He mimed a fist pump toward his empty box and the crowd laughed. God, charisma just dripped off him like he had buckets to spare and it was both utterly unfair and a delight to watch.
“Well, perhaps you can invite some friends next time,” the interviewer suggested over the laughter. “Miles Callahan, ladies and gentlemen, through to the second round.”
The crowd cheered and he acknowledged them with a wave and I watched, grinning, as he made his way off court. He paused at the camera, and while I had been too stunned to do more than scribble my signature on the lens the day before, he wrote:come watch me play?With a wink to the camera, he then formed a heart with his hands, and walked off screen laughing. I wanted to bury my face in a pillow and scream.
Why was he like this? So fucking perfect, showing in the space of mere minutes that he was not only ridiculously good at tennis, but was eloquent and kind and cute to an unbearable degree. I wanted to grab hold and never let go, the desire to call him mine leaving my chest tight with all I couldn’t say and shouldn’t feel.
I killed the stream, swiping the app away like I had to swipe away those thoughts. I had another match tomorrow and I needed to focus on that, not this weight on my chest that was getting harder and harder to ignore.
Congratulations, I messaged.Or is congratufuckinglations our thing now?
i like it, so let’s make it our thing. glad you were watching.
Of course I was watching. Saw the interview too. Thank you.
Thank you.Two words that were a mere shadow of how I felt, yet the tangle of emotions were too great to allow anything more eloquent.
no, thank you,he wrote back.someone needed to say it and you weren’t going to
Not a question, just a statement of fact and he wasn’t wrong.When lower-ranked players say it, it’s just complaining. Besides, I already rocked the boat once.
He didn’t answer, though I wasn’t sure if it was because he had nothing else to say or because phones didn’t do well in showers and press rooms.
MILES JOINED US for dinner that night, the three of us sitting in the apartment’s tiny lounge eating off plates on our knees, the night session on in the background. Katie seemed to have forgiven him for showing up at 3am and being sick, and with her there we were just a trio of tennis players watching a match and complaining about the traffic around the All England Club. It didn’t matter that the very sight of him sitting on the terrible old couch made me smile. It didn’t matter that every time I got up, I had to fight the urge to touch his hair or his shoulder in passing. Didn’t matter that he was the fucking sun to which I kept turning.
Katie’s match was first up on one of the outer courts the next day, so she turned in early, leaving us with strict instructions to take all horny noise across the hall. While she pottered through her bedtime routine, Miles pushed me flat on the couch and climbed atop me, pressing his lips to mine before I could protest.
“I’m still here, you know,” Katie called from the kitchenette.
“We know,” Miles lifted his head to call back. “And have you heard a single horny noise yet?”
“No, but the promise of it is very loud.”
“The promise isalwaysloud,” he murmured against my lips before kissing me again, his hair falling to tickle my cheeks and his weight on me a joy. I kissed him back, unsure whether I ought to try to keep it light and friendly or push hastily for the destination.
He must have sensed my ill-ease, for he pulled back, propped on his hands to ask, “Do you just want to rest tonight? Your match is early, yeah?”
“Early afternoon, but . . . kind of? Yeah?”
“Hmm,” he said, dropping a light kiss on my lips. “Then I am very jealous of Ambrose Fuller. Saving yourself for him instead.”
“Only because I have to play him!”
“You played me and look where that ended up.”
I stared bemusedly up at him. “If you’re worried I’ll call Fuller a coward in the hope of fucking him too, you can relax. I have zero interest in that outcome.”
A notch of suspicion appeared between his brows. “You don’t think he’s hot?”
“I don’t think he’s gay!”
“Since when has that mattered?” Miles said. “You didn’t think I was gay and you still jerked off thinking about me.”
“When I was like fifteen! Oh my god, why are you pouting?”
“I am not pouting.”
“Yes, you are.” I kissed his lower lip, drawing it slowly into my mouth before letting it go. “Look at that pout.”
