Over the busy buzz of the grounds, Tomas hummed a note of dissatisfaction under his breath. “Can’t say I think much of his observational skills though. Your man needs to shake something out or his shots are going to keep tanking with his mood.”
Your man. He’d spoken quietly enough not to be overheard, making the words a danger only to me as they dug into my chest and nestled there. Miles ought to have been able to rely on his team to take care of him, but in the seeming absence of basic attention, he was my fucking man and I wasn’t going to stand silently by.
I stepped to the edge of the court. “Hey, Callahan,” I called, leaning on the low fence.
When Miles turned, still scowling, I gestured him over. With a word to the equally scowling Leo Mannering, he strode toward us, bouncing the ball he’d been about to serve. “Russo,” he said, stressing my last name with an unamused little smirk. “What’s up?” He flicked a glance at Tomas and Macca behind me. “If you’re after a hitting partner for your session, I’ll have to disappoint. I’ve wasted most of my own hour already, don’t want to waste yours too.”
“Relax.”
“What?”
“You need to relax,” I said.
His brows flew up. “Don’t worry, he’s well used to my moods and I’m used to his. Although this, by the way, isn’t going to improve his.”
“Well, I’m sorry your coach is an arsehole, but I’m not going to apologise for taking two minutes to do his job for him. Tomas says your shoulders are too stiff. The tension is pulling you all over the place.”
Another glance thrown at Tomas over my shoulder. “Yeah, well, being tense in practice is just a day ending in Y for me. It’s never been an issue before.”
The urge to set my hand on his arm was strong and I had to squeeze my fingers into a fist to stop myself. “A lot of things aren’t the way they were before,” I said instead. “You were never tense when we practiced in London. Maybe you got used to it.”
“Miles! Come on!” Leo Mannering called from the court. “You’re wasting time.”
Miles flinched, his jaw setting. “Sometimes, I swear he gets off on ordering me around like I’m an annoying child.” He met my gaze, only to look as quickly away with a sigh. “Relax, huh?”
“The problem is here,” Macca said, stepping forward to prod my shoulder like I was a demonstration doll. “You probably can’t feel it, but try a few deep breaths to shift yourself out of fight-or-flight mode. Or get it all out by punching Mannering in the face.”
“Ben!” Tomas snapped as Miles laughed. “That was uncalled for.”
Macca shrugged. “I get paid to give the right advice, not the nice advice.”
While Miles’s laugh turned wry, Leo Mannering started toward us across the court. “Uh-oh,” I said. “Sorry, Macca has no filter, but hey, if you want to try to relax and keep going another hour, I’m more than happy to share the court.”
“Miles, we’ve only got five minutes left,” Mannering said, sweeping a glare over us as he reached the fence.
“I know. They had some advice.” Miles spun his racquet before gesturing at me with it. “If I get half of these serves in then I might take you up on that offer. Otherwise, I’m going to camp under a hot shower.”
He walked off on the words, calling to his trainer for more balls. Rather than follow, Leo Mannering lingered, eying the three of us for a few long, drawn-out seconds. His gaze settled on Tomas. “Think you can do this job better than me, Cheverall?”
“No,” Tomas said, his voice impressively even. “Just that perhaps you didn’t notice how much Callahan was struggling, since otherwise you would have helped him out.”
“He’s struggling because he got lazy over his UK swing.” The old man’s narrowed stare flicked my way beneath his bushy grey brows. “He needs to work harder, not take advice from the likes of you.”
Quiet words that worked like a slap, but when I bristled, I wasn’t alone. “And what is that supposed to mean?” Tomas asked, equally quiet.
“You know very well what it means. He doesn’t need help fromyou.”
“Watch out then.” Macca nodded toward the court. “Because he’s gotten the last two in. Right into the corners.”
Mannering turned in time to see Miles put a third serve away, the ball kicking up at a ridiculous angle that would have been near impossible to return.
“Will you look at that,” Tomas said. “Got to be pleased with that.”
The glare Miles’s coach spun back on us seemed designed to sear skin from bone. “I don’t need a pack of fairies anywhere near my player, understood?”
“You fucking what?” Macca said, stepping right up to the fence with his fist tight. “Say that again and I will punch you.”
Leo Mannering grinned, the expression as nasty as it was humourless. “Of course you will,” he said, about to turn away. “Because both your boys here are too nancy to stand up for themselves.”
