“It was a lot, but . . . in a good way. I like being able to talk about you. Really like it.”
I jerked my head at the TV. “I saw some of it.”
“Oh? I hope I did you proud.”
“Proud? More like enraged that you’re already better at being The Gay Player than me.”
His smile twitched. “Idiot.”
I crossed the floor and slid my arms up around his neck. “Yeah, but I’m your idiot,” I said, and kissed him, soft and deep and oh so sure.
THE SECOND WEEK of the slam was a bewildering whirlwind. Miles still had to play, yet every moment he was off court, we were bombarded with requests for photoshoots and interviews, endlessly written about and tagged on our social profiles, and everywhere we went together people pointed and called out and snapped pictures. With a few words and a kiss, Miles had changed everything.
When he stepped out to play his fourth-round match, it was clear the Australian crowd had adopted him as an honorary Aussie. Australian flags waved amid the American and the cheer that met him was huge. No longer having to hide, I sat in his box with his team, could cheer with my whole heart, and was there waiting the moment he stepped off court. And the thrill of being able to kiss him where other people could see wasn’t going to wear off any time soon.
Neither, it seemed, was Miles’s winning streak. The matchesgot harder, but he was walking out with the belief of a man who’d already won and no one could prove him wrong. Fourth round. Quarter-final. Semi-final. By the end of the second week, he’d completed a dream run to the final of the Australian Open and the realisation of what that meant finally caught up with him.
“I’m nervous as all hell,” he admitted as we lay in bed together the night before. “It’s my first grand slam final, so no one is really expecting me to win, especially not given my head-to-head against Alejandro. But at the same time, the whole coming out thing made this bigger than just tennis, at least for me. I want this so bad. I want to complete the fairy tale. Prove to everyone that you and I are better together and that I’m better off without my old team. All that.”
I could have told him that losing wouldn’t make any of those things less true. That even making a grand slam final was an achievement most players would never realise. That there would be other slams and other opportunities, especially if he kept playing like he was. But he already knew all of that. So, I kissed his forehead and said, “I know. But you’ve got this.”
He breathed out a laugh and nuzzled into the side of my neck. “Thank you.”
“That’s what we do, right?” I said. “Believe in each other.”
“Yeah, we do. And I’m glad you’ll be there.”
I wrapped my arms around him and breathed deeply of everything that was so entirely Miles Callahan. “Always, no matter what. Even after tomorrow, when you’re a fucking grand slam champion.”
Miles’s lips twitched. “I do like the sound of that very much.”
AUSTRALIAN OPEN PRESS RELEASE
MILES CALLAHAN WINS FIRST GRAND SLAM TITLE
American world number five, Miles Callahan, won a maiden grand slam title in Sunday’s Australian Open final against defending champion Alejandro Torres. Coming in as the underdog against the more experienced world number one, Callahan was nevertheless the crowd favourite after the revelation earlier in the tournament that he’s in a relationship with Australian world number thirty-five Matteo Russo. Russo sat courtside for the match and was thanked by Callahan in his acceptance speech, the crowd cheering his final words as he fought back tears, “I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for you. Here’s to many more such successes for us both. I love you, Matteo.”
Epilogue
FRENCH OPEN PARIS
I woke to hazy morning light and the sharp rap of Tina’s knuckles on our bedroom door, because it was one of those mornings.
“Wake up, sleepy heads!” she called. “Or stop being horny, either or!”
Beside me, Miles groaned and called back, “We haven’t even had a chance to get horny yet.”
“Well, don’t start now! Car will be here in ninety minutes and I need you both looking pretty!”
Her footsteps snapped off across the wood. From beyond the door came the hum of low conversation and the gurgle of the coffee machine.
“Good thing you’re always pretty,” Miles murmured, and rolled on top of me, all warm, soft skin and lithe muscle, and wholly mine. “Good morning, love.”
“Good morning,” I said, voice husky with sleep. “Mm, what are you doing?”
What he was doing, was gently sucking the side of my neck while he slid one hand onto my arse. “I’m enjoying you until Tinaknocks again,” he said, and shifted his lips down to my collarbone to suck harder because he knew all my weaknesses.
“Hey, careful!” I wriggled, half-heartedly trying to push him off, though it achieved only rubbing our morning erections together. “If you want me to start changing my shirt on court again then don’t leave any marks on me.”
