It felt safe falling back into our easy patterns, this a friendship built on the mutual needs of sex and tennis and nothing more. Simple and straightforward. And because that’s how I needed it to stay, I climbed off the bed and headed to the bathroom without a word.
Having cleaned up, I returned only to lean against the door-frame. Looking at him lying there watching me was hardly easier, but it meant I couldn’t be tempted to give in to any of the things I wanted. Couldn’t be gathered into his arms and held like this meant something.
“Come watch me play tomorrow,” he said, propping his head up on one hand.
“I always watch you play, don’t worry, I won’t miss it.”
“No, I mean, sit in my box.”
“In your box? No!” I cried, half laughing. “That’s a terrible idea.”
“Why? It’s weird having it empty.”
“Better empty than having the press ask whyI’mthere of all people. You should ask Emily to sit in it.”
Miles rolled onto his back with a sigh. “Probably.”
“Or that model you had at the French.”
“How do you know who was in my box in Paris?” he asked, turning his head on the pillow.
“Because I watched the rest of your matches and the cameras liked her quite a lot.”
“I bet they’d like you too.”
“Oh, I’m sure they would.”
The feeling that perhaps he was asking because it was what he thought I wanted—proof he would never again treat me like a problem—couldn’t but occur to me. In the grand plan that was Miles Callahan ensuring he had a safe supply of dick on tour, keeping me happy might be a high priority, but this idea was more likely to backfire. Better to just buy me more victory flowers and leave it at that, because I really was that easy.
Whatever his reasoning, he didn’t push the point, just said, “Come here,” his voice soft and his gaze softer, the tilt of his head like the crook of a finger.
I wanted to go to him. Wanted to drop onto the bed beside him and lie there all night, our legs entwined. Wanted to kiss him and talk about everything and nothing and fall asleep in his arms. But that was the act of a lover—aboyfriend—not the easy fuck I was and needed to stay.
We had both wanted the same thing when we’d first hooked up, and while I couldn’t deny that what I wanted had slowly changed, I was smart enough to know it didn’t matter. Because even if he could be persuaded into something more, I hadn’t come out only to become someone else’s secret.
And so I couldn’t go to him, but neither could I break this off. While I was playing better than I had in years, nothing was allowed to change. Or at least that was the excuse I told myself.
I tilted my head toward the door. “I’d better go. If I lie down, I’m going to fall asleep. I did play today, remember.”
“Yeah, I remember.” He pulled himself up off the bed with a small groan and came across the floor. And having planted himself before me, bent a soft, quick kiss to my lips. “Goodnight then, Matteo.”
“Night.”
I escaped while I could, touching my lips as I reached the safety of the hallway. He had the sort of easy, generous affection that allowed him to kiss me like it was nothing and go on about his day, but to me even the small kisses were starting to feel like everything.
Sixteen
I WATCHED MILES play from the safety of the player’s gym. Having finished on the practice court with Katie, I set myself up on one of the bikes for a light recovery ride and tuned in to centre court. It had been strange watching him walk out at Queen’s knowing him differently, but these weeks had changed the sensation from a curiosity to an odd, possessive sort of anguish. I wanted the camera to both linger longer and not look at him the way it did. Wanted to be right there courtside with him and had to remind myself why I’d refused.
He won easily, the commentators making almost as many references to the Callahan freight train as they made speculations about his empty player’s box. And it was empty. No Emily Rose Johnson had turned up to smile for the crowd, and there was still no team, though how much pressure he’d had to withstand from his father to keep it that way I wasn’t sure – these the things we didn’t talk about.
At the end of the match, the on-court interviewer asked about the empty box. At Queen’s, he had shrugged it off, but this time henodded thoughtfully and ran a hand through his sweat-laden hair before saying, “Yeah, a lot of people have been asking if it’s going to stay that way throughout the tournament and the answer is yes. I’m still with my team, I’m just doing my Wimbledon swing without them. A lot of tennis fans might not know,” he went on, looking around at the crowd as he spoke, “that it’s expensive to have a team travel with you, which means lower-ranked players often can’t afford them unless they’re lucky enough to have financial support. And yet without a team, it’s harder to maintain the sort of level that ensures success, rather like a chicken and egg sort of deal, you know? So yeah, I’m doing without them while I’m in the UK this year because I think it’s important to acknowledge that having them is a privilege, and that our sport isn’t as fair and open to all as we like to think.”
Resounding applause followed this speech, and it was a few long seconds before I realised I’d stopped to stare.
“Well!” the interviewer said with a surprised laugh. “I don’t think anyone expected that. An important issue, though! And I’m sure other players will be grateful you’re bringing attention to it. Though it must feel strange to be on your own.”
“Yeah, it’s been a challenge, having to do a lot more things myself than I usually would,” Miles admitted. “But it’s also been the most fun I’ve had on tour for quite some time, so you take the good with the bad. Though it’s a little sad knowing that when you’re out here pumping your fist after excellent points, you’re doing it in the direction of an empty box.”
