The Unforgiving Minute (25 page)

But before he could settle down and get to work, he had one thing more to do. He wanted to watch Josh, who was due to play his first match since he’d, basically, run away from tennis. Ryan was sure that Josh would be mortified and more than a little pissed to know how protective Ryan felt about him right now. But then Josh had no idea how fragile he’d looked when he’d told Ryan everything.

So much for fragile. The figure in whites currently out on the court, his skin a sun-kissed golden brown, was about as far from fragile as it was possible to be, whipping serve after serve past Tobias, who could only stare mournfully after them while the crowd erupted. Josh was just as merciless on his return of serve and every other time his racket came into contact with the poor, innocent ball, which must have done something terrible in a previous existence to deserve the punishment that Josh was dishing out. Josh Andrews was well and truly back.

The rest of the tournament bore out Ryan’s analysis. Josh beat Ryan in the quarterfinals, which Ryan couldn’t resent because Josh had outplayed him. That didn’t stop him from taking his revenge in bed that night, teasing and taking his time until the Champion Elect was begging and squirming under him. His ego somewhat assuaged, Ryan was then content to watch Josh go on to bury Rouze in the final and take the title.

T
HE
move from the tournament hotel to Wimbledon was a culture shock. Both Stefan and Josh had told Ryan he should rent a house in Wimbledon Village as it was a long-ass journey to the city center hotels. That way he’d also have somewhere other than the locker room to wait out rain delays, which were apparently only to be expected at Wimbledon. It sounded like a good idea, but Ryan hadn’t expected the apartment he took to be somebody’s home rather than a rental property. They’d cleared out most things except furniture, linens, and cookware, but there were still numerous shelves of books in the living room on an eye-wateringly eclectic range of subjects. Apparently, some people would clear out of their homes for a few weeks around the time of the tournament specifically to rent them out to players. He guessed it was a good way to earn some extra bucks, because the rent he was paying wasn’t exactly cheap.

He liked the apartment. It was small, but still larger than most European hotel rooms. Another advantage was also that he didn’t have to eat according to a restaurant’s fixed schedule. On the not-quite-so-positive side, the workings of the washing machine, which was allegedly also a dryer, remained a complete mystery to him. After he’d flooded the kitchen twice, Stefan had forbidden him to try again. He’d just have to use the tournament laundry service.

The best part about it was having Josh only a few yards down the block, in his own, rather larger, rented house. That, and the way the Wimbledon residents were completely cool about having top-ranked tennis players in their midst and didn’t stare or bother them, meaning they could go out for meals without worrying about that side of things. Then there were the freebies that the tournament organizers showered on the players, like West End theater tickets. Not that he and Josh had taken advantage of those yet, because they spent most of their free time at Ryan’s apartment. Stefan seemed to have his own nightly assignations elsewhere, which Ryan was
so
not thinking about, so they had the run of the place.

“Have you got a favorite tournament?” Ryan asked Josh as they sat on the couch one evening, Stefan long gone. The US Open would always be special to Ryan, with its raucous and dedicated fans, and he’d loved the happy atmosphere of the various Australian tournaments, but Wimbledon might just be fighting its way into contention.

“Wimbledon,” Josh said immediately. “It’s got that feeling of tradition about it, like this is how tennis should be played, on grass, wearing whites. Then there’s the whole Kipling quote as you go out to Centre Court. I don’t believe there’s a player out there who believes that triumph and disaster should be treated the same, but it’s kind of endearing that it’s still there despite that.”

“Your dad was a finalist here, wasn’t he?”

Josh sighed slightly. “Yeah. It’s
the one that nearly was, for him. It’s why he’s so desperate for me to win it. I don’t know if we’re fated somehow, because I’ve won every other Grand Slam at some point but this one always eludes me.”

“This year,” Ryan said.

“And then what?” Josh asked. “If I finally nail Wimbledon, what’s left?”

Whoa. Where the hell had that come from, an existential tennis crisis? “Whatever you want,” Ryan said.

“Win more titles, I guess.” But Josh didn’t sound too excited at the prospect.

“Or do something entirely different. Train to become a kindergarten teacher, or a landscape gardener, or go and build dams somewhere.”

Josh was blinking at him. “Dams?”

“Whatever,” Ryan said. “Just do what you
want
.”

Josh looked perplexed, as if the prospect of not playing tennis any more was entirely new to him. On reflection, Ryan guessed it probably was.

“Or carry on playing,” Ryan said. “It’s not a bad way to earn a living, doing something you love.”

“You love tennis?”

“Hell, yes.” Ryan pulled up short, suddenly registering what Josh had said. “You mean you
don’t
?”

Josh shrugged. “I like doing something I’m good at. I like the challenge of it, working hard and getting even better at it. I like winning”—Ryan snorted slightly, because
duh—
“but….”

“But?”

“I have no idea,” Josh said, looking at him. “It’s just what I’ve always done.”

“Well, maybe it’s time to decide if you want to carry on doing it or try something else.”

“There’s one slight drawback with that, though,” Josh pointed out.

“Which is?”

“Us. It would be a pain in the ass being stuck in one country while you travel the world and I only get to see you between tournaments.”

“Damn straight,” Ryan said, warmth filling him at Josh’s casual announcement of his expectation that they were in this for the long haul. He leaned to press a kiss on Josh’s lips. “Guess that means you better keep playing tennis just a bit longer then,” he said.

Josh surged up from where he was sitting and straddled Ryan. “Guess I’d better,” he said, before leaning in and taking Ryan’s mouth in a breathtaking kiss. If they gave out championship titles for kissing, there wouldn’t be a Grand Slam out there that Josh Andrews hadn’t won.

W
HEN
Ryan got a text from Elena letting him know she’d arrived in London, he suddenly realized he hadn’t told her a thing about what had been going on. The last she knew, Josh had dumped him. At least she’d had her own triumphs to keep from wondering why, apart from congratulatory texts, she hadn’t heard from him in a while. She and Lily had won the French Open women’s doubles, while she and Marc Porcallo had made it to the quarterfinals of the mixed, which had been an amazing result for their first tournament together. She was now one of the top doubles seeds for Wimbledon, and Ryan was delighted. The months when Elena had realized that her serve was never going to be strong enough for her to be a truly successful singles player had been desperate for her. She’d had to give up on a dream she’d had since she was nine years old. All Ryan had been able to do was try to support her as she fought her way through it all and toward a new dream. Thankfully, along with her ferocious desire to succeed, she had an instinct for doubles play. This felt like justice, somehow, for her earlier disappointment, even though Ryan knew life didn’t really work like that.

He sent her a quick text back.
Am here with Josh. Be nice. Please.

About three seconds later he received an answer.
Where are you???

He sent her the address and waited for the inevitable.

It seemed like only minutes later the doorbell rang, and then kept ringing until he opened the front door. Elena pushed past him with no ceremony whatsoever, straight across the hall to the living room.

“Come in, Elena. Can I get you anything? A drink, perhaps? Some manners?”

Ryan took a quick step back at the expression on her face.

“I know I owe you an explanation,” he backpedaled, swiftly. “Seriously, d’you want a drink while we talk?”

Elena plumped down on the overstuffed leather couch. “No.”

“I can’t tell you much,” he started, raising his hand to preempt whatever she was about to say. “No, really, I can’t tell you because it’s not my story to tell. I promise you, Elena, Josh may have behaved like a dick, but he had his reasons. And he was really sorry.”

“I should damn well hope so,” she snapped.

“He was.”

She was quiet for a while, looking at him. He perched on one of the wingback armchairs and tried not to fidget under her inspection.

“You’re sure about this, aren’t you?”

“It’s good between us. It’s important, to both of us.”

Elena pulled a face. “Yeah, could do without the slushiness, thanks. I’m reserving judgment on Andrews, but for your sake, I’ll give him a chance.”

“Chase Mitchell,” Ryan said. “How do I destroy him?”

Elena didn’t even blink at the change of gear. “I don’t know him—I’m not important enough or pretty enough for him to bother with me—so this is based on observation rather than anything else, okay?”

“Okay.”

“He’s vain. Very vain. So you could find someone he’s banged and get them to do a kiss-and-tell to the tabloids about what a small dick he has. Or you could create an online sock puppet and start commenting on every magazine photo shoot he does, saying he’s old meat and asking for a younger, better-looking guy to be featured next time. Other people will jump on the bandwagon, especially if you were to create multiple sock accounts, and you just
know
he’s the sort of ass who searches for mentions of himself online. And he likes to bang anything that moves, so you could cockblock him by dropping into casual conversation a mention of his mystery pubic rash when you’re next talking to Tobias or Erika.” They were, Ryan knew, the two biggest gossips on the Tour.

Elena finally paused, but it was only to take a breath. “And then, of course, there’s getting the crowd to like you more than him when you play him. He feeds off the way they lap up his cowboy act. Get them behind you instead, and he’ll take it personally. And it goes without saying, but whenever you play him, beat the crap out of him. He hates to lose, and the one thing he can’t bear is to be humiliated. It goes back to that whole vanity thing.”

Ryan’s mouth was hanging open by the time she finished. “You— That wasn’t just all off the top of your head, was it? Do you walk round with a blueprint in your head for how to demolish every single person on the Tour?”

“You really think I limit myself to the Tour?”

Ryan gulped slightly. He was thankful, as never before, that they were on the same side.

Chapter 25

T
HE
draw was published three days before Wimbledon was due to begin. Ryan and Josh were in different halves. To Ryan’s delight, a delight he was only slightly disturbed to find was tinged with vicious satisfaction, Mitchell was in Ryan’s half.

Ryan kept going with his research into Mitchell and started to find some pretty interesting patterns in his games against other players. Philippe was the most recent one who had suddenly started losing against Mitchell, while his matches against other players remained broadly similar in their spread of results. Ryan was beginning to think that if he did find a way to take Mitchell down, nobody would mourn his professional demise overmuch. Precisely how he could bring that about was still unclear to Ryan. For now, he was concentrating on the immediate future, which meant letting the asshole know just what Ryan thought of him before destroying him on the court.

W
HEN
it happened, it was on Wimbledon High Street. Ryan was happily strolling along, enjoying the sunshine after earlier drizzle—was it true that the British had fifty words for rain?—and wondering which of the restaurants to try for supper that night.

“Hey, Ry!”

The voice came from across the street and was unmistakable. Turning, he saw Mitchell dodging between slow-moving cars to reach him.

“What happened to you in Paris?” Mitchell asked as he caught up with him on the sidewalk. “I missed you.”

Ryan stared at him, seeing the familiar, open smile on the tanned face, the friendly gray eyes that held no hint of guile, and for a fleeting instant, he thought there must have been some sort of terrible misunderstanding with Josh. But he knew, even as he thought it, that this was precisely the front Mitchell cultivated; who would believe anything negative about good ol’ boy Mitch? What could possibly be sinister in Mitch’s concern for Ryan’s well-being as he threw himself around the court, apart from the fact that he was trying to scare him into playing more cautiously, returning fewer balls to win fewer matches.

Mitch was looking quizzically at him, that ready laughter in his eyes. “Well, hell, Ry, don’t tell me
you’re
lost for words. Praise the Lord, miracles
do
happen.”