“And that dropshot in the fourth! I mean the whole match was a joy to watch.”
“Thanks.” I grinned as my legs slowly pumped the pedals. Around me, the chatter of people coming and going from the gym held the hum of early-tournament possibility, perfectly suiting my energetic mood. “So, when can I expect your notes?”
Danny laughed. “Steady on! You just beat bloody Marco Bicchieri for the biggest win of your career. They’re already calling it the upset of the tournament and half the draw hasn’t even played yet!”
My grin widened, the whole thing still feeling surreal. “Right, but there’s always something to improve, isn’t there?”
“Nature of the game,” Danny agreed, “but I think you can give yourself a few hours grace to enjoy this, okay?”
“Yeah. Thanks, Danny.”
“You’re welcome, kid. But Mat? Play nice with the press, all right?”
Once I’d showered and made my way to the press room, I was surprised to find it looked the same as it always did, all dark curtains and pale lights, synthetic carpet and boards emblazoned with sponsorship logos.
Eyes and cameras turned my way as I entered, theclick click clickof my life becoming snapshots always unnerving. I took my seat at the table, telling myself to relax. This time I deserved to be there. Had earned the interest.
The first question came from a Brit in the front row. “So, how does it feel to have beaten the world number three on centre court at Wimbledon?”
Sometimes, they truly asked the stupidest questions. “Good?” was my first little snip, but I was not going to let them paint me as the bitchy gay player, so I forced out a laugh. “Honestly, I’m still in shock so you’ll have to bear with me.”
They asked about the match. They asked about my preparation coming in. They asked about what I felt had changed. And because someone always asked about my accident or my sexuality or both, someone asked whether it had just taken me this long to fully recover.
“No,” was my first, knee-jerk reaction. “I’ve been fully recovered for years and haven’t had anything above a niggling injury since, but . . .” I trailed off. And staring out at the small sea of expectant faces and microphones and cameras, I thought of howMiles had leaned in his doorway and called my overthinking a trauma response. “But . . . also yes,” I admitted, the words feeling overlarge for my chest. “I’m not sure I’m ready to talk about it, but I think perhaps it’s been a longer journey than I thought, I just . . . needed someone to show me that.”
How hungrily they would have eaten up the story of Miles Callahan helping me break through the protective cage I’d built for myself. How intensely they would have speculated and questioned, headlines generating themselves as everyone penned the perfect comeback tale. It was a media storm I couldn’t put Miles through even had I wanted to share the story, but sitting there in the wake of the biggest win of my career, I realised I didn’t. After all these years, having my success placed solely on his shoulders would have been a backhanded slap, all my hard work suddenly meaningless. Whatever hand he’d had in my win today, I still needed the success to be mine.
Once I was free of the press, I headed back toward the player gym, desperately in need of a long massage and an enormous meal – a plan that was brought up short by the sight of Miles striding toward the practice courts with his bag slung over his shoulder. Without his usual retinue, he looked oddly alone in the busy space, and I realised this was our first time seeing one another at a tournament as friends. Almost I expected him to smirk or sneer, like it had all been a dream and this was the old Miles, but at sight of me his face split into an enormous grin.
“Matteo, hey, congratulations.” He offered his hand in the traditional greeting of our sport – a cross between a handshake and a high-five that ended with us bumping shoulders. It was the bro-iest of greetings, yet it was also everything, because we’d never stopped one another in passing at a tournament before. “I just arrived,” he added, adjusting the strap of his bag. “I was going tocome in earlier and watch your game here, but good thing I didn’t given how much I shouted at the TV.”
“Bet that upset your roommate,” I laughed.
“Oh, that cat gave up on me days ago.” He tried to suppress a still broadening grin and failed. “Knew you could do it.”
“So you’ve said! Should I get you a badge? Just says ‘always right’?”
Miles leaned closer and, lowering his voice, said, “I think you can give me something far more interesting later, yeah?”
“Yeah,” I agreed, failing to quash my own grin. “I can definitely do that.”
“FUCK!” MILES CRIED, pressing a hand to the bedhead to steady himself as he came. “Fuck!” Letting out a raw, guttural groan of appreciation, he dropped onto his elbows, giving me an excellent view down the curve of his back. Such a sight, along with the sound of him loving this, had its usual effect, and I dug my fingers into his hips. With a few more hard thrusts, I brought myself to the precipice I always both wanted to reach and didn’t in equal measure.
“Damn that was good,” he said when I was done. “You should win more often.”
“Feels different, does it?” I laughed, and after a final, softening thrust just because I could, I pulled out. “Winner’s dick.”
Miles dropped face first onto the bed, having to turn his head to say, “Not different, but you went hard. I thought you might be too tired, but goddamn.”
I smacked his arse. “Well, you said you play best after getting railed, so I’m just doing a public service.”
“Publicservice? I don’t think my opponents would agree with that.”
He could have pointed out that with the loss at Queen’s my dick had hardly proved useful yet in that regard, but doubting themselves aloud was something only people who weren’t Miles Callahan did.
Instead, he lay stretched out beneath me and, with a satisfied sigh, wiggled his arse. I leaned down and snapped my teeth like I might take a bite out of him. “Are you trying to make me want to go again?”
“Hmm, it was pretty hot,” he said, the words half muffled by his arms. “Although it hasn’t been ten minutes yet.”
