His scowl darkened. “You make it sound like I rely on them, like they’re the reason I’m here, but they’re not. I have workedsohard to get where I am.”
“No, you haven’t, because you don’t know what hard work is. You’ve never had to train on your own, never had to travel twice as far from shitty apartments where you don’t sleep because of the noise, never had to drag your own fucking laundry around Paris and live on rice and beans because buying meat could leave you unable to afford your next fucking airfare. So, don’t you dare talk to me about working hard. You couldn’t even play the way I’ve had to. I’ve earnedeverymoment of my success, but you are nothing without your team. And your bank account.”
I shoved him out of my face, but before I could walk away, his hand closed around my arm, each finger as hot as a branding iron on my bare skin.
“I could play just as well on my own,” he said, bending close. “You know I could.”
“Then do without them,” I snapped back. “Try spending only what I can and see how far you fall.”
Callahan’s dark gaze flicked from one of my eyes to the other, his jaw hardening like he’d gritted his teeth – a look I’d seen dozens of times when he had to dig deep during matches, refusing to give up. But instead of lifting his chin for the fight, he looked away.
“Didn’t think so,” I said, the triumph tasting sour. “You’re a coward, Callahan, just like everyone else.” I nodded toward the empty locker room behind him. “And now you should probably let me go before someone walks in and gets the wrong idea. I don’t think you could handle the talk. Gayness is so contagious, don’t you know?”
I glared the challenge up into his face, leaving a frown carving a deep cleft between his brows. With his height and his proximity, he loomed over me, all lithe muscle and drying sweat. His cheeks were still flushed from the heat and he looked like he hadn’t shaved for a few days, leaving short hair darkening his jaw and upper lip – a look frustratingly designed to bypass even what remained of my unspent anger and start sliding heat directly to my groin.
He needed to move. Why didn’t he move? The chance to retort had come and gone and if he was thinking about coming out with some pitying bullshit about being sorry my life was so hard, I was going to punch him.
“Miles?”
He let go, stepping back and pushing me away in one hasty movement as a member of his team walked in looking ridiculous in his sponsor-emblazoned shirt. “Here, Tarelli,” Miles said. “We’ve just been discussing the match.”
The man—Tarelli, apparently—shot me a suspicious look, but said, “Cool-down and stretching, then discussions, yeah?”
“Yeah. I’m coming,” Callahan said, and with a last searing glance my way, was gone.
PART TWO
WIMBLEDON SWING
NOTTINGHAM - LONDON
Three
IN TENNIS, ALMOST everyone loses. Dozens of players fly in for a tournament and all but one will lose and fly out, off to repeat the process at next week’s tournament. We were all used to it; the high of winning matches along the way what we chased, and the bigger the win, the better.
Unfortunately, Nottingham was not Paris – the high of winning my first-round match at the Nottingham Challenger nothing like my win against Geroux, at a grand slam with the whole French crowd against me. But it was still a win, and that was never nothing even when it felt like nothing. And at least if I lost in the next round, it wouldn’t feel as bad as losing to Miles Callahan on centre court with the whole world watching.
He’d made it to the quarter-finals while I had left Paris behind. Thinking about how differently things might have gone wasn’t going to help, but knowing that never stopped me.
I pedalled harder, ignoring the bustle around me. Player gyms were always busy at the start of tournaments, like the break room at an office job. I’d shoved my headphones on to watch a video Dadhad sent about the critically-endangered swift parrot, because while I had no great interest in parrots, swift or otherwise, this was just how he communicated.
Halfway through a description of mating habits, a text notification appeared at the top of my screen.
Scrunchie
you’re going to wimbledon, right?
I tapped the message, abruptly cutting off the video. Gym sounds returned around me, muffled by headphones and confusion. Who the fuck wasScrunchie? The only other message from them had been nine years earlier, and just said:my number.
Legs still mindlessly spinning on the bike, I typed back:Who is this?and waited. The clock on the bike counted up, each second seemingly an age before the answer came.
you didn’t save my number? asshole
Then:it’s miles
My rhythm faltered, momentum all that kept the pedals turning for the few seconds in which I froze. I could remember him asking for my number at that training camp. Could even stretch my memory to him having texted so I would have his. But I could not for the life of me recall why I had labelled himScrunchiein my contact list. I considered informing him that I had indeed saved his number, just not under his name. Instead, I frowned at my phone and wondered what the fuck he wanted.
callahan, a fresh message added when I didn’t reply.
