“We were wondering if we could get your autograph, and maybe a photo?”
“Of course.”
Notebooks were thrust out, and while Miles found a page to sign and wrote them both a little message, every eye in the restaurant seemed to turn our way. By the time they’d each snapped a selfie with him, a middle-aged man had added himself to the group and requested his own autograph, followed by a woman who told Miles that he was her son’s favourite player.
Once the lady had thanked him for a fifth time and finally walked away, Miles grimaced at me across the table. “Sorry.”
“No need,” I said. “I knew the dangers when I agreed to dinner. Though that was more people than I expected in so small a place.”
His shrug held a hint of apology despite my reassurance. “Happens more around major tournaments.”
“Well, hopefully it doesn’t happen at your house. Might be awkward while I’m fucking you in your pool.”
THE PLACE WAS almost empty by the time we left, the only remaining customers a couple with their heads together over thetable and the two young women who had asked for Miles’s autograph, laughing and taking pictures of their cocktails.
The night had chilled, and as we stepped out into the street both Miles and I made disgusted sounds and pulled on our jackets. “Whatever they say, I’ll never believe Brits when they call this summer,” he said.
“Thatwe can agree on. It’s spring at best.”
“You say that like we disagree on most things, but I don’t think we do.” He nodded along the footpath, empty but for a man leaning against a car smoking a few doors down. “Let’s walk for a bit before calling a cab. I need to shift some of this food around before it solidifies in my stomach.”
We started along the street, an amble all I could manage after three hours on court, a glorious fingering, and far too much food. “I am going to sleep very well tonight,” I said.
“Me too,” he agreed, though his eyes were bright, and he led the way along the street with singular purpose.
At the end of the road, the footpath branched into a short, brick-lined tunnel, one that passed through a building into a laneway beyond in a very old-European-city way. There didn’t seem to be anything particularly interesting about it though, so when he crossed the street and led me into it, I asked, “Are we going somewhere in particular?”
“No, I just—” He reached across, pressing a splayed hand to the bricks to bar my way, “—really want to kiss you.”
Having thrown a glance back to be sure we were alone, he stepped in close. For a fluttering heartbeat, I could only stare at the notch between his collarbones before he lifted my chin with a finger – a man cracking me open. Our eyes met, his owning a look of awe and wonder and fear as though my own tangled emotions had been splashed across his face. But we were both caught in thismoment together and he bent his head to mine. “I’ve been wanting to do this all night,” he whispered against my mouth as his eyelids fluttered softly closed.
It wasn’t a hard kiss, fast and full of need, but one that gently parted my lips, every moment a question, a promise, a hope. His tongue found mine, softly questing, and as each tiny movement flayed me open, I gave myself over, wanting this, wanting him, wanting to live in this dream where the ground shifted unsteadily beneath my feet.
A small part of me warned that I had just drunk far too much, but the rest of me criedyesas I slid my hand over the smooth skin of his cheek, holding his face like that might keep him here forever. And as he pressed me against the wall like he couldn’t bear even the smallest space between us, the thought running through my head was that I didn’t want to wait until next year to do this again.
Heels clicked on the pavement, footsteps drawing a murmur of conversation close. With a sharp breath, Miles tore himself away as the young women from the restaurant approached.
“Hey, don’t mind us,” one of them said with an appreciative grin. The other, a little unsteady on her heels, lifted her hands to make a heart at us. Arm in arm, they walked on by, giggling.
In their wake, the night lacked air. Miles shoved his hands into his pockets, shoulders hunching like he was trying to shrink out of sight. Only once they’d disappeared did he risk a glance my way. Clear his throat. “I’ll call us a cab.”
And I said, “yeah, sure,” because what else was there to say?
Thirteen
I WOKE TO the sound of wind buffeting the glass and the repeated buzzing of my phone. By the light sneaking in around the curtains, it wasn’t early, but it was also far too early and I wanted to stick my head under the pillow. Instead, I glared at my phone’s lock screen. A trio of messages had Miles’s name on them, but they’d come from one of his social accounts. The most recent said,Please get back to me as soon as you receive this!Before it was,We’ve got a problem, andHi Matteo, sorry to contact you like this. It’s Tina.
The app took far too long to open, but suddenly very awake, I soon typed back,Hi Tina, what’s up?
Oh thank god one of you is awake. Would it be all right if I called you? It might be easier than typing.
Sure.
I gave her my number and asked her to give me a few minutes because I didn’t feel up to a conversation until I had pulled on proper clothes. I had only just achieved a clean shirt when my phone rang. “Hello?”
“Hi! Matteo?”
“Yeah,” I said, staring at the shadowy mess that was my bedroom floor. “Isn’t it really late there?”
