Blake stepped inside the baseline, took the second serve on the rise, and drove it deep into the backhand corner. The South African lunged, floating a defensive slice back over the net.
Blake moved forward, his feet light, his eyes locked on the ball. He let it bounce once, then drove a clean, crisp forehand volley into the open court.
Break point.
The crowd roared. Blake walked back to the baseline, bouncing the ball on his racket frame, his breathing steady. The South African served — a massive, flat delivery down the T. Blake guessed right, blocking the return back deep. The rally extended — five shots, ten shots, fifteen. The South African tried to end it with a drop shot, but the ball caught the net cord and fell back onto his side.
Blake had the break. He served out the match in the next game, finishing with an ace out wide that made a clapping noise as it kissed the sideline.
He walked to the net, exhausted but victorious, the applause ringing in his ears. He shook the South African’s hand — the man nodded, a grudging respect in his eyes — and turned to the crowd, lifting his racket in acknowledgment. The ovation washed over him, warm and sustaining, the sound of twelve thousand people who had watched him refuse to break.
In the player box, Andre was on his feet, clapping slowly, his dark eyes bright with pride. Doug was beside him, arms still crossed, but the corner of his mouth was twitching — the closest thing to a smile Blake had ever seen from the man during a tournament.
Blake walked off Court 1 and into the tunnel, the cool air hitting his sweat-soaked skin.
He sat down on the bench in the corridor, his legs finally giving way, and pressed a cold towel against his face. His hands were shaking — not from nerves, but from the sheer physical expenditure of three hours and forty-seven minutes of elite-level tennis.
Doug appeared first, dropping into the chair beside him. “Fifth set. Grass. Against a guy serving a hundred and forty.” Doug shook his head. “You’re an idiot for letting it go to five, but that break at four-all was the best game you’ve played all year.”
“Thanks, Doug. Very warm.”
“I’m not warm. I’m accurate.” Doug stood up, slapping Blake’s knee. “Ice bath. Twenty minutes. Then we look at the draw for round four.”
Doug disappeared down the corridor, and a moment later, Andre slipped through the security door. He was wearing a navy linen shirt, open at the collar, his dark curls slightly windblown from the afternoon breeze. He looked effortlessly, infuriatingly beautiful.
He didn’t say anything. He just walked over, sat down on the bench beside Blake, and pressed his knee against Blake’s, a silent, steady presence.
Blake turned his face, pressing his lips against Andre’s hair. He smelled like sandalwood and the faint, lingering sweetness of the strawberries they had been eating in the player box.
“You scared me,” Andre said quietly. “When he broke you in the fourth set, I thought —”
“I know,” Blake said. “But I had it. I always had it.”
“Menteur,” Andre murmured, but there was a smile in his voice.
They sat there for a long moment, the sounds of the tournament — the distant crack of balls on other courts, the murmur of the crowd, the rumble of a passing aircraft — filtering through the concrete walls.
“Dinner tonight?” Blake asked.
“I am making lamb,” Andre said, lifting his head. “With the rosemary from the window box. You will eat protein and vegetables and you will not complain.”
“I never complain.”
“You complained about the Brussels sprouts for three days.”
“They were burnt.”
“They were caramelized,” Andre corrected, standing up and brushing invisible lint from his shirt. He leaned down, pressing a brief, firm kiss to Blake’s mouth. “Go do your ice bath. I will see you at home.”
He walked away, his footsteps echoing in the corridor, and Blake watched him go, a slow, helpless smile spreading across his face.
He had survived. And he was going home to lamb.
Andre’s tournament ended three days earlier, on a gloomy Tuesday afternoon on Court 14.
He was playing a young Spanish qualifier, a kid who had grown up on clay but who moved on the grass with surprising agility. Andre had started well, winning the first set comfortably, his heavy topspin pushing the Spaniard behind the baseline.
But as the match wore on, Andre’s focus began to drift.
