Miles, wearing a shit-eating grin like he’d just played the ultimate checkmate, dropped into some stretches at my feet.
“Well, I would tell you what I think of that,” Tina Callahan said, all high-speed American socialite. “But honestly, it’s fine. I was joking when I said I would give the man who challenged him to this a piece of my mind and so of course he’s called my bluff. Though I’m not sure I caught your name.”
“Mat,” I said, while on the floor Miles was showing off a frankly upsetting degree of flexibility like it was nothing and still grinning.
“Mat. Lovely. I’m Tina, but you already know that. I’m often at Miles’s matches so you might have seen me around. Depending how this experiment of his goes, I bet I can pitch a piece to one of the major publications, you know, about the experience of lower-ranked players trying to make do. Miles will complain about more interviews because he always does, but I’ll talk him around, and the media attention might be good for you.”
The very idea sank my stomach like a lead ball. “Thanks, but I really don’t need it.”
“Nonsense, everyone needs it. Public interest builds brands and brands make hype and hype gets sponsorships, and then—”
Miles got up off the floor with a small groan of effort. “Do you want to keep working after this? Or are you done?”
“Oh, I’m done,” I said, interrupting Tina’s flow. “Sorry. Miles just asked a question. But look, I really don’t want to be known as the guy who complained about the tour so much he made the world number four feel bad.”
“Hmm.” Tina sounded genuinely thoughtful, and in the moment of silence I tried to recall her face. I’d certainly seen match coverage cut to her reactions in his player’s box, but I’d never paid enough attention to decide whether they looked alike. “I’ll think on it,” she said after a pause. “See if I can come up with a better angle. In the meantime, can he hear me?”
Away in the centre of the room, Miles was collecting my cones into a neat stack. “No? Probably not.”
“Good. I just . . .” She sighed down the line, the sound coming with a brief jingle of music like she’d walked through a room with a radio on. “How is he? I’m the family worrier, you see. Do you have sisters, Mat?”
“No, two younger brothers.”
“Ah, then allow me to inform you that a big sister’s job is to worry and be nosy, and as his publicity manager and social media human, it’s doubly my job, so . . . is he okay?”
Seeming to sense something was amiss, Miles glanced over, a faint frown collecting between his brows.
“I think so?” I said, not meeting his gaze. “Not that I know him very well.”
“The best I’m going to get, I suppose. Thank you, but don’t keep him training too long, now, all right? He has a high tea at Queen’s at three and the stylist needs him by two, and if he’s not there, I’ll have to murder someone and it might just be you.”
“I’m not his keeper!” I cried, and Miles, clearly deciding this prank had backfired quite enough, abandoned packing up to stride over.
Tina laughed. “You are for today! Please! What’s your last name, Mat? So I know who to thank when he gets there on time.”
“Uh, Russo,” I said, and as silence met this, Miles snatched the phone out of my hand.
“Don’t need a babysitter, Tina,” he snapped at her, and the sound of her shouting something faded as he strode away across the floor. “It’s fine. You want to make sure I leave on time then call me. No. Bye, Tee.”
He hung up, and with a rueful laugh, ran a hand through his hair. “Sorry,” he said. “Sometimes I forget she’s even pushier than I am.”
“Yeah, well, maybe we should head back,” I said. “So you have time to shower and have lunch and . . . whatever else you need to do.”
Miles gave me a faintly disgusted look. “Are you trying to take care of me?”
“No! I’m trying not to die!Youmight not need a babysitter, butIdon’t want to get murdered by your sister.”
We walked back together, him frowning at his phone, me hauling my heavy training bag. He took it from me at the bottom of the stairs, and though it wasn’t his to carry, my arms were too tired to complain. “Hey, so that shower of yours that has good water pressure,” he said as we reached our floor. “Can I use it after you?”
“You can use it first if you like,” I said, pushing through the stairwell door and holding it open for him.
“No, I refuse to steal your hot water. I can wait, I just don’t think I can make myself high-tea presentable with water that barely drips.”
I dug my key from my pocket. “Sure, just come over when you’re ready. I won’t be long.”
“Take your time. I’m not in a hurry.”
A glance at my phone suggested he actually was in a bit of a hurry, but I refused to point this out. In no universe was Miles Callahan’s media schedule my problem, and even if it had been, I would rather fail that job than have him ask again whether I was trying to take care of him.
