you all right?
Yeah. Third round is good and I’m choosing to believe it means nothing more than I lost today. I’ll just keep working
you’re amazing, you know that?
Not sure why, but thanks
because you’re resilient and determined and i love you
I love you too. Now I can just enjoy watching you decimate the field
you say that like it’s a foregone conclusion. i have to play juan tomorrow and that’s always a pain
come watch. in my box. worked a treat third round of wimbledon
Want to start a third-round habit?
why not? don’t change a winning formula, yeah?
I think you’re your own winning formula right now, but sure. So long as you’re not worried about the extra scrutiny
Australian camera crews and commentators are sure to notice me
it’s fine. they know we’re friends. bet they won’t even comment
And so the following day, I met Miles and his team as they finished their match prep in the brightly-lit corridors beneath Rod Laver Arena. It was the Australian Open’s biggest court and Miles was tonight’s star attraction, yet despite the buzz, I found him calmly going through stretches and preparatory drills with Jada. He was in a dark-blue polo and sweat band tonight – a colour that suited him beautifully. Even once he was drenched in sweat, he would still look gorgeous.
“You look very relaxed,” I said, because I couldn’t tell him he was beautiful with so many people around.
“Yeah,” he agreed, smiling at the sight of me. “Tonight feels good. Feels right. I’m looking forward to it.”
As he spoke, his smile stretched into a grin and I raised my brows. “Something amusing?”
“No.” He pulled out of a stretch and glanced around, and deciding it was safe enough, lowered his voice to add, “I’m just really glad you came. I play better when you’re here.”
Almost I said I would come every match if people wouldn’t ask questions, but I’d promised myself never to make him feel pressured to come out. The situation with his family was still too messy, and even if it hadn’t been, it had to be his choice. My love wasn’t conditional any more than his.
“Well, then I’m glad I could make it,” I said instead, and swallowed the desire to kiss him, both then and a few minutes later when a tournament handler came to let him know it was time. Later he would be mine, for now he belonged to the game. So, with a final smile and a wink my way, he gathered his bags and put on his headphones.
“Come on.” Tina hooked her arm through mine as she turned for the stairs. The rest of the team were already trooping up toward the player boxes. “Don’t want to miss a moment!”
“Since when are you this excited about actual tennis?” I said, having learned that her interest in tennis didn’t extend beyond her brother’s matches, part of which she often spent crowd watching.
“Oh never!” she admitted cheerfully, flicking her long hair back over her shoulder. “But it’s a lovely night for sitting courtside, don’t you think?”
As we caught up with Marcel, I glanced a question at the quiet Frenchman who had been such a boon to Miles’s game, earning a shrug and a mild smile. “It is a very fine night.”
It was – a warm summer evening without a cloud in the sky. In another hour or so it would start getting dark and stars would twinkle above Melbourne Park, but for now we had blue sky to go with the blue court and the dark blue of Miles’s shirt as he was announced to great applause.
He lifted his hand to the crowd as he walked out, and like when I had sat in his box at Wimbledon, our eyes met as he made for his chair. That day he’d tried not to smile, but tonight he let a broad grin flare for a few seconds before tucking it away in time to focus on his preparations.
Around me, Miles’s team were settling in to work: Marcel opening his tablet to keep an eye on the stats, Jada and Cam triple-checking they had all the gels and powders in their match bag, andTina rapidly typing out an email. They were an efficient unit, like Miles himself – a man so perfectly organised that he made hard work look easy.
With no job but to enjoy myself and cheer him on, I leaned forward, eyes for no one else. Though I had to be wary of my reactions with cameras on us at all times, sitting courtside to watch Miles play was electric. From the first serve, he owned that court. He set a quick pace, controlled the ball, and played like he could do no wrong. Tonight, he wasn’t just an unstoppable freight train, but a freight train on fire that had decided it could lay its own tracks and there was nothing Juan Benitez could do to stop him. And I was right there with him for every point.
To the surprise of no one at all, Miles won in straight sets. He was looking unbeatable – an observation the on-court interviewer made as soon as Miles had put away his racquets, changed into a fresh shirt and strolled over like he’d merely been out for a walk. Only his sweat-darkened hair proved he’d just played three high-quality sets of tennis.
“I’m not sure about unbeatable,” Miles replied into the microphone as his smiling face appeared on the big screen. “But I’m definitely feeling good. I’m playing more freely than I have for a long time and it’s paying off. A lot of credit to my new team.” He gestured toward us. “They’ve really helped me step things up and I’m lucky to have them.”
