I’ve come a long way from when theLive & Lateafterparty stressed me out.
When the night is winding down, I slip into the kitchen to help tidy. I’m at the sink when Gabriel slides behind me and wraps his arms around my chest.
“I love our friends,” he says.
I lean back into his warmth. “Yeah. This is nice.”
“Alyssa offered her guest room,” he says. “You need to get back to training tomorrow, though. Would you rather fly back tonight, or catch an early flight to Boston?”
I turn to face him. “You’re thoughtful.”
He smiles. “Just trying to do right by you.”
“Thank you.” I press my lips to his. “Let’s stay here and fly in the morning. And you’ll stay a couple more days before you head back to Seattle?”
He nods. “Definitely.” He strokes the back of my head. “I love you, Spencer.”
My heart jumps. It’s the first time he’s said it that way. Not justI’m falling in loveor some other half-measure.
With no hesitation, I press my forehead to his. “I love you, too, Gabriel.”
CHAPTERTWENTY-NINE
GABRIEL
I wail on my guitar,improvising a cheesy, eighties-style rock song as I fall to my knees. It’s the first morning of the French Open, and I’m at the foot of the bed in the Paris hotel room.
“Rackets of fire, balls of steel,” I sing out. “The game is a fight, and the fight is for real.”
I rise back up to full height, destroying the riff I’m improvising while Spencer laughs his ass off. He’s already dressed for the tournament, and he stands by the bed, grinning while he watches me embarrass myself.
“Tennis dragon, tennis god,” I yell-sing and toss the guitar to the bed, smoothly spinning and lifting his tennis racket instead. “Tennis king,” I sing, pretending to wail on the racket like it’s a guitar. “You’re my tennis top.”
Spencer’s cheeks are pink; he’s laughing so hard. “Holy shit.”
I set my tennis “guitar” down and tap my chest. “I meant every word.”
Spencer pulls me into his arms and kisses me. “When I asked for a song to pump me up, I expected you to put jock jams on the speaker.”
I cup his cheek, grinning. “I promise you I will never put on jock jams.”
He kisses me again. “Good news. I’m pumped.”
“This poor guy. What’s his name, Rodrick? Getting placed against you in the first round. He’s going to be destroyed.”
The French Open isn’t Spencer’s best Grand Slam. The clay court favors defensive players, and he’s known for his offense. But they match the highest-ranked players against the lowest-ranked players to start, and his first opponent is someone Spencer has easily defeated several times in the past.
“It’s a long tournament,” Spencer says with a serious nod. “I’ve got a lot of matches to come.”
Determined, he heads off to the competition. It’s at France’s famous Stade Roland Gorras, and even though touring has brought me through Paris a few times, I’ve never seen this part of the city. I’m still on my own busy schedule, though, so I take the morning to write up some new material before I head to join him.
Everything with Spencer has moved so fast. I sometimes still feel like I’m catching up to the fact that this is real, still finding new depths to how much I love him, want him, need him.
Watching the way he dealt with his father only deepened my respect for the man I married. It’s awful that he’s been abandoned, and without even the decency of a conversation. Being a pro athlete, you’d think his father would have the guts to face his son.
But Spencer stayed strong. So soon after coming out, he found the integrity to stand up for himself. He didn’t have to make that choice. He could have picked his toxic father or a closeted career over his truth, but he didn’t. He picked himself, and he picked me.
I believe in his love, but there’s still fear and guilt hiding in the back of my mind. Doubt swirls, insisting I’m not good enough for him. That he’ll leave me because everyone leaves me.
