Callahan was already in the plush waiting area at Court Philippe Chatrier when I arrived, slowly pacing back and forth, headphones on. He nodded at the sight of me, a tiny, amused smile flickering on his lips. He looked comfortable, untroubled by either the big venue or the occasion, and in a small knot at the end of the hallway his team chatted amongst themselves – support I lacked as I waited alone, tense and grim. A pair of eels seemed to be wrestling in my stomach.
When the tournament staff gestured me into position, I desperately wanted to hit pause so I could remember how to breathe, but the noise of the crowd was like a riptide and I could not escape.Time spun on, slipping from my hold. It seemed barely a second before an announcer Frenched his way through an introduction and I had to tear my feet from the carpet and walk, heart thudding like a drum.
“Représentant l’Australie, Matteo Russo!”
I stepped out as applause rang through the stadium, the crowd so large that even the mildest cheer thundered. It shivered through me, the atmosphere intense. Crushing. I lifted a hand in acknowledgement, though every movement felt like it was being made by someone else.
Get a grip, I told myself as I walked to my chair.This isn’t new, you’ve done this before. Lots of times.And I had, but not on centre court at Roland Garros. And nothing this big for years. And this one mattered. I needed the ranking points. Needed the money. Needed to prove I wasn’t just the gay disappointment.
As I set my bag down, Callahan stepped out and the roar that met his arrival could have shaken leaves off their trees. I forced myself to focus on my preparations—water, racquet, towels, electrolytes—trying not to think about how many people were watching, or who I was facing, and failing at both.
You’ve played him before. You’ve beaten him before –words I needed to hold like a shield.
I was at the net before him. A grim smile to the waiting umpire, and I jogged on the spot, warming up while Callahan took his time organising his towels and drinks. Eventually, he took off his headphones and strolled out to join us.
“All right, same as before,” the umpire said, beginning his run through of the match conditions. Line calling system, towel boxes, video review requests – the words washed over me, all meaningless, until he held out a coin to Miles. “Heads or tails?”
With a shake of his head and a nod my way, Miles passed. Itwas a simple act of sportsmanship, but it pissed me off – he a man with plenty throwing me crumbs because it made no difference. He was going to win either way.
“Heads,” I said, and the coin went up.
The umpire bent over as it landed. “Tails.” He looked to Callahan. “Serve or receive?”
“Receive.”
“All right, a photo that side, then this side please.”
The chair umpire stepped back, leaving us to pose for the pre-match photo. We turned shoulder to shoulder, and Miles’s fingers lightly brushed my back as I forced a smile.
“Good luck,” he murmured as we turned the other way to pose again for the faceless cameras. “You’re going to need it.”
“Fuck off,” I hissed back.
Callahan shrugged as he stepped away, his grin lacking all humour. “May the best man win.”
I ESCAPED THE court as fast as I could, thoughts spinning into a panicked tangle. Fuck. I wanted to scream, an instinct stayed only because cameras would still be on me. Fuck!Fuck!
The first set had gone exactly as anyone would have predicted. Callahan was a force and my game plan had failed. He’d seen everything coming. But while losing was one thing, losing to him was quite another, so when, at the start of the second set, he’d smiled at me like he was humouring a child, my chest had flooded with fury. I had been the better junior. I had been called world number one in waiting. I had won the junior slams and risen through the pro ranks. And then with a screech of tyres and a shattering of glass it had all been over. The career that ought to have been mine had become his.
For half a set that fury had fuelled me and I’d had him. I’dbroken his serve. I’d held with ease. I’d felt the energy in the crowd shift—the excitement of an underdog putting up a fight—but anger was a terrible motivator, unstable and exhausting, and by the end of the set my fears had crashed back in and I’d fucked it all up. The third set had just been embarrassing.
Now, I was half sweat and half shakes as I sped into the locker room. I skipped my cool-down and went straight to the shower, wanting nothing but to get out of there as fast as possible. The hot water helped, taking the edge off my tension and sluicing off the sweat, but as it washed down the drain like any chance for those ranking points, I was left with a heavy, bitter disappointment.
I had dried and dressed and was shoving everything into my bag when Callahan walked in. He’d had to stick around for his on-court interview and hadn’t even changed his sweat-laden shirt, and it pissed me off that it only made him hotter.
“You going to admit it now?” he said, dropping his bags.
“Admit what?”
“That I’m better than you.”
I snorted, pulling my gaze from the way his shirt clung. “Still just richer.”
Scowl fixed, he stalked toward me, all sweat and muscle. His infuriating extra three inches made him imposing at the other end of a tennis court, but even more when he stood close enough that I could feel the heat radiating off his body. Those inches forced me to look up, too, such that I felt like a mulish child as I lifted my chin to meet his glare.
“You’re such a bitter shit, Russo,” he said, his upper lip curling into a sneer. “It just eats you up that you never made that comeback, doesn’t it?”
“You have no idea,” I laughed, too raw to pretend. “But that doesn’t make it untrue that you have all the help in the world.When I broke your serve in the second, you had a whole fucking team to give you advice between games, and what did I have, huh?”
