He found himself looking at the sky, watching the heavy gray clouds gather over the stadium. He thought about the studio. He thought about the large canvas he had left unfinished, the one with the broad strokes of vivid green and deep, bruised purple. He wondered if the paint had dried too quickly in the damp London air.
He lost the second set. Then the third.
By the fourth set, he was simply going through the motions. He hit his forehands with pace, but without purpose. He served adequately, but without the sharp, aggressive intent that characterized his best tennis. He was present physically, but his mind was miles away, wandering the narrow streets of Waterloo, smelling oil paint and coffee.
He lost the match 6-4, 3-6, 4-6, 2-6.
When he walked off the court, he didn’t feel angry. He didn’t feel the sharp, biting disappointment that usually accompanied an early exit at a Grand Slam. He felt nothing at all. Just a quiet, hollow emptiness, and a profound desire to go home.
Liam and Talia had been in his player box, sitting next to Doug. It was their first time at Wimbledon, and Liam had spent the entire match leaning forward, his green eyes wide, absorbing the spectacle of it all.
Andre met them outside the locker room an hour later, his hair damp from the shower, his racket bag slung over his shoulder. “I’m sorry,” Andre said, offering a tight smile. “That was not a very good performance.”
“Are you joking?” Liam said, his voice loud in the quiet corridor. “That was incredible. The speed of it! I couldn’t even track the ball half the time. You were brilliant.”
“I lost, Liam.”
“Well, yes. The other bloke was also brilliant. But it was magnificent to watch. The tension! It’s pure theatre.”
Talia stepped forward, placing a hand on Andre’s arm. Her dark eyes were perceptive, seeing past the polite smile. “Are you alright?” she asked quietly.
“I am fine,” Andre said. “Truly. I think I am just tired.”
“Go home,” Talia said. “Rest. We’ll see you next week.”
Andre nodded, grateful for her understanding. He walked out of the All England Club, found his courtesy car, and rode back to South Kensington in silence, watching the London streets blur past the window.
That evening, the flat was quiet.
Blake had returned from his practice session, his muscles sore, his mind already focused on his upcoming fourth-round match. He found Andre in the living room, sitting on the floor, sketching in a charcoal pad.
Blake dropped his bag by the door and walked over, sitting on the sofa behind Andre.
He reached out, his fingers brushing the back of Andre’s neck, tracing the line of his spine. “You played well today,” Blake said softly. “I played terribly,” Andre corrected, not looking up from his sketch. “I was not there. My body was on the court, but my head was in the studio.”
Blake didn’t argue. He had watched the match on the television in the players’ lounge, and he had seen the exact moment Andre had checked out. It was a subtle shift — a slight drop in intensity, a fraction of a second lost in reaction time — but to Blake, who knew Andre’s game better than anyone, it was glaringly obvious.
“Come here,” Blake said.
Andre set down the charcoal pad and shifted backward, leaning against Blake’s legs.
Blake moved his hands to Andre’s shoulders, his fingers pressing into the tight, knotted muscles at the base of his neck.
Andre let out a long, slow breath, his head falling forward.
“You’re tense,” Blake murmured, his fingers working deep into the muscle, applying firm, steady pressure.
“I am frustrated,” Andre said, his voice low. “Not because I lost. Because I did not care that I lost. That is the worst part, Blake. I walked off the court at Wimbledon, and all I felt was relief.”
Blake’s hands paused for a fraction of a second, then resumed their steady rhythm. He moved down to Andre’s shoulder blades, kneading the tension away, his touch gentle but authoritative.
“It’s okay to feel that way,” Blake said.
“Is it? I am ranked seventh in the world. I have sponsors. I have Doug. I have my father, who thinks I am throwing my life away.”
“Your father thinks English flour is a personal insult. You can’t live your life based on what Pierre wants.”
Andre leaned his head back, resting it against Blake’s knee. He looked up, his dark eyes searching Blake’s face. “And what do you want?”
