Doug sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. He knew when to push Blake, and he knew when to back off. Right now, pushing him was like pushing against a brick wall.
“Alright,” Doug said, standing up. “Semifinal tomorrow night. You’re playing the Spaniard. He’s a grinder. You’ll need your legs.”
“I’ll be ready,” Blake said.
When Doug left, Blake pulled his phone out of his bag.
There were three new messages. Two from Andre. One from Claire.
He stared at the screen, his thumb hovering over the delete button. He could feel the familiar, leaden weight of the betrayal pressing down on hischest, making it hard to breathe. He wanted to read them. He wanted to know what Andre was saying, what he was feeling. He wanted to hear his voice.
But the anger was stronger. The anger was safe. The anger protected him from the pain.
He swiped left. Delete. Delete. Delete.
He turned the phone off, shoved it back into his bag, and stood up to take a shower. He had a semifinal to win. He had a job to do. And as long as he kept moving, as long as he kept hitting the ball, he didn’t have to stop and he didn’t have to feel.
Blake won the tournament.
He beat the Spaniard in the semifinal in three sets, dropping the second before roaring back with a ruthless third, and then dismantled the world number seven in the final, 6-3, 6-2.
When he hit the final winner — a blistering backhand down the line that kissed the baseline — he didn’t celebrate. He simply walked to the net, shook the umpire’s hand, and packed his bags.
In the locker room afterward, Doug stepped in front of the exit, blocking his path.
“I don’t know what happened,” Doug said, his voice low and steady. “And I’m not asking. But you can’t keep doing this. You’re going to break.”
“I just won a 500-level tournament,” Blake said, his voice flat. “I think I’m doing fine.”
“You’re playing like you hate the sport. Like you hate yourself.”
Blake looked away, the cold knot in his chest tightening.
“We fly back to London tomorrow,” Doug said gently. “Go home. Talk to him.”
“I’m not going home,” Blake said, pushing past Doug toward the door. “I’ll find a hotel. I’m not going back to the flat.”
He walked out of the locker room, leaving Doug standing in the silence.
Chapter sixteen
The Mandarin
The Mandarin Oriental in Knightsbridge was a fortress of quiet luxury, its thick carpets and heavy doors designed to keep the noise and chaos of London at bay.
Blake checked into a suite on the fifth floor, overlooking Hyde Park. The room was immaculate, smelling of expensive lilies and polished wood. It was beautiful, and it was entirely devoid of personality. There were no paint stains on the floorboards, no smell of baking bread from downstairs, no worn sweatpants draped over the back of a chair.
It was exactly what he wanted.
He unpacked his bags with vacant efficiency, hanging his shirts in the closet, lining his shoes up in the wardrobe. He ordered room service, ate half of a club sandwich without tasting it, and lay down on the massive, perfectly made bed.
Because his days were so rigidly structured — practice at eight, gym at noon, physio at three — his evenings fell into a predictable, isolated rhythm. He ordered room service at exactly seven o’clock every night. Hedidn’t want to go down to the hotel restaurants and face the stares of the other guests, and he certainly didn’t want to venture out into the city.
He had a standing order with the kitchen: the servers were to use their master keys to open the outer door of his suite and leave the tray on the small console table in the foyer. The heavy double doors separating the foyer from the living room were usually closed, allowing Blake to remain completely undisturbed.
But occasionally, the doors were open.
On his third night at the hotel, Blake was sitting on the sofa, staring blankly at a muted television, when he heard the outer door click open. He looked up as a young man in a crisp white shirt and black vest carried a silver tray into the foyer.
