“Looks good. And I’m sorry, but I had to ask.”
Because people always did.
“Now, make sure you think each point through,” Danny said when I didn’t answer. “You know his game. Use it against him.”
With a nod, I picked up my racquet and headed back to the baseline. Miles was bouncing a ball while he waited at the other end, and I lifted a hand to show I was ready. We hadn’t discussed a plan, but since he was preparing to serve, I made ready to receive, only for him to almost blow me off the court with a heavy serve straight down the T.
“All right then,” I muttered to myself as he prepared to go again.
For the next ten minutes, he served and I returned, trying to win as many points against him as I could. Danny was right, I did know his game—I knew his clutch serve was out wide, knew to stay away from his damaging forehand, knew that his height gave him greater reach than most players but also slowed him down, making unexpected drop shots one of his weaknesses—yet every time I thought through a point and tried to execute it, he was either already there to counter, or I tensed up and slammed the ball into the net.
“Fuck!” I shouted as I shanked another ball long.
“Code violation, audible obscenity warning, Mr Russo!” Miles called from the other end of the court.
I huffed an irritable laugh and strode off for a quick break, collapsing on the sideline beside Danny. “He’s like playing against a wall.”
“That’s why he’s number four,” Danny laughed back. “But even though you can’t beat him, playing him is good practice.”
“Hecanbeat me,” Miles said, and I glanced up to find him approaching around the net, scowling faintly.
“Yeah, sure,” I said. “Thanks.”
“I mean it.” He halted out of Danny’s view and folded his arms. “You used to, and you still can.”
“I’m not that player anymore, Miles.”
“No shit. Because you let the fear get you, just like with the stupid meat. And now you’re looking for answers you’ll never find because you already have them.”
I met his determined stare for the few seconds I could bear to, before turning back to Danny. “Any thoughts on what you saw?”
Ignored, Miles huffed out an angry breath, but having just taken an on-court thrashing, I wasn’t in the mood to find his annoyance anything but deeply satisfying.
“From what I could see, you’re looking good,” Danny said, the connection glitching his somewhat indecisive shrug. “You’re moving well and you’re hitting through the ball, you just need to keep working on thinking your way through—”
“Bullshit!” Miles lunged for the phone, scooping it up to scowl directly into the camera. “Have you met Mat, Mr Lovett?”
For a moment, Danny stared through the screen from his drab home office in silence. Then, “Excuse me? What do you mean by that?”
“Miles.” I held out my hand. “Just give me the phone.”
“In a minute,” he said, holding up a finger. “Let me explain myself first, since he asked.”
I was tempted to snatch it out of his hand, but settled for glaring as Miles turned toward the shade so he could better see the older man on the other end of the call. “What I mean, Mr Lovett,” he said, his tone all bratty American wanker. “Is that you keep saying Mat needs to think through points, needs to think and plan and play like its chess and think, think, think, and while that might be good advice for someone like me, it’s shit advice for him.”
“Callahan, you’re a damn fine player, but trust me to know—”
“To know him?” Miles interrupted. “If you knew him, you’d know that Mat can overthink himself out ofanything. You could put a free meal in front of him and he would overthink himself into starving. He doesn’t need more thinking. What he needs is to fucking relax and learn to trust his instincts again.”
On the other end of the call, Danny sighed. “Instincts aren’t enough to make good players, Callahan, you know that. Now, if you don’t mind, you’re wasting my time with my player. If Mat is displeased with my work, he can tell me so. Until then, I’m going to continue doing the job he brought me on to do.”
“Right, you do that. Overthink him into fucking obscurity because you have the mental flexibility of a concrete block.”
“Goodbye, Miles.”
Miles thrust the phone into my hand so viciously that I almost dropped it. Then without so much as a second glance, he spun away, storming off the court with a collection of expletives that would have earned him a hefty fine during any match. I watched him go, watched him shove his racquet into his bag and swing it onto his shoulder, striding to the gate without looking back, like he’d just lost a match and every camera was on him. The urge to call after him bubbled in my chest, choked off by a combination of annoyance, confusion, and Danny. He was still watching me from the palm of my hand, and when at last I looked back, a deep, concerned frown had contracted his brows.
“Sorry about that,” I said.
