"I think I want to show with them," Andre said quietly.
Blake squeezed his hand. "They'd be lucky to have you."
"You are biased."
"Completely. Doesn't make me wrong."
Andre didn't argue. He just held Blake's hand and walked toward the station. The sooner they got home, the sooner the massages would begin!
Over the following weeks, Jasper and Phoebe became more present in their lives.
It started with a text from Jasper — a photograph of a painting he'd seen at an estate sale in Kent, asking Andre's opinion. Andre replied with three paragraphs of analysis, and Jasper responded with a laughing emoji and an invitation to lunch.
They met at a small Italian place near the gallery — just Andre and Jasper at first, eating pasta and talking about Cézanne's late watercolors and whether the National Gallery's new acquisition was worth the money. It was easy. Uncomplicated. Jasper didn't ask about rankings or retirement rumors or any of the noise that surrounded Andre's tennis career. They talked about art.
Phoebe joined them the following week, and then Blake came the week after that, and within a month it had become a standing arrangement — Thursday lunches at the Italian place, the four of them crowded around a small table, talking about all manner of things and sharing plates of burrata and prosciutto.
Phoebe and Blake discovered a shared, unlikely passion for terrible reality television. Jasper and Andre could lose an entire afternoon debating the merits of oil versus acrylic for a particular effect. The friendship was balanced, easy, built on genuine affection rather than obligation or history.
One Thursday in late October Phoebe set down her fork and looked at Andre across the table.
"So," she said. "When you're ready — and I mean truly ready, not Clara-pushing-you ready — we want to give you a show. A proper one.Just your work, the whole gallery. Whenever that is — three months, six months, a year. We'll wait."
Jasper nodded, his expression warm but unhurried. "No pressure. We mean that."
Andre looked at Blake, who was watching him with that supportive expression — the one that said this is yours, whatever you decide.
"I'll think about it," Andre said.
Phoebe smiled. "That's all we ask."
They finished lunch, split the bill despite Jasper's protests, and walked out into the gray October afternoon. Phoebe kissed Andre on both cheeks, then Blake. Jasper shook Blake's hand and pulled Andre into a brief, firm hug.
"See you next week," Jasper said.
Andre watched them walk away down Bury Street — Phoebe's dark head barely reaching Jasper's shoulder, their hands finding each other as they turned the corner.
Blake put his arm around Andre's shoulders.
"You're going to say yes," Blake said. "To the show."
"Eventually."
"Good." Blake pressed a kiss to Andre's temple. "They're good people."
Andre leaned into him. "They are."
They walked toward the Tube, the October wind against their faces, and Andre thought about how strange and lucky it was — to have this man beside him, to have new friends who cared about the work as much as he did. The future was uncertain, yes. But it was also full. It was also his.
Chapter twelve
The Last Match
The Accor Arena in Paris was a cavernous, echoing space, the indoor hard courts lit with a harsh, artificial glare that seemed to strip the color from everything it touched.
It was November, the air outside cold and damp, the city settling into the gray chill of early winter.
Inside the arena, the atmosphere was electric.
