“I skip tournaments all the time. I skipped Dubai.”
“Dubai is in the desert. Hamburg is on grass. You need grass-court matches before Wimbledon.”
“I hate grass.”
“You made the quarterfinals at Wimbledon last year.”
“A fluke.”
Blake stayed quiet, eating his croissant, his eyes moving between father and son. He had learned, over the past two years of living above the bakery, that the Moreau family communicated through food and argument in roughly equal measure. Intervening was pointless and potentially dangerous.
Claire, with the practiced calm of a woman who had spent thirty years managing Pierre’s temper, placed a fresh croissant on Andre’s plate and said, “Eat. Both of you stop talking about tennis. It is too early.”
Pierre opened his mouth, then closed it. He picked up the invoice and returned to his argument with the butter.
Andre caught Blake’s eye across the counter and smiled — a small, private smile that said thank you for not saying anything.
Blake smiled back and stole the last piece of sourdough.
The practice courts at the Queen’s Club were immaculate, the grass trimmed to a precise, uniform height that would have satisfied a surgeon. Blake arrived at nine forty-five, fifteen minutes early, his racket bag over his shoulder and Pierre’s contraband croissant tucked into the side pocket.
Doug, was already there, standing at the net with a basket of balls, his arms crossed, his expression suggesting that nine-forty-five was somehow late.
“Morning,” Blake said, dropping his bag on the bench.
“You’re stiff,” Doug observed, watching Blake stretch. “Left shoulder?”
“It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine. I can see it from here. We’ll do twenty minutes of movement work before we hit.”
Blake didn’t argue. Doug had been coaching him since the junior circuit, longer than almost anyone else in Blake’s life had stuck around, and the man had an almost supernatural ability to read Blake’s body. He could spot a tight hamstring from across the court, diagnose a mechanical flaw in Blake’s serve from a single toss, and predict exactly when Blake was about to lose his temper.
They worked in silence for the first hour — movement drills, serve practice, baseline rallies with a hitting partner. Blake fell into the rhythm of it, the crisp pop of the ball against the strings, the burn in his legs as he pushed from corner to corner.
This was where he felt most himself. Not the press conferences, not the sponsor events, not the endless cycle of airports and hotel rooms. Here, on the court, with a racket in his hand and the simple, brutal clarity of competition.
“Good,” Doug said, feeding him a ball to the backhand side. “Now step in. Don’t wait for it. Take it on the rise.”
Blake adjusted, moving forward, taking the ball earlier. The shot flew off his racket with a sharp, clean sound, landing deep in the corner.
“Better. Again.”
They worked for another hour. By the time Doug called a break, Blake was drenched in sweat, his shirt clinging to his back, his legs trembling slightly.
He sat on the bench, drinking water, watching the other players on the adjacent courts. The grass-court season was approaching, and the club was full of professionals fine-tuning their games. “Where’s Andre today?” Doug asked, sitting beside him. “Studio. He has commissions.”
Doug nodded slowly. He didn’t say anything for a moment, but Blake could feel the question forming.
“He’s talking about skipping Hamburg,” Blake said, preempting it.
“I know. He told me last week.”
“What did you say?”
“I told him it was his decision.” Doug paused. “But I also told him that if he drops out of the top ten, it’s going to be very hard to climb back.”
Blake looked down at his racket, turning it in his hands. “He doesn’t care about the ranking anymore. Not the way he used to.”
