“Fifteen-love. Because love means egg. Because the French are insane.”
“We prefer ‘creative,’” Andre murmured.
“And now Harlan is at the baseline — that’s the back line — and he hits a forehand — that’s the pretty one — cross-court, which means diagonally, and it lands on the line, which means it’s in, and the crowd goes wild because the English love nothing more than a man hitting a ball into a rectangle.”
Blake was laughing so hard he could barely breathe, his hand resting on Andre’s chest, his body shaking with it.
“You’re going to be fine at Wimbledon,” Blake managed. “Both of you. You’re going to be absolutely fine.”
“I’m going to cry,” Liam announced from the floor. “I can already tell. If it goes to five sets, I’m going to weep openly. I have no shame about this.”
“You have no shame about anything,” Talia said.
“True. It’s my greatest quality.”
Andre tilted his head back, looking up at Blake from his lap. Blake looked down at him, his blue eyes half-closed, the corner of his mouth turned up in that private, lazy smile that was only ever for Andre.
“Thank you,” Andre said softly, in French. “Merci pour cette soirée.”
Blake leaned down and kissed his forehead. “Anytime.”
They put Liam and Talia in a taxi at midnight — Liam still clutching the racket, which Blake told him to keep, Talia reciting tennis scores under her breath like she was running lines.
“Fifteen-love, thirty-love, forty-love, game,” she chanted as she climbed into the cab. “I’ve got it. I’m ready. Wimbledon won’t know what hit it.”
“That’s not how you use that phrase,” Andre called after her.
“Deuce!” Liam shouted from inside the taxi, and the cab pulled away into the London night, leaving Blake and Andre standing on the pavement, laughing.
Chapter five
Centre Court
Wimbledon arrived with its usual demands — the pristine white clothing, the unpredictable English rain, and the quiet, intense pressure that settled over the All England Club like a low-hanging cloud.
For Blake, the tournament was a proving ground. He had won the Australian Open in January, a victory that had pushed him to number four in the world and silenced the critics who had wondered if his game was too rigid for the modern era. But grass was different. Grass required instinct, improvisation, and a willingness to move forward.
Doug had spent the last three weeks drilling him relentlessly, forcing him to serve and volley, to chip and charge, to trust his hands at the net.
The work paid off. Blake moved through the first two rounds with clinical efficiency, dropping only a single set. His serve was firing, the ball skidding low off the slick surface, biting into the turf and sliding away from his opponents’ rackets.
His third-round match, however, was a different proposition entirely.
He was scheduled on Court 1 against a towering South African whose serve regularly clocked in at a hundred and forty miles per hour. The manmoved poorly, but on grass, movement was secondary if you could hit your spots.
The match began under a heavy, overcast sky. The air was thick with humidity, making the balls heavy and the court slightly damp. Blake lost the first set in a tiebreaker, unable to read the South African’s serve, guessing wrong on the big points.
He sat on his bench during the changeover, staring at his racket strings, the roar of the crowd washing over him. Doug was sitting in the player box, his arms crossed, his expression unreadable. Blake didn’t need to look at him to know what he was thinking. Step in. Take it early. Don’t let him dictate the rhythm.
Blake won the second set 6-4, breaking the South African’s serve in the final game with a sharp, angled backhand return that dipped at the man’s feet. He took the third set 6-3, finding his rhythm, his own serve becoming untouchable.
But the South African refused to yield. He came out swinging in the fourth set, hitting massive, flat forehands that skidded through the court. Blake found himself pushed back, defending, scrambling to stay in the points. He lost the set 5-7.
They went into a fifth set.
The tension on Court 1 was palpable. The crowd, sensing a marathon, had settled in, their applause growing louder, more sustained. Blake’s legs burned. His shoulder ached with the repetitive strain of serving. But his mind was clear. This was the space he understood best — the narrow,brutal corridor of competition where nothing mattered except the next point.
At four-all in the fifth, Blake found an opening. The South African missed a first serve.
