“It’s been said before and will be again that Callahan is like a freight train,” one of the commentators said while Miles pulled the sweatband from his head and ran a hand through damp hair. “If you let him get up to speed, he’s almost impossible to stop and Dimitriou couldn’t find a way to rock him today.”
“Did well though, the American was just unplayable. Let’s hear what he made of it. He’s on court now with Leah Bern.”
Having gathered his bags, Miles had joined the waiting interviewer. With his hair damp and his smile triumphant, he looked all too much like the Miles Callahan who had left me barely standing in the bathroom the previous day, a memory I’d been repeatedly trying and failing not to think about, as I’d been trying and failing not to think about what the fuck it meant.
“Miles,” Leah Bern said. “First, congratulations, that was a commanding performance . . .”
“It sure was,” I muttered, adjusting myself in my shorts.
“. . .great to see you back here again. Tell us how that match felt for you.”
She held out the microphone as Miles nodded. “Yeah, it’s really nice to be back,” he said, the drawl of his accent more pronounced when he was playing the part. “I’ve always enjoyed Queen’s. It’s great to be part of our sport’s long tradition by coming to such a historic tournament. As for today’s match, it felt really good. I played well, I thought, especially since Alex is always a challenge. Great to be off to such a positive start.”
“Well, you certainly made it look easy. Though it’s never easy, is it? Why don’t you talk us through your preparations for a match like this?”
“Such a useless question,” I said with a sigh as Miles launchedinto full-on tennis speak. Most players tended to ramble slightly off topic for such questions, but Miles was always polished and to the point, and as he talked about resting and training and taking every match seriously, I wondered if this was Tina again, his ease in front of the camera something that had been schooled into him.
As with all the finest tennis speak, he managed to say something that sounded meaningful but gave nothing away, ending on a smile that looked equally coached.
“Now,” the interviewer said, “we’ve noticed your player box is empty today.”
The words were barely out before a broad, sheepish smile lit Miles’s features, and he said something the microphone didn’t catch.
“What was that?” the interviewer asked, holding it out.
“I thought you might,” Miles repeated for all to hear.
I found myself grinning, though my stomach flip-flopped as I waited to see how honest he meant to be.
“Yes, it didn’t take very keen eyes,” Leah Bern said as the camera cut briefly to footage of the empty seats. “Will your team be with you for your next match?”
“No, they won’t be joining me. Nor at Wimbledon.”
“Not even for Wimbledon? Did someone book out all the flights from America for the next three weeks?”
Miles laughed along with the crowd, a hint of awkwardness in the way he crossed his arms and shrugged. “I don’t know, I haven’t checked. But don’t worry, they haven’t abandoned me. I’m, uh, trying something new.”
“Well, hopefully there’ll be time for you to fill us in on what that is,” she said when Miles showed no intention of giving further details, “but for now, congratulations on making the second round. Miles Callahan, ladies and gentlemen!”
The crowd cheered, and as Miles thanked them for their support, someone handed him a marker to sign the camera lens. It was a strange custom and I’d never understood why we did it – no match ever truly complete until the winner had signed the camera. Some players wrote fun statements or drew pictures, while others just signed. Miles had always been a signer, yet when he stepped close, he paused a moment, staring right into the camera. Into me. A small smile flickered and he set the pen to the plexiglass.
Hope you were watching,he wrote, and walked away grinning.
“A message to his team, perhaps,” one of the commentators said as the feed lingered on Miles’s words.
That was the most sensible conclusion, and I turned off the TV like that might turn off all other ideas. I had a hundred better things to do than try to guess what was going through Miles Callahan’s head and it was time I started doing them.
As I pulled myself off the saggy couch, my phone buzzed.
Scrunchie
were you?
The words stared out from the screen as he had stared through the camera mere moments before, and I found myself grinning.Maybe, I wrote back.
Scrunchie
how’d i do?
