Blake’s hands slid under Andre’s suit jacket, his fingers pressing into the small of his back, his touch firm and possessive. He kissed Andre down his jaw, his teeth scraping lightly against the skin of his neck.
“We can’t,” Blake murmured against his throat, his voice unsteady. “We’re in a gallery.”
“Je m’en foue," Andre whispered against Blake’s mouth, pressing his hips against Blake’s, letting him feel the hard, aching evidence of his desire. "Je m'en foue.I don't give a shit," he repeated.
Blake let out a shaky breath, his forehead dropping against Andre’s shoulder. “I have to be at the airport in six hours. If we start this now, I’m going to miss my flight. And then Doug really will kill me.”
Andre laughed, a soft, breathless sound, and pressed a kiss to Blake’s temple. He stepped back, putting a few inches of space between them, though his hands remained on Blake’s chest. “You are right,” Andre said, smoothing the lapels of Blake’s jacket. “You need to sleep. Even if it is only for a few hours.”
“I don’t want to sleep. I want to look at your paintings. And I want to look at you.”
“I will be watching you tomorrow. On the television. And you will be winning your match.”
Blake smiled, reaching up to cup Andre’s face. “I’m so proud of you, Andre. Tonight was… it was everything.”
“It was perfect,” Andre corrected. “Because you were here.”
Blake’s third-round match in Hamburg on Friday afternoon was a brutal, grinding affair.
He was playing a veteran clay-court specialist from Argentina, a man who hit with heavy topspin and refused to miss. The red clay was slow, the rallies long and punishing.
Blake’s legs felt like lead. The lack of sleep, the travel, the emotional high of the exhibition — it had all caught up with him. His reaction time was a fraction of a second slow, his serve lacking its usual bite.
He lost the first set 4-6.
During the changeover, Blake sat on his bench, toweling off his face, avoiding Doug’s eyes in the player box. He could feel his coach watching him, could practically hear the silent fury radiating from the stands. Doug couldn’t say a word — on-court coaching was prohibited — but his expression said everything.You’re flat. You’re not moving your feet. What the hell is going on?Blake took a long drink of water, stood up, grabbed his racket, and walked back to the baseline.
He fought. He dug deep into the reserves of discipline and stubbornness that his father had drilled into him, refusing to yield. He shortened the points, coming to the net more often, taking risks to avoid the grueling baseline rallies.
He won the second set in a tiebreaker, 7-6.
The third set was a grinding, relentless battle. Both men were exhausted, the red clay sticking to their clothes, their breathing loud in the humid German air. At five-all, Blake found a final surge of adrenaline. He broke the Argentine’s serve with a stunning running forehand down the line,then served out the match in the next game, collapsing onto the clay when the final ball sailed long.
He had won. 4-6, 7-6, 7-5.
In the locker room afterward, Blake sat on the bench, his head in his hands, too tired to even take off his shoes.
Doug walked in, carrying a bottle of water and a clipboard. He sat down next to Blake, handing him the water. “That was the ugliest win I’ve seen from you in three years,” Doug said quietly.
“I know.”
“You went to London yesterday, didn’t you?”
Blake looked up, surprised. “How did you know?”
"I saw the photos online this morning. You and Andre at the gallery.” Doug shook his head, a mixture of exasperation and reluctant respect in his eyes. “You flew to London and back in less than twenty-four hours, in the middle of an ATP 500.”
“It was his first exhibition, Doug. I had to be there.”
Doug looked at him for a long moment. Then he sighed, tossing the clipboard onto the bench. “You’re lucky you won today, Harlan. If you had lost, we would be having a very different conversation.”
“But I didn’t lose.”
“No. You didn’t.” Doug stood up, clapping Blake on the shoulder. “Get in the ice bath.
You play the quarterfinal tomorrow. And for God’s sake, get some sleep tonight.”
Blake nodded, watching his coach walk away. He was exhausted, his body aching in a dozen different places, the prospect of another match tomorrow looming like a mountain.
