Twenty
I DROPPED MY bags in yet another hotel room – my third since I’d left home for the whirlwind North American swing.
Tomas and Macca were unloading their suitcases from the trolley in the hallway, Tomas with his door wedged open across the way.
“Much easier having rooms together this time,” he said as he fetched his tennis bag from the pile.
“I dunno, the extra walking was good exercise,” Macca said, reappearing from his own room next door. He flicked a knowing grin at me, all freckles and good humour. “And Mat got to have a little privacy.”
He’d been let in on the secret in Canada, his initial response a whistle followed by a grimace, which seemed to appropriately encapsulate the situation.
Neither he nor Tomas had asked how it had happened, and though I knew it was safest not to talk about it, part of me was disappointed not to have an excuse to do so all the same.
“Speaking of,” I said, the message on my lock screen having been burning a hole in my pocket since we landed. “I’m going to, uh . . .” I cleared my throat and gestured along the hallway. “Not sure how long we’ve got, so just book a court and let me know, yeah?”
Macca had dragged the massage table from the bottom of the luggage trolley, and setting it down just inside my door, looked at his watch. “We’ve only been here fifteen minutes! And it’s barely lunchtime!”
“Hey! Got to take opportunities when they’re there, right?” I said, reddening. “Just like on court.”
“Especially since they might meet in the third round,” Tomas grumbled.
Miles and I had been safely in opposite halves again in Canada, but now for the first time we were facing down a possible meeting.
“Don’t want to think about that,” I said as I gave him my second keycard and headed out.
“Make sure you talk about it though!” Tomas called after me. “It’s important!”
WE DID NOT talk about it. We did what we usually did, especially when we were on the clock – we pushed each other around, being dicks, until my fingers were locked in his hair and he was bent over gasping my name.
By the end, both our phones were buzzing with messages.
Tomas had booked a court and wanted to leave in twenty minutes, and Tina was demanding to know where Miles was.
I told Tomas that if he fetched my bag, I could meet them downstairs, and so, having gotten dressed, Miles and I did something we’d not done since London – we left together.
We were only heading down to the foyer to meet other people, yet it was nice all the same.
And for a moment as Miles pulled his door closed with a glance along the empty hallway, I had the urge to slide my hand into his.
It was early afternoon, the day before the tournament, and the hotel foyer was buzzing. Miles didn’t balk at the possible attention—two players walking somewhere together hardly noteworthy in the grand scheme of things—but he did add a step of distance between us.
“Where are you meeting your team?” he asked, halting near a pair of couches and glancing around.
“Here somewhere, but Tomas said two so I’ve probably got a few minutes.”
Miles nodded, bringing his gaze back from a circuit of the room. “Well, I don’t know what Tina wants, so in case I don’t get the chance to say it later, happy hunting tomorrow.”
“Ah yes, since we plebs have to play while you fancy top players get a day off.”
“It’s not my fault that’s how this works!” he laughed.
“Sure.”
“There you are!”
We both turned to find Tina striding toward us in what I’d come to realise was her signature style – a flowing sundress, wavy beach hair and enormous sunglasses.
It was a look constructed to appear deceptively simple so people would underestimate her because, like her brother, Tina never did anything by accident.
The woman beside her, on the other hand, had dialled for Hollywood glamour and landed on overly-contrived wax doll.
Yes, I was being extremely unfair, but knowing that wasn’t going to change my opinion. Not for Emily Rose Johnson.
“I’ve been messaging you for the last forty minutes,” Tina added as she reached us.
“I know, why do you think I’m here?” Miles said, stepping forward to greet first his sister then Emily with a kiss on the cheek.
There was nothing particularly romantic about it, the only difference between the two that he set a hand lightly upon Emily’s hip as he did so – a touch there and gone yet lingering on in my mind because while it was nothing, it was still too much to ever do to me in a busy hotel foyer.
“Emily, this is Matteo Russo,” he said, gesturing to me. “Mat, Emily Rose Johnson.”
‘I know’, I wanted to say, or ‘yes, the beard’, or even just ‘fuck off’, but I had manners and occasionally a brain, so I said, “Lovely to meet you,” and held out my hand with a smile.
She took it, her slim fingers gripping mine in a constricting handshake. “You too, Matteo,” she said, smiling as though she wasn’t trying to crush my hand. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“Not from me,” Miles said, glancing Tina’s way with a raised brow.
“Oh, no.” Emily let me go, smile not missing a beat. “Everyone seems to be talking about the Russo Rise. You’ve made quite the comeback.”
“You’re a tennis fan then?” I asked, embarrassingly aware of the bright, sharp edge in my tone.
Perhaps she caught it, or perhaps she already suspected who I was to him, for she slid her arm possessively around Miles’s. “Sometimes. Although, mostly I’m just a Miles fan.”
A snarled coil of jealousy lashed up my throat, and I needed to get out of there before I could no longer swallow it.
Some stupid part of me wanted to stay and stake my claim to him, but I was just the secret fuck with no claim to stake, so I said, “Right, well, I’ll leave you to it.
I’ve got practice.” And I nodded to Emily Rose fucking Johnson, the simple gesture like biting my tongue. “It was lovely to meet you.”
“You too,” she said brightly, and with a perfunctory smile at Tina and a total inability to even look at Miles, I escaped toward the hotel doors.
Once out in the fresh air, I wished I could just keep walking until the furious energy wore off, but I had practice to get to and a tournament to prepare for and no business being as annoyed as I was.
So, letting out a heavy breath, I leaned against the wall by the doors to wait for Tomas and Macca.
My phone buzzed. Miles.
sorry, i didn’t know tina was bringing her
It’s fine, I was going to practice anyway, I wrote back, intending to leave it there. But as the seconds stretched with no reply and no coach arriving to save me, I added, She does know you’re gay, right?
god yes, i’m not stupid and cruel. Half a minute crawled by, then he added, it was an up-front deal. i get a beard, she gets the fame. she likes the media attention, not me
As those words appeared, I imagined turning to see him through the foyer windows, where he would be looking at his phone instead of his companions.
But that would mean looking at Emily, so I just focussed on his words as he went on typing.
in the spirit of total honesty, i’ll admit she did try to kiss me once after a party about six months ago.
i think she was just drunk. or she thought the right kiss could turn me bi
I didn’t want to think about Miles kissing anyone but me but wasn’t going to say so, the possessive, jealous creature unfurling claws in my chest both uncomfortable and deeply unattractive.
hey, not one iota, remember? he added when again I didn’t answer, and I realised he was reassuring me because here I was having another crisis and I was as transparent as a pane of fucking glass.
I remember, I wrote back because I had to say something.
good. although to be honest, that’s the same amount of interest i have in kissing anyone who isn’t matteo russo right now
I closed my eyes a moment as the hotel doors opened, spilling an Australian accent into the cloudy afternoon. “There he is,” Macca said. “Mat! Car’s over here.”
“Coming,” I called back, and though my heart thumped at even so small an admission, I tapped back, Same, as I went to join them.
you want to kiss yourself? kinky
Fuck off, arsehole
no chance, idiot
I laughed, the tension in my chest easing, but before Tomas or Macca could ask what was funny, I shoved my phone away and slid into the car.
I WON MY match the next day, but because I would never learn my lesson, I also spent every spare moment scrolling through Miles’s social media accounts.
Tina had clearly brought Emily along to straighten up his image, taking advantage of his day off to go sightseeing around Cincinnati.
His feed had always made for painful viewing, but as I froze my arse off in the ice bath following my match, I also scrolled through the far more masochistically-engrossing rabbit hole that was Emily’s.
Not curated to within an inch of its life by Tina, Emily’s feed was full of photo drops: snaps of the meals they ate, the cars they drove around in, and selfies where she leaned her head on his shoulder.
And then dozens and dozens of candid pictures she’d taken of him just going about his day.
Miles leaning on the rail of a paddle steamer, the wind catching his hair.
Miles stretching in front the meerkat enclosure at Cincinnati Zoo, his shirt riding up a touch to reveal a wedge of skin.
Miles grinning at something off camera with a hippo plush nestled in his hair.
A close up of his hands as he tried on a new bracelet.
A profile shot as he leaned, eyes closed, against the window of a car.
Another of his ankles crossed beneath a café table, the line of an old scar visible on his shin.