i wasn’t talking about the match and you know it
So much for not rocking the boat again, huh?
Although I blame you for this one
i will not apologize. this is the matteo russo we all deserve
Unsurprisingly, the press conference went the same way. A question or two about the match and then they asked my thoughts about how tennis could change, whether it should, and whose responsibility it was to fix it. Since it wasn’t mine, I tried my best to brush through without saying anything momentous, until with a faint smirk, a reporter up the back asked, “So, do you plan to travel with a team in future?”
“Of course,” I said, frowning into the lights and clicking cameras. “As soon as I can afford to. I know you’re trying to catch me out being hypocritical about my own personal ethics, but what usewould it be to close the door in my own face like that? It’s like on aeroplanes, right? When they say in the safety demonstration that you need to put on your own oxygen mask before helping others. You can tell tennis players catch a lot of planes, huh?” I added with a laugh, trying to ease a little of the tension. “But privilege is a bit like that. It can’t be refused and who gets what opportunity is often out of our hands, the problem is that most people put on the oxygen mask then don’t help anyone. They convince themselves they earned the mask through their own hard work and other people could have one if only they tried harder. I’m not going to do that.” I shrugged, defensive, hating the way the silence in the press room seemed to suck words from me. “So yes, you will probably see me travelling with a team in future. But I also want to do what I can to make tennis more accessible. Those things don’t have to be mutually exclusive.”
A moment of silence followed, and I couldn’t tell if it was the good or bad kind.
“Matteo, you’ve been an advocate for change before,” someone else asked from the back of the room. “Is this what fans can expect from you going forward?”
“When else did I advocate for change?”
“Oh, I meant how you were the first player to come out.”
Because it was always about that. “Yeah, I’m gay and I admitted it because I didn’t want to lie about who I was,” I said. “But that’s not the same as advocating for the whole tour to be gay, or whatever. So, unless you think my existence is a political statement, or that having to acknowledge me is an imposition, then no. I’ve never advocated for anything before now.”
Another moment of silence hung and stretched, broken only by a few cleared throats and the panicked thudding of my heart. It was like Paris all over again. I was never going to get away fromthis, never going to be able to bejusta tennis player no matter how well I played or who I beat.
Into the deafening silence, a facilitator called for last questions. The suffering would soon be over, and surely it couldn’t get worse.
“Yes, hi, I have a question,” a young woman in the front row said, lifting a hand. “Mr Russo, congratulations again on making it to the fourth round. Does the change in your ranking—up to eighty-four now in the live rankings—make a difference for the rest of your season?”
Eighty-four.Eighty-four meant not having to go through qualifying for any grand slam. Meant automatic entrance into a handful of masters’ tournaments. It was nothing to my highest ranking—I’d been at forty-one the day the car had hit me—but it was the sort of number I’d feared never seeing again.
“Mr Russo?”
“Oh, um,” I said, realising I’d frozen, the cameras clicking away in the hush of that awful room. “Uh, yeah, I imagine it will make a difference. To be honest, I haven’t thought much about it, I’m just taking each match one at a time and when it’s over I’ll see where I’m at. After I sleep for a week first.”
That got some laughs, but it was all a numb buzz as I got to my feet and walked out.
IT WAS GETTING dark by the time I reached the apartment. I’d eaten at the tournament, but I was already hungry again and every ache in my body felt particularly raw as I climbed the creaking stairs, tennis bags banging against the walls as I went.
The lights were on and I found Miles sitting in what had become his customary spot – on the couch with my e-reader open to whichever gay romance had captured his fancy. I hadn’t dared look.
“You’ll be glad to know I didn’t break in this time,” he said, putting it down as I kicked the door closed behind me. “Katie gave me her key.”
“Oh, I just figured the lock was broken at this point.” I dropped my bags, the effort of carrying them the few extra steps to my room too much.
“Not broken, but I did have to order a new credit card.”
“You’re such an idiot,” I laughed, grateful for the light-hearted distraction. “I hope you explained that you needed a new one due to extensive breaking and entering.”
He grinned as he got to his feet, stretching. “I did not. You did great today,” he added, coming around the couch to stand before me. “Especially in the heat. I only spent an hour on the practice court and the humidity was crushing. Not that I minded watching you sweat. The way that white shirt clung to you was extremely distracting.”
“Ah, perhaps that’s why Wimbledon keeps the all-white dress code.”
“Just for me?”
“Just for you.”
Miles bent his lips to mine and murmured, “Perhaps I should push you in the shower right now and enjoy the effect up close.”
“While I would love to indulge you, this is my last clean shirt. I desperately need to do laundry.”
