“And how instrumental do you feel it is playing—” The interviewer broke off as Miles shook his head, looking like he wanted to say something more before they moved on. “Sorry, what was that?”
“You haven’t asked about my player’s box.”
The interviewer laughed, the sound uncertain. “That was quite a theme for you last season, wasn’t it? But you have a teamwith you again now. You even have an extra tonight – Matteo Russo, who we lost from the draw yesterday.”
The feed on the big screen cut to Miles’s box as the man spoke, and though I was not alone, the interviewer’s words and the sheer size of my face left me feeling exposed. But it was fine. The interview would soon move on since there was no reason for further questions.
Until Miles leaned toward the microphone and said, “Ask me why he’s here,” and I stopped breathing.
A hush rolled over the packed stands like the crowd held their breath with me, all eyes locked on Miles as the interviewer did as he’d been asked. “All right. Tell us, why do you have Matteo Russo in your box tonight?”
He held out the microphone and Miles took it, brushing hair back from his brow as he turned to meet my gaze across the silently-waiting stadium. And up on the screen, his smile was slightly wicked and entirely fond as he said, “Because I love him.”
For the half second of stunned silence that followed, I was sure my heart stopped. Before all around me the crowd erupted, cheering like Miles had just won the match all over again. Their excitement hit me like a gale, but I had eyes only for him. Because he really had just said that out loud into a microphone, on what would absolutely be an international fucking broadcast.
When the crowd showed no sign of quietening, Miles lifted the microphone again and said, “He’s not only here because I love him, but because he’s my boyfriend and I play better when he’s supporting me.” The cheers and whistles grew louder, flashes flickering around the stadium like stars falling from the night sky. I knew I was grinning like an idiot and couldn’t have stopped had I tried. Of course he had done this – Miles Callahan never a man to buy me a single vase of flowers when he could fill my hotelroom. I might have come out first, but he was doing it far more spectacularly.
“He didn’t know I was going to tell you all this tonight,” he added, his smile matching mine as the whole stadium stopped mattering, just the two of us in that moment together. “But I decided that since we’ve been together for a while, it was finally time. So . . .” A glance around at the crowd. A little shrug. His smile a joyful invitation. “I guess this is also me coming out to all you fine people as well.”
On which note, he handed the microphone back to the stunned interviewer. All around the stadium, people were on their feet waving flags and placards, the night full of whoops and whistles and applause – the moment so like the climactic scene in a Hollywood film that everyone had been swept into it with us. Miles choosing that moment to make a heart in my direction with his hands really didn’t help.
Fighting to contain his smile, he turned back to the interviewer and raised his brows with an attempt at faux solemnity like he was ready for the next question.
“Wow,” the man said, the crowd barely quieting. “Congratulations. Although, I must ask for those who perhaps saw you and Matteo play at the US Open, whether this has just been since then, or . . .?”
Leaving the question hanging, he held out the microphone. “No, since before that,” Miles said, giving his one-shouldered shrug and a wry smile. “It was a difficult match for us both and I imagine that’ll be true any time we play. But I love him and he loves me, so we make it work.”
I hadn’t thought it possible for the crowd to get louder.
“Well, I don’t think anyone wants me to ask more questions about the match after that,” the interviewer said with a laugh, allbut shouting into the microphone. “So, I’ll just say congratulations again, and uh, Miles Callahan, ladies and gentlemen, through to the fourth round!”
Miles raised his hands, smiling broadly as the cheers rolled on like a storm. And having acknowledged the support, he abandoned his bags to jog across the court toward me. I was out of my seat in an instant, leaning over the edge of the player’s box to watch him swim through the press pool before climbing their bleachers like stairs. Stomping and shouting added to the thunder around us as he reached the top, and there over the metal wall surrounding the court, we were almost of a height. He took my hands.
“Hey, you,” he said, his smile lighting my world. And as the noise in the stadium rose to a deafening roar, he stretched up to kiss me softly.
We were swimming in noise and every camera would be on us, but nothing mattered except for him. Nothing but the press of his lips against mine as our kiss lingered lovingly for all to see.
When he pulled slowly away, phone lights were waving all around us and somehow the crowd had gotten even louder.
“How long have you been planning that?” I asked, smiling so wide my cheeks were aching.
He gave one of his half shrugs, still holding my hands. “Since I first asked you to sit in my box at Wimbledon. I knew I couldn’t do it then. But now . . .” Miles glanced over his shoulder at the big screen – he and I up there together, larger than life. And though everyone could see us, I was glad that when he said, “I love you, Matteo,” the words were just for me.
Before I could reply in kind, he kissed me again; a quick peck before he reluctantly let go of my hands and climbed back down onto the court. Waving and grinning to the crowd, his cheeks a little pink, he jogged back to his bags. He needed to clear the courtfor the match that was to follow, although how anyone could follow such a show was unclear.
“Mat?” I turned to find Tina at my side, smile stretching ear to ear. She gestured to the rest of Miles’s team, all flicking grins at me as they made their way out of the box. At some point, I’d entirely forgotten I wasn’t alone. “Come on,” she said. “We’re heading down. And I’m very sure it’s not us he wants to see.”
“Right, yeah,” I said, and followed her up through the crowd toward the stairs in a daze. People went on cheering and calling out to me, and everywhere I looked phones were raised, capturing this moment in endless snippets sure to already be on social media. I realised then with a thrill bordering on panic that there was no going back now. Soon, the whole world would know.
As we headed down into the bowels of the stadium, the thunder of the crowd seemed hardly to abate. Cam and Marcel were laughing quietly together as they led the way, while beside me, Tina had pulled out her phone.
“No one,” she announced, “is talking about anything else. I mean, look at that!” She held up her phone, and there was a picture she’d snapped of Miles and I, our heads close over the court wall, looking into each other’s eyes and grinning like idiots – or like two men who utterly adored each other and could finally show it.
“This one of them kissing is better,” Jada said, holding up her own phone to show a photo captured mere moments earlier, Miles and I mid-kiss. My chest constricted at the sight of it, a combination of joy and terror.
“That one might make the front page of more than a few newspapers,” Tina agreed.
And as she spoke, realisation dawned. “You knew he was going to do it.” I looked at each of his team as they slowed to laugh at me. “You all knew!”
