I shrugged, lounged back in the armchair with a plate perched on my stomach, its cake reduced to some crumbs and a smear of mousse. “I don’t think I did when I was your age. And I don’t think you have to like the gym. I know at least one player who doesn’t. He just likes winning, so does whatever is necessary to do the winning.”
“Who’s that?” Mum asked, her tennis interest piqued.
My heart thudded. “Miles Callahan.”
“Well, there you go,” she said to Nico. “You can become the world number four—no, three now after Wimbledon, isn’t he—without liking the gym.”
“Sure,” Nico huffed. “If you’re six foot six.”
“Five,” I said.
“Six footfive.” Nico rolled his eyes. “Taller than you, anyway.”
“Only by a couple of inches!”
Nonna patted my arm with her signature little smirk. “Ma sei tanto alto.”
“Grazie, Nonna,” I said.
“Prego, nipotino.”
From the couch, Benji held up his empty plate like a demand for more. “Damn good cake, Dad,” he said, his mouth full.
Nonna shook her head. “Language!”
“Fucking amazing cake, Dad!”
Nineteen
Miles C
hey you landed yet?
mat
matteo russo
matteo gabriele russo
omg you’re dead aren’t you
Fucking relax, drama queen, we were just delayed
I’m here
Stuck in the airport, but here in your stupid country
Also how do you know my middle name?
your wikipedia page is a joy
THE HOTEL ROOM was very nice. It had an enormous bed, chairs that weren’t falling apart, and a shower almost as big as the whole bathroom in London. Better still, it was all mine. Tomas and Macca had their own rooms on the next floor because we’d booked too late to get rooms closer together, but since I wasn’t used to travelling with ateamthat was hardly a drawback.
“We should hit the courts as soon as we can,” Tomas said as we dropped my bags on the floor by the huge TV. “Shake off the flight, get used to the surface.”
“Yeah, for sure, let’s do that,” I said. “Maybe—”
My phone buzzed and I glanced down.
