It was the most normal thing to say, yet after the last two months the wordboyfriendhad made me catch my breath. Standing there with our fingers entwined, it was suddenly like nothing had ever changed, and as much because I didn’t want to cry in relief as because the words had surprised me, I said, “You talk about me?”
Miles’s eyes widened, genuine shock there a moment before he covered it with a bemused frown. “Of course I talk about you.”
“Well, Mat talks a lot about you too,” Macca said, piling dumplings onto his plate. “You know, once or twice. A minute.”
“Hey!” I cried. “I know for a fact that I’ve gone wholedayswithout mentioning him.”
“If they’re anything like the days Miles doesn’t talk about you,” Marcel said with a twinkle, his voice a low rumble. “Then those silences areveryloud.”
While they all laughed at our expense, Miles and I shared a sheepish look. And as I blinked away a tear, I realised this was what I’d needed – not the physical reconnection, but this open acknowledgement of what we were, made in front of others. That he squeezed my hand then and said, “What can I say? I love him,” certainly didn’t hurt.
Maybe we would be okay after all.
Twenty-Six
THE PARIS MASTERS was, thankfully, an indoor tournament, given the variability of late autumn weather. We’d arrived a week in advance because we could and to get used to the surface, and though we took care not to schedule practice courts at the same time or travel together in the days leading up, I made sure we overlapped once so I could watch Miles work with his new team. Leo Mannering had set a low bar, which Marcel cleared merely by not calling him a lazy faggot, but I wanted to see what they were like on court together.
Marcel was a man of few words and those words were considered and encouraging, and on the practice court, Miles looked impressive. He was swinging with ease, nothing restrained or hesitant about his shots. He often managed half his wins just by being near impossible to break, but now he was hitting earlier, attacking harder, and watching him sent a little thrill up my spine. God, he was good. Yet, somehow, he’d stepped away for a couple of months and come back even better – something I had never managed in my life.
I had to give up watching them when we took a break for Macca to work on my still-offending shoulder. He’d laid a towel out beside the court, and ordered me to lie face down and not complain this time.
“Do you want my opinion?” Tomas asked, crouching beside me amid the echoing symphony of the indoor stadium, all balls getting smashed and squeaking shoes.
“I always want your opinion,” I said, gritting my teeth as Macca dug fingers into my back. “Pretty sure that’s how this coaching thing works.”
He grinned like perhaps I would regret that carte blanche one day. “Well, I think they’re good for him. Marcel is thoughtful about his work, and very strategic on the court. We had a long talk the other day, and he said he’s trying to balance the need to keep pushing Miles against the need to heal his confidence. And no, I don’t mean his confidence after the US Open, I mean his confidence in having a coach. In trusting people again.”
While Macca shifted position, I risked a glance up to see Marcel standing with Miles on the next court, gesturing through an explanation of something. Miles was nodding along, wholly focussed.
“Anything is a step up after that Mannering wanker,” Macca said, smushing me back into the towel. “But I like them.”
“No hint they might be . . .?” I let the question hang.
“Secretly a bunch of raging homophobes?” Macca finished for me. “Nah, they’re good. Cam is great, Jada is hilarious, and Marcel is quiet but very relaxed. I think they couldn’t give two shits that he’s gay and are just glad you make him happy. Get the feeling they’re a bit protective though, and might bristle up like angry bears if you break his heart.”
I grumbled that I had no intention of doing so, while on the next court, Jada made Miles laugh as he prepared to serve.
“Is this likely to be a regular thing, do you think?” Tomas asked, still crouching at my head. “All of us staying together in a house? It’s not a problem if it is,” he hastened to add. “I’m just asking.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Since I’ve spent the last two months afraid he and I were done—”
“We noticed.”
“—I don’t want to make any predictions. Since the next swing is Australia though, you’re safe until after that at least.”
Tomas gave me a withering look. “I said it was fine, I was just curious. They’re good company, and your happiness off-court is important to your ability to play on-court.”
My happiness off-court was certainly greatly improved by falling asleep beside Miles every night and waking beside him every morning. Waking to his warmth and his scent and the serious little notch that sometimes dug between his brows when he slept.
And when we weren’t practising or training or sleeping, we had all the time in the world to just exist in the same space. Tina was often out, on her laptop or taking calls, while the others relaxed around the house when they weren’t needed. Macca had found cards and a stack of board games in one of the cupboards, and on the day before the tournament started, Tomas and Macca, Marcel, Jada and Cam sat gathered around the dining table with a small collection of games and a larger collection of wine glasses. We might have joined them, but with Jada’s help, Macca had updated the physical therapy plan for my shoulder based on our current resources, which now meant time in the pool.
“You said having a pool would be fun,” I said, standing beside it and eying the grey sky distastefully.
“Look, in my defence, I forgot how cold it is here in fall.”
Miles had changed into his own swimming shorts, but while I tested the water and found it wanting, he went back inside only to return with a blanket. Gathering it around himself, he settled on one of the deck chairs like a woollen burrito with sunglasses.
“Seriously?” I said.
