“Hey, no worries, tackling big personalities is part of the job too. Although, I admit that was a first – another player having strong opinions about how I should be coachingyou.”
“Yeah.” I glanced up to where Miles had been, the court now empty but for the fluttering shadows of the surrounding trees.
When I looked back, Danny had leaned close again, proppedon his elbows. “Something you want to tell me? Because if you want to try something new, you should say so.”
“I don’t know,” I said, running a hand down my face like I could wipe away my confusion. “He’s not wrong, you know, about the overthinking. I just don’t know if not being wrong makes him right.”
“No,” Danny agreed. “And this is hardly the time in the season to be changing your game plan. You got to the second round at Roland Garros and perhaps if you hadn’t run into Callahan, you might have gone further. That’s big. This has been your best season in years, so you must be doing something right.”
“But then I lost early at Nottingham, so maybe the French Open was a one off.”
Danny spread his hands in a shrug. “And maybe it wasn’t and you just had a bad day at Nottingham. It happens.”
“Yeah, it just seems to happen to me all the time.” I dropped onto the court, leaning back against the net post. “What changed, Danny? Four years ago, before that car . . . I could beat him then. Why can’t I beat him now? Has he changed that much? Or did I?”
With a sigh, Danny lowered his chin onto his hands. “I don’t know, Mat. His game hasn’t changed much, he’s just gotten better at it. That counts for a lot, but then you’ve gotten better too. You hit harder, you serve bigger, and on the practice court your shots are precise and consistent and you have so many different weapons at your disposal, you just . . . can’t seem to bring it all together consistently when you’re in a match.” He shrugged. “Maybe you do need to think less instead of more, I don’t know, but you brought me on to regiment your game and itispaying off, just maybe not as fast or as well as you’d hoped.”
“Well, if he didn’t change, I must have.”
“You had an accident, Mat.”
“Four years ago! Almost five.”
He lifted his hands in surrender. “Hey, if you want to give his advice a try, we can do that, just keep in mind that what works for one player doesn’t always work for others.”
“He’s not telling me to play like him though.”
“That’s true. If ever there was a player who plotted out every step like one big game of chess, it’s Miles Callahan.”
“Yeah.” I glanced up at the sun-drenched court, still empty of Miles – Miles who had even complained when his carefully-planned flirtation hadn’t worked on me.
For a long minute, I stared at nothing, so many thoughts swirling that they seemed to cancel each other out. Danny cleared his throat. “Well,” he said, leaning back with the familiar creaking of his office chair. “Think it over and let me know, huh? But, Mat?”
“Yeah?”
“Be careful, all right? Callahan might play nice while he thinks you’re a poor little problem he can solve, but he hated you as a junior because he couldn’t win, and there’s no way he really wants a top-tier Matteo Russo back getting in his way.”
The truth of those words hollowed my stomach, a reminder that no matter how hot we were for one another right now, at the end of the day we would always be rivals. There was only ever one winner in tennis.
I packed up and walked back after that, and though I was unsure what I was going to say, I stopped at Miles’s door and knocked before I could doubt myself. Footsteps sounded within, and a few seconds later Miles pulled open the door. He’d changed into a ratty t-shirt, the sort that had a myriad of small holes and had faded to an indeterminate colour, yet somehow it was hotter than anything else I’d seen him wear. Making no move to invite me in, he leaned his shoulder against the doorframe. “Hey.”
“Hey, sorry about that,” I said, glancing at my feet. “With Danny.”
“You’re sorry? I’m the one who lost my temper at your coach.” Miles rubbed one brow as though trying to ease tension. “It really wasn’t my place.”
“No, but . . . well, I guess it was nice to know you believe in me enough to . . .”
“Swear at your coach?”
I breathed out a soft laugh. “Yeah. And, uh, while I don’tlikethat you can see my flaws because that’s massively embarrassing, I appreciate . . .” I winced at how stupid this was going to sound, and for a brief moment thought about just walking away. But Miles wouldn’t, so I stood my ground even in the face of his un-blinking stare. “I appreciate that you see me,” I finished. “That you noticed. You know, the overthinking thing. Which . . . I’m doing again right now.”
His stare softened into a regretful smile. “It’s not a flaw, Mat,” he said. “It’s a trauma response.”
Simple words, yet they stole all the air, like he’d pulled a rug from beneath my feet. Or turned a broken cog back into place.
“And you’re welcome,” he added. “I’m going to rest up tonight though. Since I’m playing tomorrow.”
“Yeah,” I said, my mind still spinning on his words. “Of course. I just wanted to check in.”
