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It’s a good thing we do; rain has started to fall over the city and the roads out of Melbourne Park are a flood of red brakelights. Noah tells the driver his address; it’s north of the city, in a suburb called Carlton, and we wait in the bottleneck of traffic trying to depart Rod Laver Arena. Noah sits beside me and watches the rain trickle down the car window. His hand rests on the seat between us. I look down at his fingers and all I can think about is entwining them with my own. I want him—I—
The driver clears his throat as we stop at a red light and I come to my senses.
We’re in public.
I still don’t know where I stand with Noah.
I know why I shouldn’t pursue this. Shouldn’t risk it. But none of the reasons are loud enough to drown out the singing of my blood every time Noah looks at me.
‘I’m playing in the second round of the tournament tomorrow at eleven,’ I say. ‘Would you like to watch?’
Noah turns to me, clearly surprised. ‘I’d love to.’
My stomach flips. ‘I’ll arrange for my manager to find you at the gate and—’
Victor, I realise. I’m going to have to tell Victor.
‘And?’ Noah continues.
‘He’ll take you to my player’s box. It’ll be less glamorous than Lukas’s corporate sponsor, I’m afraid. I’m just a mid-list name.’
‘You mean your faceisn’tplastered on water bubblers yet?’
I shove at his shoulder. ‘Itisthe dream.’
A part of me enjoys his sarcastic little jabs; how they’re bookended by a wry smile and a knowing glance; how we already seem to have little jokes between us.
‘There’s a chance you’ll be photographed,’ I say, recalling his boundaries. ‘If that’s an issue, I understand.’
He takes a deep breath, as if weighing up the options. ‘I want to come.’
We break out of the traffic. With the sudden rain, the city streets are quiet. The driver rolls down the window to lessen the humidity, and the fresh earthy smell of the wet streets flows through the car.
Noah shifts his body towards me and our knees brush together. ‘If you lose tomorrow, what happens?’
‘I go home.’
His eyes slide from mine. ‘So, if you had lost the first match . . .’
‘I would have already left.’ I drum my fingers against the car door, unable to control my nerves. ‘We’re planning to go to Brazil after this tournament ends, and then we start preparations for the clay season.’
He clears his throat. ‘Will you leave tomorrow if you lose?’
‘I don’twantto,’ I blurt out before I can stop myself, and the driver looks at me in the rear-vision mirror. ‘But it’s what they expect of me. It’s hard to explain.’
‘People rely on you.’ Noah pauses. ‘If that happens, I’ll still be here next year. We can continue our tour then.’
Every year, tournaments roll around faster than I expect them to, but the idea of waiting ayearto see Noah again already feels like a special kind of torture.
‘Just this left,’ Noah says to the driver. I look out the window and realise we’re suddenly outside the city. The driver turns into a narrow street full of terraced houses. ‘The one with the light on—yep, the yellow door.’
‘I’ll walk you in,’ I say as we park.
Noah opens the door and steps out, droplets hitting his shirt. ‘You really don’t have to.’
‘I want to.’ If I lose tomorrow, this might be the last time I’m alone with him before we fly out. I can stand a bit of rain if it means another few seconds.
Noah opens the gate to the terraced home. Up the worn brick steps, bugs dance around the glowing porch light and I can hear the hum of a TV somewhere deep in the house.
