“Fuck them,” she said, setting her phone down. “You should invite the cute French guy to sit in your box next match and really give them something to talk about.”
I dropped my phone on the table. “But I don’t want them to talk about anything except my tennis. I don’t want to be just That Gay Player forever.”
She shot me a look, but the TV coverage chose that moment to start a replay of the earlier match between Louise Fosse and Berenice Silvestri, and I sensed escape.
“Oh nice,” Katie said. “Berenice has such a good game.”
“You mean you like it when the camera gets close to her arse.”
“Shhh,” she hissed, settling on the floor to stretch. “It’s the same thing and you know it.”
PLAYING ONE’S BEST needed not only good food and training, but also good sleep. Food could be bought, but despite turning in early, I lay awake staring at the strange ceiling. Having a different ceiling to stare at every week was as much a part of tennis as the sweat, yet I still hated it. And someone down the hall was having a party. Loud music vibrated through the walls, and imagining smashing their sound system wasn’t helping me get to sleep. Nor was thinking that wherever Miles Callahan was staying, he wouldn’t be kept up by loud music. God, the man was infuriating. Come-fuck-me eyes? More like come-punch-meface. He could talk the humble tennis talk as well as anyone, but unlike most, it failed to fully paper over the insufferable size of his ego.
What I wouldn’t give to send him packing in the second round of a grand slam, and wipe that self-satisfied smile from his face.
Two
WE LEFT THE apartment early the next day, having booked a session on one of the outside practice courts. The park at Roland Garros was humming when we arrived, fans already gathering for the day’s play, though no one looked twice at us as we made our way through the crowd. Clay crunched as we stepped onto our designated court and dropped our bags.
“Let’s keep the warm-up quick, I want to practice my slice,” Katie said, grabbing a racquet from her bag and heading for the baseline.
Worn out from the previous day’s match, three qualifying rounds and the worst sleep I’d had since arriving, it took a while to find my usual rhythm. For some people, competition was everything, but I had always loved training almost as much, loved drills and morning runs and aiming for my spots on an empty court. It cleared my mind of every other thought.
While Katie and I worked, early spectators wandered by, sometimes stopping to watch for a few minutes before walking on. Yet as the hour drained, the noise steadily rose, the audiencearound our court growing from a smattering of onlookers to a thick crowd. Mildly curious who had booked the court next, I glanced around and caught sight of Miles fucking Callahan, curse I could not shake, trailing members of his sizeable entourage and a trio of security guards – two of whom had to wade through the crowd carving him a path. Not that he seemed to mind the attention, pausing at the gate to sign tennis balls and autograph books. He posed for selfies too, plying that easy smile like it was just another well-practiced shot.
“Mat?”
I turned to find Katie gesturing that she was done. We had a few minutes left, though it didn’t feel like it with Callahan’s team already on the court opening their bags.
Determined not to be bullied out of the way, I took my time serving my last few balls before joining Katie near the fence. “I think I’ll head to the gym for a bit,” she said, bag already over her shoulder. “Keep my legs moving. Might see you for lunch?”
“Sure.” I started packing away my racquets. “And if for some reason I miss you before your match, good luck, huh?”
“Yeah.” She hitched up a determined smile. “Catch you later.” And dodging Callahan’s coaching team, she slipped out the gate and away through the crowd.
Miles had finally extricated himself from his fans and was now taking out a racquet, which at least meant I wouldn’t have to push past him as I made my escape. I shoved my last racquet away and pulled the zips, swinging my bag onto my shoulder as a footstep scuffed beside me.
“Morning, Russo. A day earlier than I was expecting to see you, too.”
I looked up to Callahan’s amused smile. And it was up – a rare thing at six foot two to have to look up to anyone, but three incheshad always made far too much difference. “Callahan,” I said. “You could have avoided that by booking a different court.”
“And here I thought you could do with some good press after yesterday.”
“Oh, so this is a pity chat? Fuck off, Miles.”
“So happy to see me!” For a moment, he smiled like he’d unexpectedly run into an old friend, before folding his arms and letting that smile slip into a smirk. “Are you hoping tomorrow will be just like old times? You know, instead of recent times. Did you even win a set off me last match?”
The urge to punch him was strong, but somehow, I restrained myself. Annoyingly, Arnaud had been right. Miles was, objectively, gorgeous. He was a graceful, long-limbed six-foot-five made of lithe muscle, with a jawline worth killing for. Add a light, infectious smile, thick brows and an untamed crop of dark-blond hair that gave him the vibe of a tortured poet, and he may as well have been drawn directly from a secret folder deep in my brain labelledEverything Mat Finds Hot.
Another truth I would take to my grave.
I forced a dismissive shrug. “I’m still the only one standing here who’s lifted a grand slam trophy. Two, in fact! While you were just my runner-up.”
He couldn’t hide the flash of irritation, but managed his own light shrug. “And yet I turned out better.”
“Better? Bullshit. You just have more money.”
Callahan rolled his eyes. “Oh, come on, money doesn’t buy wins.”
