An unexpected lump formed in my throat and I looked away, squinting along the street to keep tears from prickling my eyes.
“God, Tina, don’t make the man cry at breakfast,” Miles said with a soft laugh, his foot touching mine beneath the table.
“I wasn’t trying to!” Tina protested. “I’m just trying to say—”
“Ah, food, what good timing,” he interrupted as the waitress brought our plates, mine smoked salmon, avocado and eggs on toast. “Now, not another word about media agents, Tee,” he added, gesturing at my plate. “Mat already had enough of a crisis ordering meat this morning. He doesn’t need another.”
He tapped my foot before pulling his away, and while Tina laughed and told him he was ridiculous, I was left staring across the table. As always, a small part of me hated that my foolish agonies were so transparent to him. But the rest of me wanted more, wanted to be seen and understood and accepted andlovedfor everything I was – a feeling I needed to shove so far down that even Miles couldn’t see it.
The rest of the morning disappeared without further talk about media managers or queer solidarity, and when Miles had to leave for his press commitments, I messaged Tomas and headed back to prep for practice. It took longer than I’d expected and, in a hurry, I pushed open my hotel room door only to freeze on the threshold. Almost every available surface was covered in flowers. Most were arranged in vases or little boxes, though some lay loose like the entire contents of a flower shop had been spilled across my room. There were roses and lilies and maybe those were carnations, but after that my knowledge was running out and I could only breathe in the mixed scents and grin.
A card sat on the table just inside the door.Happy Birthday, Idiot
It was just a plain little card and the message had surely been written by a very confused florist, but I wanted to tuck it into my pocket and keep it like I wanted to keep this moment, safe and mine forever.
Where the fuck am I supposed to put anything now?I messaged, still grinning in the open doorway.
A moment later his reply pinged back,you’re welcome
Thank you. Genuinely.
don’t get sappy. your room was just sad without them
I fought a wry smile, unsure for a moment what to say. In the end, I settled for,I mean for somehow knowing it was my birthday
i told you your wikipedia page was a joy
Footsteps approached along the corridor behind me.
“Mat, Macca has already headed down with—Whoa.” Tomas peered around me at the ridiculous array of flowers, his brows rising halfway to his hairline. “That’s, uh, a lot of flowers. Is there an occasion?”
“It’s my birthday,” I said, unable to swallow my smile. “And someone decided to make a big deal about it.”
“Someone?”
“Yeah. Someone.”
Tomas’s brows dropped into a frown – those two lines of hair the most expressive features on his face. His lips didn’t so much as twitch as he waited for me to say more, nor when I didn’t. The frown just softened and he nodded. “All right, well, happy birthday. Should we celebrate?”
“Nah, that’s okay,” I said. “Let’s just go play some tennis.”
THANKFULLY, MILES AND I were once again in different halves of the draw. As a smaller tournament, the Washington Open only had a starting draw of forty-eight and would be over within the week—the more common short whirlwind compared to the two weeks of a grand slam—then it would be on to Canada to do it all again. Being knocked out early meant more rest and traveltime but less points and prize money and I knew which I wanted. I’d always been hungry, but Wimbledon had made me realise just how starving.
I was more nervous than usual ahead of my first match, still secretly worried that my run at Wimbledon had been a one-off success and I was about to crash and burn. But I just focussed on playing my game and doing myself proud, and for the first time in years I wasn’t alone. Tomas and Macca sat in my box, cheering me on and giving words of advice whenever things got tense. I won, and having proved my fear wrong, I could fly. Within the week, I’d made it to my first ATP500 quarter-final and by god it felt good.
Miles got as far in the other side of the draw, and between matches we saw each other when we could – an hour here, half an hour there, stealing moments in which we could close the door on the world and hunger not for wins but for one another. And it was so much easier to guard my heart when there was no time to linger, when we both had a team watching over our shoulders, when the laundry got done and food could be ordered and I didn’t open my door to find him sitting on my couch reading. Yet I missed that tiny apartment. Missed him breaking in through the shitty lock to make himself at home. Missed evenings watching the tennis and making out in the commercial breaks only to forget the game was there at all as we became a tangle of limbs on the hideous old carpet.
We used my room more often than not, and though Miles’s willingness to be friends in public continued, he kept me away from his team. Or perhaps kept his team away from me – though I often saw Leo Mannering striding around the tournament grounds and the hotel. He seemed more interested in holding court than coaching, not that one could argue with his results. Miles was playing well.
We flew out the same day for the Canadian Open, glancesshared across bustling airports. His team stood around in clumps, while Miles and Tina mostly kept to themselves. I couldn’t but think about what he’d said about his team being there for his game, not to be his friends, as beside me Tomas and Macca shared a bag of fries and argued amicably about football.
It left me with a sad sort of yearning that was still with me later when I sent him my room number. When he showed up so hot and raring to go that he almost tore my shirt off. When he begged me to hold him down and pound him into the bed. I did, gladly, but once we lay tangled and messy and pressed close like even the smallest space was too great, I said, “I miss that shitty apartment.”
“Why?” he asked. “This room is nice. The carpet even looks clean.”
“Sure, but I would give it up for you not to have to leave.”
Even as I said it, I knew I shouldn’t have, knew I’d stepped outside the fuckbuddy narrative I was only ever clinging to by the skin of my teeth. Yet when a silence followed into which I could have said something about wanting to fuck him all night, I didn’t. He meant more to me than that and though I couldn’t say how much, I wanted him to know he wasn’t just arse.
