He visibly riles. Well, that clearly touched a nerve.
‘I fucking hate that word! Retire, retire, retire! Why is that all the press wanna talk about? How about the amazing start to the season? Or the work I do as an ambassador for the youth charity?—?’
‘Come on, old man—’ I joke, but stop when I see his face.
Not the time, Harper. Not the time.
I start over. ‘I thought this was one of those things the team had fed to the press. Like, you’d already spoken about it, and they were giving the papers lines and hints about it, making a buzz about your last year to hype up the media. I’m guessing not?’
‘No! For fuck’s sake. No. I’ve spoken to Anna about trying to put a stop to it, but everyone loves to speculate and it’s all I ever get asked anymore. I don’t know if … I haven’t thought… I’m not even thirty-four yet.’
The contortion of his face is torturous. I can see every single struggle he’s having with this decision.
Even though I’m only twenty-five, I understand that making this decision comes around so quickly, regardless of what sport you’re in, and deciding whether to go out on a high or slowly fade away is a tough one.
‘So, there’s still a chance it might be?’
‘Isn’t there a chance it might be anyone’s last season? I could crash this weekend and never be able to drive again, or Hendersohm could choose not to renew my contract with them and no other team picks me up. And the same is true for any of us. It is what it is, and I’ll cross that bridge at the end of the season. But if I go it’ll bemychoice.’ His words and tone are firm – not that that would matter with any journalist. They’ll still print the reasons they think he might retire, anyway.
Uncomfortable with the intimacy of the conversation, I decide it’s time to get up. I go to climb out of bed and notice something’s different about the room. The carpets are clear, my kit bags are tucked into the provided storage, and the fan mail I was given when we arrived is stacked neatly on the desk. There’s no way I did this last night.
‘Did you, um, tidy?’ I ask as I scan the room for all of the clothes that once resided on my floordrobe. I had one in every country.
Maybe this was all a carefully orchestrated prank and he’s hidden all my clothes or burnt them as revenge. That would actually make more sense than himtidying my room.
‘Yeah. It was an absolute pigsty in here. When did you last do laundry?’
Wracking my brains, I couldn’t think. I definitely hadn’t since I’d got here. Maybe I had in Saudi? I can’t remember. ‘I bring a lot of clothes with me, so it’s fine. Where’s … the stuff I was wearing last night?’
‘In the laundry bag, where it belongs. While you were sleeping I took a bunch of your dirty clothes and put them in for an express service.’
He makes it sound like nothing, but I am shocked into silence.
It was almost too much – the cold washcloths, the tidying, thelooking after.
It makes my skin feel tight. I can’t imagine why he’d do this for me.
‘Uh … thank you? You really didn’t need to do that.’
‘No, I definitely did. The clothes would probably have started putting themselves in the bag otherwise. Did your parents never teach you to clean up after yourself?’
I never,never, speak about my upbringing in public or to the press. There’s no way he could know I don’t have parents, or any kind of people who’ve earned that title. There’s no way he could know how that comment is like a dagger through my heart, yet it breaks the spell I’ve apparently been under completely.
‘I think I’ll probably be okay now. You can go.’ I don’t mean for it to sound so dismissive when he’s clearly, by any objective standards, been really good to me in the last few hours, but I’m done. I don’t want to continue this conversation.
‘My sister said you need to eat little and often to settle your stomach. I was going to order some toast or something for you on the room service menu.’ His tone is defensive, as if he doesn’t understand why the mood has suddenly soured. I can’t blame him, but I’m over this domestic little fairy tale and need my own space again.
‘I’m sure I can manage that by myself.’ I actually cross my arms over my chest for good measure and he finally gets the message. He backs towards the door.
‘Suit yourself, but I expect you in the gym with me tomorrow morning. Then, maybe, if we win, I’ll come out with you, okay?’
I’d almost forgotten with the way all the air has left the room, that we agreed to that. I nod quickly.
‘Yeah, yeah, tomorrow,’ I say. My jaw is so tightly clenched at this point that I’ll probably need his stupid yoga routine anyway to loosen my neck and traps.
He cracks the door and comically peers left and right to make sure no one sees him leave, even though we’ve done nothing wrong, and without another word slips into the corridor. The door closes behind him with a finality that feels like a relief and also like a bereavement.
The air whooshes back into the room and I can finally breathe again. It’s not really breathing, more like panting, as though my lungs are desperately trying and failing to make use of all the air I’m taking in – but I’ll take it over not being able to breathe at all.
