“Why aren’t you in Ilkley then?” Miles asked as I led the way along the narrow, creaking corridor to the equally narrow, creaking stairs.
“I wanted time to rest and prepare before qualifying starts.”
He grunted, a sound that was neither approval nor disapproval, and silence fell as we made our way to the street door and out into London’s early-afternoon haze. I gestured to show the direction we were going, and caught a hint of slightly floral cologne as he fell in beside me on the footpath.
“So, you’re playing Queen’s?” I said, sure I ought to ask a question in return.
“Yup. I got close last time. Maybe this’ll be my year.”
If he wanted to win a tournament, he probably shouldn’t have let me bait him into giving up his team – an observation I bit back, leaving traffic noise to fill the yawning silence between us. This was all too strange. I’d woken expecting a normal day, yet somehow I’d ended up walking to a laundromat with Miles Callahan while he hid behind a pair of sunglasses and eyed everyone we passed. No one ever recognised me, but I’d never been on magazine covers.
Thankfully, the nearest laundromat wasn’t busy, and we took a pair of machines well away from the front window. And there, while people walked past outside and a man in the corner listened to music without headphones, I showed Miles fucking Callahan how to use a coin-operated washing machine. Except, of course hehadn’t brought any coins, so I also paid for Miles fucking Callahan to use a coin-operated washing machine.
And once the machines were running, their timers ticking down all too slowly, I realised I was now stuck hanging out in awkward silence with the man who had knocked me out of the French Open.
“So,” Miles said, leaning on the chipped melamine bench with folded arms. “What do you do while you wait?”
Without a sweatband to keep it back, the soft waves of his dark-blond hair tumbled about his face, tips caressing those sharp cheekbones. All slightly tousled intensity, he looked enough like hisGQcover to be unnerving, like I was hanging out with a glossy pinup ripped from a magazine.
“Depends what time it is back home,” I said, trying for a light answer. “If it’s evening, I usually call Mum. Otherwise, I flirt with cute locals, read, or just sit and panic about my next match. You know, whatever I’m in the mood for.”
“Panic? You?”
It took me a moment to realise his surprise was genuine. “Yeah, I’m quite good at it.”
His features did the equivalent of a shrug. “That’s news to me. You always look so confident. Fierce even. Like you’re ready to chew the world up and spit it out if it does you dirty.”
“Ah, no,” I said. “The world has done me plenty dirty, I assure you, and I’m just panic all the way down.”
Before I could regret admitting as much, my phone buzzed. “Coach,” I said, noting the name on the screen, and lifted it to my ear. The call connected with a faint hum. “Evening, Danny. How’re you doing?”
“Good, good,” Danny said with what sounded like a stretch. “Freezing my arse off but such is life in the southern hemisphere right now.”
While Danny spoke, Miles pushed off the bench and app-roached with long strides, and before I could guess what he meant to do, he had leaned close enough that his breath danced over my fingertips. “Good afternoon, Mr Lovett,” he said into the phone, his tone so mockingly demure that I wanted to hit him.
Shocked silence hung a moment on the other end, while Miles retreated to lean against a nearby machine, all shit-eating grin.
“Was that . . .Callahan?” Danny said, voice pitching up in confusion.
I glared at Miles. “Yes, yes it was.”
“Oh. I can call back if I’m interrupting something.”
“Not interrupting anything,” I said, and able to guess from my tone in what manner Danny had asked that loaded question, Miles laughed. “I’m just doing my laundry,” I added, trying not to grit my teeth.
“Right,” Danny said, and I hated how my cheeks heated at the hint of disbelief in his voice. “Well. I got your videos.”
“I figured.” I turned around so I didn’t have to look at Callahan while my coach detailed my failings. “Tell me the worst.”
“Hey now, don’t say it like that. You’re doing great. I’ve been rewatching your Nottingham matches too and when you’re flying, you’re really flying. It’s good to see. I’ll send you notes when we finish up, but as usual its mostly about your point planning.”
For the next ten minutes, I stood amid the droning hum of tumble dryers and tried to focus on Danny’s words like a sponge absorbing wisdom. Unfortunately, even on my best days, his wisdom tended to leak straight out and today was no different, so I was soon just nodding along, knowing I could catch up when he sent it in writing.
“And if you’ve got Callahan there,” he finished. “He’d make a great hitting partner.”
“He just happens to be here,” I said, rubbing my brow.
“Doing his laundry too?”
