hope that’s a promise
It’s a promise
i love you
I love you too
KATIE MADE IT through qualifying for her third grand slam in a row, so Thursday found the two of us in our traditional hunch before the laptop awaiting the announcement of the draw. It was a moment of familiarity that anchored me given so much had changed since Wimbledon, not least of all that Tomas and Macca were sitting with us.
“They sure like to drag out the drama, don’t they,” Macca said, leaning back in his chair. “Should have brought popcorn.”
“Got to keep fans interested,” Tomas replied. “And nauseate the players.”
He shot me a glance but I was determined not to notice it. Not to let the wriggling eels in my stomach show. I kept my gaze fixed to the screen as the top thirty-two players in the men’s draw were filled in first, equidistant from each other so they wouldn’t meet too early. There was Miles at number three, and as the rest of our names were filled in, I begged them not to pull out mine in his section of the draw.
“Matteo Russo.”
My stomach sank. Our names sat together on the screen – not a first-round meeting thank god, though a second-round meeting was little better. It was a cruel repeat of Paris, only this time it mattered so much more, because this was the US Open and he was my boyfriend. Now, Miles would land in New York to find his hopes of a dream run at his home slam already tainted.
Silence had choked the room. Katie bumped her knee into mine. “You all right?”
“Yeah.” I got to my feet, a few long strides taking me to the window where I could go no further, though I wished I could keep walking out into the cloudy New York day.
Footsteps followed. “Hey.” Tomas touched my shoulder. “You sure you’re okay?”
“Yes.” I turned, determined to be, but meeting his look of stern disbelief deflated me with a sigh. “All right, no. Any other tournament would be better, so of course it’s this one.”
“Any other? You’d have been happier if it had been the Australian Open instead?”
“Yes!” I said, the draw coverage droning on behind him whileKatie flicked worried glances my way. “I would far rather risk getting hurt than hurting him. Especially after everything with his fucking team and all my own mistakes. Besides, I’m not the world number three. No one expects me to win a grand slam, even at home.”
Tomas conceded this with a shrug. “Maybe not yet, but it might come.”
“And I’ll deal with it if it does, but right now I can’t be the reason he doesn’t get his chance.”
“You think you can beat him.”
It wasn’t a question, and he wasn’t telling me I was wrong. I sighed, leaning back against the window frame. “At first, I thought the way he talked about playing me was just to help me find my confidence, but he meant it. I know it sounds really up my own arse to say I can beat the current world number three—”
“Not when you beat Bicchieri at Wimbledon,” he interrupted. “But even if you hadn’t, it’s not up your own arse to be realistic. You’re a serious threat to him and acknowledging that is a lot better than sticking your head in the sand.”
I looked at him a long moment, waiting for more. He was saying everything a coach ought to say, but not what I wanted to hear. “Tell me I’m wrong, Tomas.”
“I wish I could. When Danny first mentioned you needed a coach, I went back and watched as many of your matches as I could find. Your junior titles, those big matches before your accident, a few when you first came back and were using your protected ranking, and everything this season up to your loss at Wimbledon. I don’t think it’ll be easy—I actually think you and Callahan are pretty evenly matched—but youcanbeat him.”
Blowing out a heavy breath, I looked up at the ceiling, fighting a ridiculous urge to cry.
“And you can’t let him win,” Tomas went on, prodding me in the chest when I didn’t reply. “Don’t tell me the thought hasn’t crossed your mind, because I’m not a fool, but you are if you think you could do it without him and everyone else realising. Not only would it be a terrible precedent to set in your relationship, but disrespectful. You have to love honestly and you have to play honestly, or you’ll fuck this up before you’ve even begun. It might take him awhile, but he’ll forgive you sooner for beating him than for letting him win.”
He was right, both that I had considered it and that it was a terrible idea – I didn’t know how to throw a tennis match and I was a bad liar. Miles would play to win because he always did, and I would have to do the same. It was the only way we could make this relationship work.
I heaved a sigh. “Fuck, this sucks.”
“Sure does,” Tomas agreed. “Just talk about it, all right? Both with him, and with us. Remember, we’re here to make sure your head is in the game and if you start panicking about this you won’t even get through the first round.”
“Maybe that would be for the best,” I muttered.
“He won’t thank you for that either. Look, you’re right that you could have met at a better tournament, but this was always going to be part of your relationship and he knows that. Probably better than you.”
