Blake didn’t argue. He didn’t offer platitudes. He simply moved from the coffee table to the sofa, sitting down next to Andre. He wrapped his arm around Andre’s shoulders, pulling him close, and pressed a kiss to his temple.
Andre leaned into him, the fight draining out of him, leaving only exhaustion. He rested his head on Blake’s shoulder, his left hand coming up to grip the fabric of Blake’s shirt.
“I am sorry,” Andre whispered. “I am so angry all the time.”
“You’re allowed to be angry,” Blake said softly, his hand moving in a slow, steady rhythm along Andre’s spine. “It’s not fair. But you’re not going to give up. I won’t let you.”
The front door of the flat opened, and Doug walked in, carrying a stack of manila folders and two coffees from the cafe down the street.
“Therapy not going well?” Doug asked, noting the blue ball under the armchair.
“We’re taking a break,” Blake said, not moving his arm from around Andre.
Doug set the coffees on the kitchen counter and walked into the living room, dropping the folders onto the coffee table. He looked at Blake, his expression serious.
“We need to talk,” Doug said. “About the schedule.”
Andre tensed, pulling back slightly. He knew what this was about. Blake had forfeited the semifinal in Madrid. He had withdrawn from the French Open. He had missed Queen’s Club. Wimbledon was three weeks away.
“I’ll go into the bedroom,” Andre said, starting to stand up.
“No,” Blake said, catching his left hand and pulling him back down. “You stay. This affects both of us.”
Blake looked at Doug. “What do you have?”
Doug opened the top folder, pulling out a spreadsheet covered in highlighted numbers. “The ATP released the new rankings this morning. You’ve dropped to number four. If you don’t play Wimbledon, you’regoing to lose the points from last year’s semifinal. You’ll drop out of the top ten by August.”
Blake looked at the spreadsheet, his face impassive. “Okay.”
“It’s not just ‘okay,’ Blake,” Doug said, his voice rising slightly. “You’re in the prime of your career. You were two matches away from the number one ranking in the world. You can’t just stop playing.”
“I’m not stopping,” Blake said calmly. “I’m taking a leave of absence.”
Andre turned to look at him, his eyes wide.
“Blake, no. You cannot do that. Wimbledon is your favorite tournament. You have to play.”
“I’m not playing Wimbledon, Andre,” Blake said, his voice leaving no room for argument. “I’m not leaving you here while you’re going through this.”
“I have my parents,” Andre argued, panic rising in his chest. He had already taken so much from Blake. He couldn’t take his career, too. “I have the physical therapist. I will be fine.”
“I’m not leaving,” Blake repeated, turning to look at Andre, his blue eyes fierce and absolute. “When I walked out of this flat in February, I almost lost you. I’m not making that mistake again. My place is here.”
He turned back to Doug. “What are the rules for a protected ranking?”
Doug sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He had known this was coming. He had seen the way Blake looked at Andre in the hospital, the unyielding devotion that had replaced the rage from the spring. “I If you takea minimum of six months off for a documented medical condition, you can apply for a protected ranking," Doug explained, pulling out another sheet of paper. "It freezes your ranking at the time you stopped playing. You can use it to enter tournaments when you return, but you won't be seeded.”
Blake frowned. "But I'm not injured."
"Blake." Doug looked at him steadily. "You haven't slept more than three hours a night in six weeks. You had a panic attack at Barajas Airport. You're not eating. That's not nothing — that's a documented psychological condition. Anxiety, insomnia, acute stress. I'll get Dr. Emmons to write the evaluation. The ATP will accept it."
“Six months,” Blake mused, doing the math in his head. “That takes us to November. After the US Open.”
“Yes,” Doug said. “You’d miss the rest of the grass season, the entire North American hard-court swing, and the US Open.”
Andre let out a small, distressed sound. “Blake, please. The US Open. You love New York.”
Blake reached out, taking Andre’s uninjured left hand in both of his. He looked at the man he loved, at the bruised, exhausted face, the angry scar on his right hand. He thought about the empty hotel rooms. He thought about the silence. He thought about the painting that had brought him back. Tennis was his profession. It was what he did. But Andre was who he was.
