I couldn’t watch.
“Looks like his head just isn’t in the game today,” one of the commentators said as I cleaned the apartment instead. “A far cry from the Callahan we saw in the first round. He’s going to have to dig deep to turn this set around.”
Miles didn’t turn it around. He lost the first set, and went down a break early in the second. A week ago, I would have sat gleefully glued to the TV, enjoying every moment of his failure. Today, glances at the score were all I could manage.
The moment it was over, I turned off the TV, unable to bear the sight of Kozel talking about his win. So much for having to apologise for enhancing Miles’s game with my dick. I wasn’t up myself enough to think his performance today was my fault, but as the reason he didn’t have a team looking after him, I felt at least somewhat to blame.
Having picked up my phone, I paused, thumbs hovering. I’d never had to send Miles commiserations and wasn’t sure what to say. Katie liked messages that would make her laugh, but the idea of typing ‘ah well, you’re still a world number four dick warmer’ made my entire skin want to shrivel up and crawl away.
In the end, I typed,hey, that was rough. Here if you needcompany during your cool-down, and went back to cleaning the already clean kitchen.
No reply came. Not then and not later, when afternoon crawled into evening. I thought about messaging again to check he was all right, but each time I picked up my phone, I flung it away. Miles was a planner. If he wasn’t messaging me, it was because he didn’t want to and that was fine. No doubt, he’d gotten straight on the phone to his coaching team and was even now packing to move into a fancy hotel, and that was fine too.
Absolutely fine.
Nine
THE FOLLOWING MORNING there was still no message from Miles, but I was determined not to think about it – qualifying started in five days and I had to be ready. Yet on my way to the gym, I slowed outside Miles’s door, listening for sounds of life. I did the same on the way back, covered in sweat, and there was still nothing.
If he wanted something, he would message, I told myself as I went to shower. It wasn’t my place to push or worry. But he had. When I’d stopped answering his messages, he had worried enough to break into my apartment, enough to message Katie and traipse out to the courts to be sure I was all right. Why was this different? Because he didn’t have panic-induced crises like I did? Because he could take care of himself? Perhaps, but he’d also stood outside my door and admitted he wasn’t used to being alone. So, after lunch I muttered, “fuck it” and went to knock on his door.
As the sound faded, a murmur rumbled within. Feet scuffed on the carpet. Then the door opened and there was Miles,everything about him soft and hazy, the sunlight pouring through his windows limning him in gold. It was noon, yet he looked like he’d only just woken, his blond hair tousled and his shirt the worn, faded sort that got slept in. He didn’t smile.
“I’m on a call.”
“Oh, I can come back later,” I said. “Or not, if you prefer.”
I turned to leave, but he gripped my arm. “No, come in. Just . . .” Miles pressed a finger to his lips and pulled the door wide for me to enter.
As I took a few hesitant steps inside, I realised I hadn’t yet been in his apartment. We’d kept defaulting to mine because the shower worked, but now, for the first time, I was standing in Miles Callahan’s personal space. I took in the collection of water bottles neatly lined up on the sink, the large vase of flowers beside the TV, and the feeling of spaciousness he’d achieved through a total lack of clutter. There was no discarded laundry, no dirty plates, no loose tennis gear, just a sleek laptop sitting open on the kitchen bench running a video call.
The man on-screen sat in an elegant kitchen filled with morning sunlight. He had one of those fancy coffee tumblers that looked like a cup within a cup, and despite the hour wore a collared shirt crisply starched. And one glance at his face was all I needed to know I was looking at Mr Callahan senior.
“Miles?” the man snapped, peering irritably into the camera like his son had shrunk. “Are you there?”
“Sorry, Dad,” Miles said, striding over. “Lunch arrived. What were you saying?”
I shot him a bemused look at being called lunch, but Miles just leaned against the bench beside the laptop, where his own far less fancy mug of coffee sat waiting.
“I was saying your serve was sloppy,” Mr Callahan said. “Kozelshould never have gotten a look at so many second serves. You were handing them out like it was his damn birthday.”
I’d been looking for somewhere to sit out of the man’s eyeline, but I spun around at that, barely managing to swallow a shocked ‘the fuck?’. Miles glanced at me, and waved a hand in front of the laptop’s inbuilt camera to show it wasn’t on.
“Miles?” His father heaved a sigh. “Turn on your damn camera, I can’t tell if you’re even there.”
“I’m here and I’m listening,” Miles said. “Just not sure what you want me to say.”
“You could start by explaining yourself.”
Miles started turning his mug on the bench with a slow scraping sound. “What’s to explain? I served poorly. Leo already called me.”
“Good, but he doesn’t tell you what you need to hear. Which is that you’re lazy, Miles, and that match was embarrassing.”
My hands clenched into fists, but I forced myself to swallow a retort. Miles had snapped at Danny for far less, but this was hisdadand I wasn’t even meant to be there let alone listening – anything I said sure to only make things worse. Thinking to give him privacy, I headed for the door as his father went on, “Now you’d better tell me what you plan to do about it. Aside from apologising to Leo and the team and asking them to catch the next flight over.”
“I’m not doing that,” Miles said, hurrying after me to lean his weight on the door, blocking my way.
“What do you mean?” Mr Callahan demanded from the laptop as Miles slid his arm around my waist and pulled me back. “Yesterday’s farce has already proven you can’t handle this on your own.”
