Not even if I say I love you?
jerk
i love you too
I’d thought the first month without him had been hell, but at least I’d been able to train and play and exhaust myself. After Shanghai, I was restricted to a less strenuous routine and spent far too much time lying on my parent’s couch. It wasn’t the same as the weeks I’d spent in hospital after my accident, wondering if my tennis career was over, yet the parallels were uncomfortable. Half a season spent tearing through draws and rocketing up the rankings, only to have it all come to a screeching halt like forty-one was a ceiling beyond which I could never pass. Like I was cursed to play out the same cycle again and again.
It ought to have been a relief that Miles was talking to me at least, but our conversations felt strained, like we were dancing around one another, messaging neither as often nor as freely as before. And most of it was about tennis. Had New York not broken us, I would have told him how much my injury frightened me, how much I felt like I was trapped in an eddy I would never escape, but it had and I couldn’t. Could only let him message on his terms while I went slowly insane, my parents sharing increasingly worried expressions when they thought I wasn’t looking.
I missed him like an ache so deep it couldn’t be reached, and because I was still an idiot, I tried to alleviate it by scrolling through his social accounts. There were pictures of the beach. Of his tennis court. And his pool. He was clearly training at home, and whileevery day I yearned to be there with him, the time I had spent there was also taking on the feeling of a fever dream. I still wasn’t sure our relationship had truly survived beyond it.
That particular doubt persisted despite the occasional ‘I love you’I prompted from him, and deepened when snaps of him and Emily together started appearing in his feed. Almost I asked what had happened to make Tina organise it, but since he hadn’t been caught kissing me this time, the question felt like an accusation so I didn’t. I just scrolled through the photos, hating that she got to hold his hand at events and kiss his cheek for the cameras. Knowing they were a lie didn’t makeusfeel more real.
The only silver lining was that Emily’s photos were more guarded now, although the masochistic part of me that wanted to drown in softcore Miles Callahan porn was disappointed Tina had listened.
Miles Callahan
have you already booked for paris?
Not yet. Wasn’t sure I would make it thanks to the shoulder, but things are looking good atm
you’re coming? injury free?
Not injury free, but hopefully enough so yeah, I’ll be there
hmmm. well what do you think of this place?
A house?
yeah, unless you’ve added to your team without mentioning it, it should have enough rooms for all of us. so long as you and i share
You want to share a place?
yes? i can keep looking if you don’t like this one, but it’s close to the stadium, has its own gym (small), pool (fun) and the master bedroom (ours) is at the far end of the house (necessary)
So necessary. I don’t want coaching tips on pre-match railings shouted through the walls
Let’s do it
THE NERVES SET in before we even got on the plane. I hadn’t seen him since the US Open, wasn’t even sure who we were to each other anymore, and now I was just rocking up at a house he’d rented in Paris. We wouldn’t even be alone, but perhaps less privacy was what he wanted – Miles, ever the planner. That he’d said we would be sharing a room was all I could cling to in my determined effort not to panic for the entire flight.
Over the last few months, Tomas and Macca had become my rocks off-court as well as on, working hard to strengthen my physical and mental game. We’d become good friends in the process, but by the end of the long flight, we were all desperately glad to escape each other’s company. Or, more accurately, they were desperately glad to escape me, as I was fast becoming a nervous wreck.
It was late afternoon when the taxi pulled up outside the house in Paris, the sky steel-grey and a sharp breeze whipping loose leaves along the street. While Tomas and Macca helped the driver unload our bags, I went to check we were in the right place. My heart thumped a sickening tattoo all the way.
When the door opened upon a tiled entry hall, I found amiddle-aged man with short, dark hair smiling softly upon me. “Why hello,” he said with a French accent.
“Uh, hi.” Panic spiked, and I was about to pull out my phone to check the address when Tina appeared behind him. She’d swapped her floral beach look for culottes and a knitted sweater, though she’d kept the enormous sunglasses, perched now on her head.
“Ah, you’re here!” she said, darting forward to plant a kiss on my cheek in a waft of rosy perfume – a better welcome than I’d expected, though she followed it by whispering, “good luck!” Looking past me to Tomas and Macca now bringing in our bags, she said, “Tomas! Ben! We were just about to step out for a drink, and since you poor things have been cramped in a plane for hours, Ihighly recommendyou join us.”
“You’re not very subtle, Tina.”
My head snapped up. Miles had appeared at the far end of the entry hall, leaning his shoulder against the wall in a pool of early evening light. It touched his blond hair and highlighted his cheekbones, and in a black Henley with its sleeves pushed halfway up his forearms and a pair of torn jean shorts, the image was so like a casual centrefold snap that it was hard to believe he was real. Hearts don’t skip beats because that’s not how they work, but I understood in that moment exactly what it would have felt like if they did.
“Hi,” I said, the word sounding ridiculous, like my tongue had accidentally flapped out an alien language.
The skin around his eyes crinkled. “Hey.”
