Blake didn’t feel it.
He didn’t feel the heat, or the exhaustion in his legs, or the ache in his serving shoulder. He felt nothing at all. He was a machine again, stripped of emotion, stripped of humanity, operating on pure, cold instinct.
He won his first-round match in forty-five minutes, dropping only two games. He hit the ball with a brutal, punishing violence, his forehand a weapon of mass destruction that left his opponent stranded behind the baseline, shaking his head in disbelief.
When the match was over, Blake shook hands at the net, packed his bags, and walked off the court without acknowledging the crowd.
In the locker room, Doug was waiting.
“What was that?” Doug asked, leaning against the lockers, his arms crossed.
“I won,” Blake said, unzipping his bag and pulling out a clean shirt.
“You didn’t just win. You tried to hit the ball through the back fence on every point. You’re playing angry, Blake. It works against a qualifier, but it won’t work against the top ten. You need to dial it back.”
Blake pulled his sweaty shirt over his head, throwing it into a plastic bag.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine,” Doug said, his voice dropping, losing the harsh edge of the coach and taking on the quiet concern of a friend. “You showed up at the airport five hours early. You haven’t spoken two words to me since we left London. And you look like you haven’t slept in a week.”
Blake closed his eyes, gripping the edge of the metal bench.
The silence in his head was deafening. For four years, his internal monologue had been a constant dialogue with Andre. He thought about what Andre would say about a particular shot, what Andre would want for dinner, what Andre was painting. Now, there was nothing. Just a vast, echoing emptiness.
“Leave it alone, Doug,” Blake said, his voice tight.
“Is it Andre?”
Blake’s head snapped up, his blue eyes flashing with a sudden, dangerous fury. “I said, leave it alone.”
Doug held his gaze for a long moment, then nodded slowly. “Okay. But you need to find a way to channel whatever this is, or it’s going to burn you out before the quarterfinals.”
Blake didn’t answer. He finished dressing, grabbed his bags, and walked out of the locker room.
Back at the hotel, the silence was even worse.
The room was luxurious, a sprawling suite overlooking the Persian Gulf, but to Blake, it felt like a prison cell. He dropped his bags by the door and walked to the window, staring out at the water, the bright, artificial lights of the city reflecting on the dark surface.
His phone buzzed in his pocket.
He pulled it out. The screen lit up with a notification.
Andre (18:45): Please, Blake. Just tell me you arrived safely. Tell me you are okay. I am so sorry. I love you.
It was the fourteenth text Andre had sent since Blake had walked out of the flat.
Blake stared at the words. He read them over and over, tracing the letters with his eyes, trying to find some meaning in them, some comfort. But there was none. The words were empty, hollowed out by the reality of what Andre had done.
He swiped the notification away.
There were other messages.
Talia (10:12): Blake, please. We need to talk. I am so incredibly sorry. It was a mistake. We were out of our minds. Please don’t throw everything away because of us.
Liam (11:30): Mate, I don’t know what to say. I’m a piece of shit. We both are. But Andre loves you. He’s destroyed. Please call him.
Blake felt a surge of nausea. He deleted the messages without opening them, his index finger swiping across the screen with vicious, robotic precision.
