“What can I say? He’s gorgeous. And . . .” He leaned forward conspiratorially. “I think maybe he knows how to have a good time.”
Thankfully, a waitress arrived, saving me from having to come up with an answer, and by the time we’d ordered, Arnaud had lost interest in the American superstar on the TV. “So,” he said. “Why did I find a tennis player in a laundromat rather than at Roland Garros?”
“Because even tennis players have to do laundry.”
“You don’t have people who do that for you?”
“Not if you can’t afford to travel with a team. Or stay at a fancy enough hotel.”
An admission certain to rob him of any interest in me, but the desire for people to understand how tennis really worked always won.
Arnaud’s brow wrinkled. “Isn’t the prize millions?”
“For grand slams sure, for the few who can win one. The rest of us make do with quite a lot less. And we pay for almost everything ourselves – coach, physio, airfares, accommodation, food, health insurance, gear if you don’t have a sponsor. So if you don’t have a rich family, it can be—” I stopped, forcing a laugh. “You know what? Let’s not talk about it. Why wereyouat the laundromat?”
“That’s a much easier answer.” His grimace was apologetic. “My apartment doesn’t have a laundry.”
Our drinks arrived, his an espresso, mine a black tea because I’d kicked my coffee habit when I couldn’t fit it into my budget. On the TV, the camera was lingering on a close-up of Miles’s face as he towelled it dry.
“See? Gorgeous. Look at that jaw,” Arnaud said, turning in his chair. “He was on the cover ofL’officiela few months ago. He has, uh, how do you say . . . come-fuck-me eyes.”
I heard the words but was caught watching as Hernandez served onto the line yet somehow Miles still reached it, turning all that power back with a blistering cross-court forehand. Hernandez returned it even harder, but when Miles was switched on, he was like a wall.
“Will you beat him?” Arnaud asked when I brought my attention back from the TV.
“Hard to believe, but I’ve beaten him before. A few times.” I forced a self-deprecating smile that hurt more than expected. “When we were juniors though. I beat him for both the Australian and the US Open title.”
Arnaud lowered his cup so fast he lost a splash of coffee over the side. “You won the US Open?Andthe Australian Open?”
“Just the junior titles, but yeah.”
“Don’t say it like it’s nothing! It’s very impressive. And perhaps you will beat him again.” He tilted his head toward the TV, where Miles had just dropped into his courtside chair, towel in hand, long legs spread wide. “Either way, I will enjoy the show. Two gorgeous men duelling it out is better than just one. You will make a very nice pair.”
My first reaction ought to have been gratification. Instead, it was horror at being coupled with Miles Callahan. We’d comethrough juniors at the same time, and though we’d never been friends, there had been a deeply embarrassing couple of weeks at a training camp when my horny teenage dick had been painfully obsessed – a fact I would take to my grave.
“I’ll do my best to make it a long match then, just for you,” I said, lifting my cup in salute.
“Ah, yes please. Many shirt changes.”
Rather than explain why I never changed my shirt on court, I changed the subject by asking him about Paris, and we spent the rest of our drinks talking about the city, Miles Callahan forgotten.
When we returned to the laundromat, my machine had completed its cycle, and while I separated out everything that couldn’t go in the dryer, Arnaud emptied his dry clothes into a patterned laundry bag. Amid the lingering scent of warm sheets, he leaned against the machines and watched me.
“I don’t know what tennis players do after wins other than laundry,” he said, flicking dark hair out of his face and smiling down at me. “But if you’re free, you could come over tonight.”
I had been trying not to think about the possibility he would ask while absolutely thinking about the possibility he would ask. At eye height now, his tight little shorts left nothing to the imagination, yet my imagination sped away all the same, filling the evening with the sight of him kneeling in front of me, as well as not one but two glorious and much needed fucks.
He lifted a questioning brow. “Well?”
“YOU SAID WHAT?” Katie stopped throwing things out of her tennis bag to stare at me.
“I said no, and maybe another time, and we exchanged numbers,” I repeated and set her clean clothes beside her.
Katie pinched the bridge of her nose. We’d travelled together often enough that I hadn’t spared her any details, and now she didn’t spare me her withering look. “Butwhy?”
“Because random hookups with cute French guys is only for players who can afford good food and personal trainers, or at least to have their fucking coach travel with them. I need to eat and rest and focus on the next match or I’ll never be one of those players.”
Halfway through my speech, Katie had rolled her eyes. By the end, she grimaced and went back to sorting her bag. “I know, but you also have to live, Mat. And who knows, he might have fed you afterwards.”
