“All right,” I said with a faint shrug, keeping the words light. “Let’s do it.”
Because putting Danny off another day wouldn’t change anything, but choosing to believe in myself might.
THE STRING OF fine weather had given way to an overcast day, the sort that kept threatening rain but never actually getting around to it. Despite that, it was oppressively warm, even the walk to the courts enough to make sweat dampen my brow.
“Right,” he said as we set down our bags. “Let’s warm-up and have a hit to start. Nothing fancy.”
“Yes, sir, Mr Coach,” I said in an attempt to ease the tension that felt like elastic wrapped around my every limb. It didn’t help. Neither did his grin, though he seemed to enjoy the title.
When we took to the court, we started with a hit that should have loosened me up but only wound my tension tighter. It was no different to how we’d hit two days earlier, yet this time I felt like I was being tested and could so easily be found wanting.
“Relax!” Miles called when I pounded a fourth ball into the net.
“You say that like it’s easy!”
“It is! I’m not your damn gym teacher.”
“It’s P.E.”
He bunted a fresh ball into play. “Yeah, we call it that too. You can’t always catch me out with your Australianisms.”
“All right, what about ‘stop carrying on like a pork chop’?” I said, hitting it back.
“That sounds fucking dumb.”
“Yousound fucking dumb!” I laughed, and ripped the next shot past him right down the line.
Miles set his hands on his hips, turning to look at the ball as it bounced off the fence and rolled away. “Is that the secret to getting you to relax? Insult Australian culture?”
“I’m sure you could get me arced up other ways.”
“What the fuck does that mean?”
“You lot don’t say arced up?” I shook my head. “Look, I’m not angry, just disappointed.”
Like someone had hit pause, he suddenly stilled, staring at me from the opposite baseline. “Angry,” he said, racquet hanging forgotten in his hand. “That’s what you said. About that second set at the French. You said you got angry and careless and lucky.”
“Yeah. It works sometimes, just not for long. Unless it’s the right kind of angry.”
Miles strode toward the net, gaze cutting into me. “What do you mean ‘the right kind of angry’?”
“Just that . . .” I looked away through the wire diamonds of the fence, preferring the safety of the overgrown garden with its gently waving greenery. “Anger and fear are too closely linked, I think. For me, I mean. Since the accident.”
“So you mean anger at a partisan French crowd is safe, but anger at me telling you I’m the better player isn’t.”
“Something like that. How’d you know about the crowd?”
He shrugged, staring past me. “Told you I watched your first-round match. They were really against you.”
“The joy of French crowds,” I muttered, but he didn’t seem to hear. A frown was slowly gathering between his brows, and I fought the urge to ask why he was bothering with my problems at all. He had his own shit to deal with, his own loss to look at, but then perhaps that was why he wanted the distraction.
“All right, challenge time,” Miles said abruptly, setting his racquet down so he could adjust his sweatband. “I’m going to serve, and you’re going to break me. Six games, changing ends after three, minimal time between points. This is going to be high intensity, high pressure, right? See if we can switch off your brain for a bit. And if you break my serve, your prize is getting to have me in whatever way you want. Anything at all.”
I laughed, the sound tight. “If you don’t want to fuck again later, you can just say so.”
“No, none of that bullshit. I want you to wreck me after and I wouldn’t make that conditional if I didn’t think you could do this. Belief, yeah?”
“Yeah, sure,” I said, the words ‘wreck me’ tingling their way down my libido. “But even on my best days, you’re still Miles Callahan, current world number four. I can’t just . . . believe that away. Playing you is hard. Breaking you is harder.”
