Talia was quieter than Liam, but no less present. She listened carefully, asked precise questions, and had a gift for drawing people out. She asked Blake about his childhood in Connecticut, about his father, about the pressure of being a prodigy.
Blake answered honestly, more honestly than Andre had expected. He told them about the training schedules, the early mornings, the relentless pursuit of perfection. He didn’t spell out how oppressive it had been — he rarely talked about that anymore — but the weight of it was there, in the spaces between his words. “That sounds brutal,” Talia said softly. “It was what it was,” Blake said, his voice even. “I didn’t know anything different until I met Andre.”
Under the table, Andre reached for Blake’s hand and squeezed it.
The evening stretched on. They moved from the table to the sofa, the conversation shifting from careers to childhood to the particular absurdity of being young and ambitious in a world that seemed designed to crush ambition at every turn.
At some point, Liam turned to Blake and said, “Do you shoot?”
Blake looked at him, surprised. “Shoot?”
“Clay pigeons. There’s a brilliant range in Surrey — Holland and Holland. Talia bought me a session for my birthday last year, and I’ve been going every month since. It’s addictive.”
Something shifted in Blake’s expression — a flicker of recognition, of memory, that Andre noticed immediately.
“I used to shoot,” Blake said slowly. “When I was a kid. My best friend Tyler and I used to go to the Greenwich Country Club. Both our families were members — my mother practically ran the place, chaired every event they had. Tyler’s father taught us. We’d spend entire Saturdays out there.”
“You’re a shooter, then,” Liam said, leaning forward, his green eyes bright. “Proper shooter?”
“I was decent. Tyler was better. He had steadier hands.” “Come with me. Next time I go. I’ll book us a session."
Blake hesitated, and Andre could see the calculation happening behind his eyes — the schedule, the training, the endless, careful management of his body and his time.
Then Blake smiled, and it was a different smile than the one he wore on court or in press conferences. It was younger, less guarded, almost boyish.
“Yeah,” Blake said. “I’d like that.”
Liam grinned, raising his glass. “Brilliant. I should warn you, though — I’m terrible. Absolutely dreadful. You’ll have to carry us both.”
“I think I can manage that,” Blake said.
They left at midnight, Talia slightly unsteady on her feet from the wine, Liam wrapping his arm around her waist as they walked to the door.
“This was lovely,” Talia said, hugging Andre. “Thank you.”
“Come back anytime,” Andre said, meaning it.
After they left, Blake and Andre stood in the kitchen, washing dishes side by side, the quiet domesticity of the moment settling over them like a blanket.
“I like them,” Blake said, drying a plate.
“I knew you would.”
“Liam is…” Blake paused, searching. “He’s intense. But in a good way. He reminds me of Tyler, actually. Before everything got complicated.”
Andre looked at him, a question forming, but Blake shook his head slightly — not tonight — and Andre let it go.
They finished the dishes, turned off the lights, and went to bed. Blake fell asleep almost immediately, his arm draped across Andre’s chest, his breathing deep and steady.
Andre lay awake for a long time, staring at the ceiling, listening to the distant sounds of the city and the faint, comforting creak of the bakery settling below them.
He had a strange, unsettled feeling in his chest — not anxiety, exactly, but something adjacent to it. A sense that something had shifted, that a door had opened that couldn’t easily be closed.
He pushed the feeling away, pressed closer to Blake, and eventually slept.
Chapter four
Steady Hands
