Andre fought back with his topspin, trying to push the German behind the baseline, but the grass neutralized his biggest weapon. The heavy, kicking shots that dominated on clay sat up on the faster surface, inviting punishment.
He lost the first set 4-6, his frustration mounting with every missed shot.
During the changeover, he sat on his bench, toweling off, trying to reset. He could hear the crowd on the adjacent court reacting to Blake’s match — sharp gasps, bursts of applause, the particular roar that accompanied a spectacular point.
Blake was winning. Blake was always winning these days.
Andre pushed the thought away and walked back to the baseline.
The second set was better. Andre adjusted his tactics, moving forward more, shortening the points, using his touch at the net — a skill he had developed over the past year, partly out of necessity, partly because Doug had told him that if he was going to play less tennis, the tennis he did play needed to be smarter.
He took the second set 7-5, breaking the German’s serve with a delicate drop volley that drew a murmur of appreciation from the crowd.
The third set went to a tiebreaker. Andre’s legs were heavy, his concentration fraying at the edges. He was thinking about the painting he hadleft unfinished in the studio, about the Whitfield exhibition, about the commission he still needed to start.
He was thinking about everything except the ball.
The German won the tiebreaker 7-4. Andre shook his hand at the net, offered a tight, professional smile, and walked off the court.
In the locker room, he sat on the bench for a long time, staring at his racket. The strings were frayed, the grip worn smooth. He couldn’t remember the last time he had restrung it.
Blake found him there twenty minutes later, still in his match kit, his hair damp with sweat, the quiet satisfaction of a straight-sets victory softened by the concern in his blue eyes.
“Tough match,” Blake said, sitting beside him.
“I lost.”
“I know. I saw the score.”
“I wasn’t there. Mentally. I was somewhere else the entire time.”
Blake didn’t say anything. He just put his arm around Andre’s shoulders and pulled him close.
“It’s okay,” Blake said quietly.
“It’s not okay. I’m ranked seventh in the world and I’m losing to a qualifier because I can’t stop thinking about paint.”
“Then maybe you need to make a decision.”
Andre looked at him. “What kind of decision?”
“The kind you’ve been avoiding for six months.” Blake’s voice was gentle, careful, but his eyes were steady. “You know what I mean, Andre.”
Andre did know. He had known for a long time. The tennis was slipping away — not dramatically, not in a single moment of crisis, but gradually, like sand through his fingers. Every match felt like an obligation. Every practice session felt like time stolen from the studio. “I’m not ready to retire,” Andre said, though the word felt less frightening than it once had. “I’m not asking you to retire. I’m asking you to be honest with yourself.”
Andre leaned into Blake, resting his head on his shoulder. “I’m honest with you. Isn’t that enough?”
“It’s a start,” Blake said, pressing a kiss to the top of his head.
That night, they made love with a slow, aching intensity that left them both breathless.
It started in the kitchen, while Andre was cleaning up after dinner. Blake came up behind him, his hands sliding under Andre’s shirt, his fingers tracing the hard lines of his stomach. Andre turned, his back pressing against the counter, and Blake kissed him — not the quick, familiar kiss of routine, but something deeper, more urgent, as if he were trying to communicate something that words couldn’t reach.
They moved to the bedroom, shedding clothes along the hallway, their mouths never separating for more than a breath. Blake pushed Andre onto the bed, climbing over him, his weight pressing Andre into the mattress.
“I want to taste you,” Blake murmured, his lips moving down Andre’s neck, across his collarbone, down the center of his chest.
Andre’s hands fisted in the sheets as Blake’s mouth traveled lower, his tongue tracing the line of dark hair below Andre’s navel. Blake took his time, pressing kisses to the inside of Andre’s thighs, his breath hot against the sensitive skin.
