I wanted to scream.
He was waiting for me when I pulled myself up and jogged to the net to shake hands. I stared at him, desperately hoping for a smile, a look, a twitch—anything—but his face was blank. He didn’t look at me. The clasp of his hand might have been that of a stranger, brief and impersonal. A murmured “well done”, and he went to shake the umpire’s hand in preparation to escape, while all around us the crowd went on cheering. They had certainly wanted Miles to win, but no tennis crowd could resist the pull of a five-set nail-biter or an underdog win, and I had just pulled off both.
While Miles packed his racquets away, the court was my stage. I had just won the biggest match of my career and it would look strange if I didn’t celebrate it, if I didn’t bask in the noise and the energy washing around me. I wanted to hate it, but I couldn’t. Not while a deep, terrible part of me revelled in the triumph. This wasthe Matteo Russo I had once been. This was what I had wanted to do to him in Paris, turning back time to make myself ascendent. So, while Miles left the court, I dropped to my knees again and roared like a conquering warrior, letting out the last of the pent-up adrenaline. For the crowd, I told myself, the truth leaving a far nastier taste.
Feeling both exhausted and intensely alive, I went through the rest of the motions: applauding the crowd, gathering my bags, throwing towels and sweatbands into the stands behind my chair. The on-court interviewer stood waiting in his pressed slacks and mirror-bright shoes, microphone in hand.
“Matteo,” the man said with an almost apologetic smile when I joined him. “That was outstanding, you must be utterly exhausted. Five hours and thirty-six minutes on court – which means you’ve just broken the record for the longest match here at the US Open by one minute.” He paused for the crowd to cheer while I tried to hold onto the fact that Miles and I had broken that record together. “How do you even prepare for such a brutal encounter?”
“I don’t think you can,” I said, surprised my voice still worked. “I mean, this is what we train for, physically, every day, but emotionally you never know what you’re capable of until you’re pushed to fight for something.”
And I’d fought to end Miles’s chance at the US Open title this year.
“Such a close fight, too,” the man said. “Felt like it could go either way right to the end. What do you think it took for you to come out on top?”
“Luck?” I said, earning laughter from the crowd. “Sheer bloody-mindedness? Honestly, by the fifth set I wasn’t even sure what the score was half the time, I was just running on instinct. That probably helped. Miles is a more tactical player than me,which gets hard when you’re playing on fumes and can’t think through points the way you like.”
“You and Miles are good friends off the court, aren’t you?” the man said, making me draw a suddenly panicked breath. “And you’ve known each other since you were juniors. So, I have to ask, how hard is it to come out here and play someone you have such respect for?”
As the question hung, I recalled with a flip of my stomach that there were TV screens in the small cool-down area where Miles would probably be biking off the adrenaline. I wasn’t sure if I most wanted him to be watching or not.
“It’s awful,” I said, both because it was true and in case he could hear me. “Having to set friendship aside and play to win is one of the hardest things we all come out here and do, especially since tennis can be a pretty lonely sport with all the travelling. I think we both achieved it tonight, and now I can only hope he’ll forgive me and we’ll still be friends tomorrow.”
A chorus of sympathetic sounds and laughter came from the crowd, and I hated that I was saying to utter strangers what I wanted to say to Miles. The interviewer laughed too. “Maybe not until tomorrow,” he said, “but I’m sure he will. That was an outstanding performance from both of you, and I think you’ll both sleep very well after that effort. Congratulations again, Matteo. Matteo Russo, everyone!”
I thanked him, thanked the crowd, signed the damn camera and a bunch of autographs, and made good my escape.
I pulled out my phone the moment I stepped off court, and as I walked unseeing past those pictures of former champions—no watching camera now—I scrolled through my notifications. I’d gotten used to seeingcongratufuckinglations, but of course it wasn’t there. There were normal congratulations from Mum and Dadand Nico and Danny and a slew of others, but nothing from Katie because she knew better.
Quick steps took me to the cool-down area, hoping Miles would still be there, but the place was deserted – just two bikes, an open floor, and pale walls giving the feel of a liminal space in which time could never pass. I fought the urge to search the precinct for him, and pulled myself onto a bike. Phone out, I stared at our conversation as I pedalled. The last thing I’d sent had been a heart emoji, which looked awful and cruel sitting there now, like somehow I needed to draw a line beneath it and start the conversation anew. But what to say? Sorry? Like that would mean anything. In the end I asked,Where are you?and set my phone on the bike screen as Tomas and Macca arrived.
“Hey, how you doing?” Tomas asked, deliberately not glancing at the conversation I had open.
“How do you think?” I replied, knowing the words were snappier than I’d meant, but the adrenaline was wearing off, leaving the win souring.
Tomas took my mood in his stride and patted my shoulder. “It was a damn close match.”
“Does that make it better or worse that I won?”
“Better that you didn’t wipe the floor with him in front of his home crowd,” Macca said. “And no, you can’t run off to find him, we can’t skimp recovery after that. Almost six hours on court is more than brutal. Besides, he probably needs some space.”
Of course he was right. I still glanced at my phone.
After my cool-down, Macca helped me with some active stretching. Miles would have done the same somewhere, and I couldn’t but imagine I was recovering in his shadow, the ghost of him having gone through the same motions lingering in the room. Had the result been different, I would have waited for him, have letrecovering together be about more than the physical need to maintain our bodies, but I couldn’t blame him for choosing not to.
Thinking of our Paris match and hoping for some symmetry, I headed next to the locker room to shower. He wasn’t there. Not in the showers, nor the ice baths. He wasn’t even taking a quiet moment somewhere amid the fancy wood panelling before facing the press, he was just gone. I glanced at my phone. Nothing.
Hey, I know you might not want to see me, but please just say something.
Leaving my phone beside me, I ate then, shovelling in a mountain of food to fill the gaping hole the match had left in my stomach. When there was still no message, it was time to face the press. They had all the usual questions: How did it feel to be playing so well? Did I feel like I was finally back playing at the level I had been before my accident? I was making a habit out of beating top-five players, did I think I could make it to the final? Thankfully, no one asked about my sexuality this time.
Macca was waiting when I was done. It was two in the morning, but recovery was recovery even when the place was deserted. I could have headed back to the hotel for my massage, but I didn’t want to keep Katie up so we stayed. And halfway through, Miles finally replied.
my room
Two words. Hard to know the mood that lay behind them, but he had replied and he wanted to see me and for now that was all that mattered.
“I have to go.”
