card and the message had surely been written by a very confused florist, but I wanted to tuck it into my pocket and keep it like I wanted to keep this moment, safe and mine forever.
Where the fuck am I supposed to put anything now? I messaged, still grinning in the open doorway.
A moment later his reply pinged back, you’re welcome
Thank you. Genuinely.
don’t get sappy. your room was just sad without them
I fought a wry smile, unsure for a moment what to say. In the end, I settled for, I mean for somehow knowing it was my birthday
i told you your wikipedia page was a joy
Footsteps approached along the corridor behind me.
“Mat, Macca has already headed down with—Whoa.” Tomas peered around me at the ridiculous array of flowers, his brows rising halfway to his hairline. “That’s, uh, a lot of flowers. Is there an occasion?”
“It’s my birthday,” I said, unable to swallow my smile. “And someone decided to make a big deal about it.”
“Someone?”
“Yeah. Someone.”
Tomas’s brows dropped into a frown – those two lines of hair the most expressive features on his face. His lips didn’t so much as twitch as he waited for me to say more, nor when I didn’t. The frown just softened and he nodded. “All right, well, happy birthday. Should we celebrate?”
“Nah, that’s okay,” I said. “Let’s just go play some tennis.”
THANKFULLY, MILES AND I were once again in different halves of the draw.
As a smaller tournament, the Washington Open only had a starting draw of forty-eight and would be over within the week—the more common short whirlwind compared to the two weeks of a grand slam—then it would be on to Canada to do it all again.
Being knocked out early meant more rest and travel time but less points and prize money and I knew which I wanted.
I’d always been hungry, but Wimbledon had made me realise just how starving.
I was more nervous than usual ahead of my first match, still secretly worried that my run at Wimbledon had been a one-off success and I was about to crash and burn.
But I just focussed on playing my game and doing myself proud, and for the first time in years I wasn’t alone.
Tomas and Macca sat in my box, cheering me on and giving words of advice whenever things got tense.
I won, and having proved my fear wrong, I could fly.
Within the week, I’d made it to my first ATP500 quarter-final and by god it felt good.
Miles got as far in the other side of the draw, and between matches we saw each other when we could – an hour here, half an hour there, stealing moments in which we could close the door on the world and hunger not for wins but for one another.
And it was so much easier to guard my heart when there was no time to linger, when we both had a team watching over our shoulders, when the laundry got done and food could be ordered and I didn’t open my door to find him sitting on my couch reading.
Yet I missed that tiny apartment. Missed him breaking in through the shitty lock to make himself at home.
Missed evenings watching the tennis and making out in the commercial breaks only to forget the game was there at all as we became a tangle of limbs on the hideous old carpet.
We used my room more often than not, and though Miles’s willingness to be friends in public continued, he kept me away from his team.
Or perhaps kept his team away from me – though I often saw Leo Mannering striding around the tournament grounds and the hotel.
He seemed more interested in holding court than coaching, not that one could argue with his results. Miles was playing well.