“What’s more important though,” she threw back over her shoulder. “Getting one up on an American or getting laid?”
I glanced at Miles, who raised his brows. “It’s cruel to make me choose,” I groaned. “They’re both so important to me.”
“Wow,” Miles said. “Just wow.” And as we walked on, he jabbed an elbow into my ribs and said, “squirrel,” slurring the sounds together in the thickest accent he could manage.
With a theatrical shudder, I said, “You’re lucky you’re hot.”
On Sunday, we went to a bunch of museums. I had thought that of all the places we could go, a museum was unlikely to contain people who recognised Miles, yet across the course of the day, we were approached by upward of a dozen people requesting an autograph or a photo or both. He took it in his stride, always gracious. And each time, Katie and I would step back and wait while he worked his charm, no one sparing us a glance. Until one of them—having accosted us in an ironwork exhibit of all places—had turned to me afterward and said, “Hey, you’re Matteo Russo, right? Can I get your autograph too?”
“Mine?” I said, too shocked for a more polished response.
“He would be delighted,” Miles said, stepping in to save me from further foot-in-mouth failures. “He’s just too modest for his own good.”
The young man held out his notebook and pen. “Thanks,” he said. “I’ve followed your career since you won the US boy’s title. I didn’t realise you two were friends, though,” he added, glancing at Miles.
“Yeah,” I said. “Well, we’ve known each other for years.”
Seeming to take that as his cue to step away, Miles retreated to where Katie stood laughing at my lack of people skills and, leaning an arm around her shoulder, bent to whisper something in her ear. It was an entirely friendly gesture, the height difference meaning he was treating her more like a post to lean on than anything else, but it struck me as being the first time I’d seen them touch all weekend.
I dragged my attention to the notebook, and having hastily signed, handed it back with a smile that was nothing like the ones Miles could conjure.
“Thanks,” the young man said. “And hey, I just want to say that I think it was really brave of you to come out like you did.”
“Oh. I . . . think it was more stubbornness than bravery, but thank you.”
“Well, it was good for the sport. And for the queer community. You know, to show we belong everywhere. But sorry, I didn’t mean to keep you. Good luck at Wimbledon.”
He walked away without awaiting a reply, which was probably for the best since I wasn’t sure I had one.
Miles was still leaning on Katie’s shoulder when I rejoined them, not that Katie seemed to have noticed. I was probably overthinking it, the gesture nothing, the timing coincidental, though I couldn’t help wishing Miles had heard what the man had said to me.
“Well look at that, you’ve got a fan,” he said, removing his arm as I joined them.
“I’m sure Mat has lots of fans,” Katie said. “Yours just do a lot more fapping over torn out pages ofGQ.”
With a dramatic little retch of disgust, Miles scrunched up his nose. “Oh my god, I did not need that mental image. You’re a monster, Katie Zhang, I hope you know that.”
“Oh, I know,” she said, and I had never seen her look more pleased.
All in all, even with my momentary lapse into overthinking, it was a great weekend. Miles was always so relaxed and present wherever he went, easily pleased despite how dull our plans were compared to what he was used to. He didn’t let us dwell on our upcoming matches either, just calmly told us we would do great whenever it came up, in a tone of unbending steel like he was telling the universe how it would be – a tone he used again when he came to see me off Monday morning.
“I’m not going to wish you luck,” he said, walking in while I was checking the contents of my bag for the fourth time. “Because you don’t need it. You’re going to tear through qualifying.”
“And how do you figure that?” I asked, though his confidence added a spark of excitement to my usual nerves.
He shrugged, a small smile playing about his lips. “I just know.”
IN ANY OTHER situation, I might have been annoyed that he was always right, but for the second grand slam in a row, Katie and I both made it through three rounds of qualifying and the relief was exquisite.
It had been a tough few days, playing Monday then Wednesday then again Thursday morning, each win only making the next more desirable. I’d always been driven, but this time the hunger felt visceral. If I made it to the second round of the main draw again, I wouldn’t have to worry about money for the rest of the season. Might not have to qualify for the US Open. Might be able to keep going a little while longer.
told you so, Miles messaged before I even made it to the shower.how are you planning to celebrate?
I don’t know, I wrote back.I haven’t thought that far ahead. Sleep for a week maybe?
not an option. katie’s going out with some other friends because apparently unlike you she has those
I have friends, arsehole
