Twenty-Nine
WE WERE, TO our relief and the media’s disappointment, in opposite halves of the draw. That meant not only escaping a repeat of New York unless we both made it to the final, but also getting to play alternate days like we had at Wimbledon.
As always, I could have watched his matches from his player’s box, and as always, I didn’t because it was too risky to draw that kind of attention.
I sat in our hotel room instead, watching on TV.
Macca brought popcorn, Tomas brought his notes on my first-round match, and the three of us sat in appreciative silence during some astounding points as Miles utterly decimated his opponent in straight sets, hardly letting the guy win a game.
His second-round match was a rematch against Piotr Kozel, but Miles showed no sign he remembered under what circumstances they had last met.
He just kissed me deeply when he left, flicked my cheek, and went out there to beat Kozel in another straight sets win that had the commentators talking about the new fire he’d brought to his game this season.
I got through my first two matches without much trouble and went out to play my third-round match inspired, but it wasn’t to be. Ryo Uchimura was just too good, I hadn’t played my best, and my Australian Open was over.
And that was just tennis.
Scrunchie
you all right?
Yeah. Third round is good and I’m choosing to believe it means nothing more than I lost today. I’ll just keep working
you’re amazing, you know that?
Not sure why, but thanks
because you’re resilient and determined and i love you
I love you too. Now I can just enjoy watching you decimate the field
you say that like it’s a foregone conclusion. i have to play juan tomorrow and that’s always a pain
come watch. in my box. worked a treat third round of wimbledon
Want to start a third-round habit?
why not? don’t change a winning formula, yeah?
I think you’re your own winning formula right now, but sure. So long as you’re not worried about the extra scrutiny
Australian camera crews and commentators are sure to notice me
it’s fine. they know we’re friends. bet they won’t even comment
And so the following day, I met Miles and his team as they finished their match prep in the brightly-lit corridors beneath Rod Laver Arena.
It was the Australian Open’s biggest court and Miles was tonight’s star attraction, yet despite the buzz, I found him calmly going through stretches and preparatory drills with Jada.
He was in a dark-blue polo and sweat band tonight – a colour that suited him beautifully.
Even once he was drenched in sweat, he would still look gorgeous.
“You look very relaxed,” I said, because I couldn’t tell him he was beautiful with so many people around.
“Yeah,” he agreed, smiling at the sight of me. “Tonight feels good. Feels right. I’m looking forward to it.”
As he spoke, his smile stretched into a grin and I raised my brows. “Something amusing?”
“No.” He pulled out of a stretch and glanced around, and deciding it was safe enough, lowered his voice to add, “I’m just really glad you came. I play better when you’re here.”
Almost I said I would come every match if people wouldn’t ask questions, but I’d promised myself never to make him feel pressured to come out. The situation with his family was still too messy, and even if it hadn’t been, it had to be his choice. My love wasn’t conditional any more than his.
“Well, then I’m glad I could make it,” I said instead, and swallowed the desire to kiss him, both then and a few minutes later when a tournament handler came to let him know it was time.
Later he would be mine, for now he belonged to the game.
So, with a final smile and a wink my way, he gathered his bags and put on his headphones.
“Come on.” Tina hooked her arm through mine as she turned for the stairs. The rest of the team were already trooping up toward the player boxes. “Don’t want to miss a moment!”
“Since when are you this excited about actual tennis?” I said, having learned that her interest in tennis didn’t extend beyond her brother’s matches, part of which she often spent crowd watching.
“Oh never!” she admitted cheerfully, flicking her long hair back over her shoulder. “But it’s a lovely night for sitting courtside, don’t you think?”
As we caught up with Marcel, I glanced a question at the quiet Frenchman who had been such a boon to Miles’s game, earning a shrug and a mild smile. “It is a very fine night.”
It was – a warm summer evening without a cloud in the sky. In another hour or so it would start getting dark and stars would twinkle above Melbourne Park, but for now we had blue sky to go with the blue court and the dark blue of Miles’s shirt as he was announced to great applause.
He lifted his hand to the crowd as he walked out, and like when I had sat in his box at Wimbledon, our eyes met as he made for his chair. That day he’d tried not to smile, but tonight he let a broad grin flare for a few seconds before tucking it away in time to focus on his preparations.
Around me, Miles’s team were settling in to work: Marcel opening his tablet to keep an eye on the stats, Jada and Cam triple-checking they had all the gels and powders in their match bag, and Tina rapidly typing out an email.
They were an efficient unit, like Miles himself – a man so perfectly organised that he made hard work look easy.
With no job but to enjoy myself and cheer him on, I leaned forward, eyes for no one else.
Though I had to be wary of my reactions with cameras on us at all times, sitting courtside to watch Miles play was electric.
From the first serve, he owned that court.
He set a quick pace, controlled the ball, and played like he could do no wrong.
Tonight, he wasn’t just an unstoppable freight train, but a freight train on fire that had decided it could lay its own tracks and there was nothing Juan Benitez could do to stop him.
And I was right there with him for every point.
To the surprise of no one at all, Miles won in straight sets.
He was looking unbeatable – an observation the on-court interviewer made as soon as Miles had put away his racquets, changed into a fresh shirt and strolled over like he’d merely been out for a walk.
Only his sweat-darkened hair proved he’d just played three high-quality sets of tennis.
“I’m not sure about unbeatable,” Miles replied into the microphone as his smiling face appeared on the big screen.
“But I’m definitely feeling good. I’m playing more freely than I have for a long time and it’s paying off.
A lot of credit to my new team.” He gestured toward us.
“They’ve really helped me step things up and I’m lucky to have them. ”
“And how instrumental do you feel it is playing—” The interviewer broke off as Miles shook his head, looking like he wanted to say something more before they moved on. “Sorry, what was that?”
“You haven’t asked about my player’s box.”
The interviewer laughed, the sound uncertain. “That was quite a theme for you last season, wasn’t it? But you have a team with you again now. You even have an extra tonight – Matteo Russo, who we lost from the draw yesterday.”
The feed on the big screen cut to Miles’s box as the man spoke, and though I was not alone, the interviewer’s words and the sheer size of my face left me feeling exposed. But it was fine. The interview would soon move on since there was no reason for further questions.
Until Miles leaned toward the microphone and said, “Ask me why he’s here,” and I stopped breathing.
A hush rolled over the packed stands like the crowd held their breath with me, all eyes locked on Miles as the interviewer did as he’d been asked. “All right. Tell us, why do you have Matteo Russo in your box tonight?”
He held out the microphone and Miles took it, brushing hair back from his brow as he turned to meet my gaze across the silently-waiting stadium. And up on the screen, his smile was slightly wicked and entirely fond as he said, “Because I love him.”
For the half second of stunned silence that followed, I was sure my heart stopped.
Before all around me the crowd erupted, cheering like Miles had just won the match all over again.
Their excitement hit me like a gale, but I had eyes only for him.
Because he really had just said that out loud into a microphone, on what would absolutely be an international fucking broadcast.
When the crowd showed no sign of quietening, Miles lifted the microphone again and said, “He’s not only here because I love him, but because he’s my boyfriend and I play better when he’s supporting me.
” The cheers and whistles grew louder, flashes flickering around the stadium like stars falling from the night sky.
I knew I was grinning like an idiot and couldn’t have stopped had I tried.
Of course he had done this – Miles Callahan never a man to buy me a single vase of flowers when he could fill my hotel room.
I might have come out first, but he was doing it far more spectacularly.
“He didn’t know I was going to tell you all this tonight,” he added, his smile matching mine as the whole stadium stopped mattering, just the two of us in that moment together.
“But I decided that since we’ve been together for a while, it was finally time.
So . . .” A glance around at the crowd. A little shrug.
His smile a joyful invitation. “I guess this is also me coming out to all you fine people as well.”
On which note, he handed the microphone back to the stunned interviewer.
All around the stadium, people were on their feet waving flags and placards, the night full of whoops and whistles and applause – the moment so like the climactic scene in a Hollywood film that everyone had been swept into it with us.
Miles choosing that moment to make a heart in my direction with his hands really didn’t help.