“Believe it or not.”
Danny huffed a laugh. “Ah well, it’s a hard one to believe, that’s for sure. But give him my best. Was a good time when he was out here for that training camp. Pissed him off no end that he couldn’t beat you though.”
“Yeah.” I gave a non-committal shrug.
“Ah well,” he said again after a pause. “I’d better go, it’s late. I’ll send those notes tomorrow.”
He hung up, and feeling like I’d been put through the wringer, I had all but forgotten Miles was actually present until I turned back to find him watching me. His grin was gone, replaced with a frown. Behind him, our washing machines rumbled on.
“What?” I said.
Throwing a glance toward the front window, he seemed to consider whether or not to answer, before fixing me with a determined stare that made me squirm. “You need a new coach.”
I snorted. “Yeah, right, thanks.”
“I mean it, Mat. You don’t need to do any of those things.”
“You were listening?”
Miles gave a careless shrug. “He was loud and I’m nosy. And I’m telling you that you should ignore all his suggestions.”
“Right. Sure.”
I dropped my phone onto my empty laundry bag and glared at the timer on the washing machine, willing it to go faster.
“The only thing he got right was at the end,” Miles went on, though he was speaking to my turned shoulder now. “I washellapissed that I couldn’t beat you.”
“You beat me two weeks ago.”
“Yeah, but that wasn’t the Russo who used to blitz my game like it was a stroll in the fucking park.”
“No shit. I can’t do that anymore.”
“I’m sure you could if you still played like that.”
If I kept glaring at the machine, perhaps it would catch fire.
“I saw it for a bit there, you know,” he said, not taking the hint to shut up. “At the French. During that second set you opened up and let rip, and I couldn’t for the life of me guess where that ball was going. Felt like I was tripping around in the dark.”
“I was just angry and careless and got lucky.”
“Lucky?” he scoffed. “Bullshit. That was your real game.”
I scowled up at him over my shoulder. “What are you talking about?”
With a suffering glance flicked toward the ceiling, Miles heaved a sigh. “Fuck, I’m going to regret this,” he muttered, and pulled me around to set his hands on my shoulders. “You have more instinct for this game than anyone I have ever met,” he said, his dark irises like magnets. “You have the sort of talent the rest of us would kill for, you just . . . don’t use it anymore. And that’s a shame, because even when you were beating me, the sight of Matteo Russo in top form was a thing to behold. You didn’t justused to befucking brilliant. Youarefucking brilliant.”
He dropped his hands and looked away, the huff of a laugh ghosting past his lips as though in disbelief at his own words. A disbelief I shared, my heart thumping so hard I felt dizzy.
“Um,” I said, because I had to say something, had to acknowledge the enormity of all that. “I . . . Thank you.”
“Yeah, well, don’t get used to it.” He gestured at the washing machine continuing its thankless task. “Consider it repayment for teaching me how to do laundry.”
I laughed because it was easier than finding something to say.
“But seriously,” he added, glancing back as his machine finished its cycle with a clunk. “Don’t listen to Danny. You’re not a plan-your-points by-the-book player and you never will be, no matter what he says.”
He yanked open the washing machine, spilling a pair of boxers onto the laundromat floor. “Do I just stick all this in the dryer now or what?”
