The Unforgiving Minute (30 page)

And if Danny glanced at him as he muttered “Oh, you magnificent
bastard
”
when Josh returned a serve that should have been an ace and speared it down the sideline, way beyond Mitchell’s reach, well, there was an approving glint in his eyes.

“O
H
,
MY
goodness. We are seeing an absolute master class of tennis out here today from Josh Andrews. It’s practically a clinic in how to play on grass. What do you say, Tom?”

“I agree, Claire. He’s probed Mitchell’s arsenal, and Mitchell has been found wanting in every single area. Everything he tries, Andrews just takes it apart, breaks it down with an almost surgical precision. It’s breathtaking. I don’t know how you beat someone who’s playing like Andrews is at the moment; all you can do is try and hold on and hope that the end of the match doesn’t arrive before he loses that level of intensity.”

“With the way Josh Andrews is playing, I’m not sure that’s going to happen, Tom. Now they’re back on court for the third set, the score so far 6-1, 6-0.”

R
YAN
wished he had popcorn. This was seriously the most awesome entertainment he had ever seen. Josh was playing beautiful, exquisitely precise tennis, constructing each point so that Mitchell was left lunging, flat-footed, and flailing. Josh was in complete control and making Mitchell look like a fool, and Mitchell knew it.

He’d already snarled at the line judges a few times. A late call from one of them at the beginning of the third set had him storming over to the umpire to complain. The umpire turned his microphone away so their conversation wasn’t relayed round the court, but Ryan didn’t need to hear it to know what was coming out of Mitchell’s mouth. Neither did the crowd. They hated bad sportsmanship, and they didn’t really care for swearing on Centre Court. A slow, disapproving handclap started as Mitch argued. Meanwhile, Josh had sauntered over to the ball boy holding his towel and was casually toweling off his arms and legs, looking for all the world like he was out for a Sunday afternoon stroll in the park.

Mitchell stalked back to his baseline, scowling and swishing his racket viciously, and Ryan’s grin grew even wider. Josh, meandering back to his own baseline in a deceptively casual way, glanced up at him and Ryan gave him a dorky thumbs-up. He could see Josh trying to hide his own smile before he turned to the ball boy and gestured for balls, all business again.

The crowd, which had been decidedly partisan in Josh’s favor—or more accurately, in its disfavor of Mitchell—was more fired-up than ever after Mitchell’s open display of bad temper. Every winner that Josh struck was greeted with noisy enthusiasm; those few that Mitchell made were met with polite applause. And when Mitchell flung his racket onto the grass in temper and disgust after Josh had taken him out wide to his forehand and then drilled the ball straight down the opposite sideline, somebody booed. No, the crowd
really
didn’t like him.

If Mitchell hadn’t been such a lousy specimen of a human being, Ryan might have admired the fact that he didn’t give in. He kept fighting, even with the crowd against him and the way Josh was crucifying him out there. But the thing was, Mitchell
was
that much of a scumbag. Had Ryan had any doubts on that front, they were removed when he saw Mitchell say something to Josh as they changed ends, a smirk on his face. He didn’t know what he’d said, but he knew exactly what the intention behind it was. Josh seemed supremely unconcerned. Ryan thought that the only reason Mitchell kept fighting was not because he was brave and determined, but because he still believed he’d be able to turn the game around. Sooner or later, he’d be able to reduce Josh to the passive, almost apprehensive figure Ryan had watched on too many recordings of their previous matches. Mitchell just didn’t get it. That was
never
going to happen again.

This wouldn’t quite rank as the quickest men’s final in Wimbledon history, but it was going to be up there among the contenders because Josh was about to serve for the match. Thankfully the crowd seemed too appreciative of the display of power, precision, and skill they’d seen from Josh to be overly disappointed with the match’s one-sidedness.

Josh bounced the ball before pausing to look across the net directly at Mitchell. He bounced it once more, then it was in the air, and his racket was singing as it struck the ball perfectly. Mitchell scrambled to return, the slice on the serve taking him out wide from the court. Josh, who’d come into the net, picked off Mitchell’s cross-court attempt, and sent the ball sweet, low, and wide into the space he’d created, an untouchable winner.

The crowd erupted, their applause deafening as Josh took a leaf out of Ryan’s book and applauded them back, thanking them for their support. And then he seemed to take in exactly what he’d done. It was as if he’d been focused so hard on beating Mitchell that he hadn’t clicked that he’d won the Championship, won
Wimbledon,
because he suddenly smiled, wide and delighted. The cheering swelled further, and Ryan was not surprised. It was as if the sun had come out on Centre Court.

Ryan was on his feet—well, foot—cheering along with everyone else. Everyone else except Mitchell, who was standing at the net, waiting for Josh to come over and shake his hand. The handshake was almost too brief to be legitimate, as was Mitchell’s with the umpire before he swiftly left the court, which he wasn’t supposed to do. The day just couldn’t get any better, because on top of every other thing the world had learned about Chase Mitchell over the last forty-eight hours was the fact he was a sore loser.

Josh, on the other hand… Josh looked like the weight of the world had been lifted off his shoulders. Ryan had never seen him look this happy on a tennis court, unless it was that time in the early morning in California. He glanced up at Ryan and the rest of his entourage, and then did the completely unexpected. Private, buttoned-down, proper Josh Andrews was suddenly sprinting across the court toward them and climbing into the stands. The spectators cheered him on as he scaled the side of the commentary box and pulled himself onto its roof in order to reach his box. Rob, at the end closest to him, reached out and pulled him in, before grabbing him into a big hug. He was passed from Rob to Xavier to Carlos to Roger, and his hug with Roger was the longest by far. Ryan could see Roger saying something to him, could see Josh’s expression when he finally pulled back, and he had to swallow hard. Josh hugged Danny next, and then came to Ryan.

“You safe to be hugged?” Josh checked. “I don’t want to break any more ribs.”

“Come here, you marvelous, magnificent
idiot
,”
Ryan said, and pulled him into a careful hug.

Josh pulled back after a moment—too soon, Ryan lamented—but he hadn’t let go of Ryan.

“Would you mind if I kissed you?” Josh asked, eyes steady on Ryan’s.

Ryan hesitated. “There’s about a million cameras pointed at us right now,” he said, needing to be sure Josh wasn’t getting caught up in the moment and about to do something he would later regret.

“I know,” Josh said, sounding calm and very certain.

Despite the noise from the crowd, Ryan heard him perfectly. “In that case, I’d mind if you didn’t.”

And so, on Wimbledon’s legendary Centre Court, in front of the assembled crowd, TV cameras, and the Duke of Kent, Josh Andrews kissed Ryan Betancourt. His lips were warm and slightly chapped from the sun and, for Ryan, it was like coming home.

Chapter 31

Y
AWNING
, Ryan relaxed into the luxurious leather upholstery of the car that was ferrying them home. The press frenzy that had followed the award of the Championship Trophy to Josh and a runner-up prize to some dude he couldn’t care less about had taken hours, and then they’d had to turn round and get ready for the Champions’ Dinner and Ball at some posh London hotel, Ryan attending as Josh’s plus one. And that had gone on for hours too, despite their ducking out early, citing Ryan’s injuries as an excuse. It felt like he’d lived a week in a day, but he wouldn’t have missed a minute of it. He especially wouldn’t have wanted to miss the way Josh looked in a tux, even now with his black tie and top button undone as he sprawled on the backseat beside Ryan.

It was just a shame Josh’s performance at the Champions’ Ball tonight hadn’t quite lived up to the stylishness of his appearance. Josh Andrews, the epitome of grace on a tennis court, had turned out to be a positive danger to life and limb on the dance floor. Ryan could only be thankful it was no longer required for the Ladies’ and Gentlemen’s Champions to open the ball by dancing together, because Josh would probably have put Erika in the hospital, given her open-toed sandals. When Josh had finally screwed himself up to do the courteous thing and asked Elena to dance, he’d gotten an uncompromising “
Hell,
no” in answer. Elena had never ranked manners above survival, and not even her delight at scooping the Mixed Doubles title with Marc Porcallo and being runners-up in the Ladies’ with Lily could alter that.

Josh and Ryan had shuffled round the dance floor together for a couple of minutes, long enough to know they
had
danced together, but not enough for Josh to do too much damage to Ryan’s remaining sound foot. Also, not so long that they felt too
self-conscious about being together in public for the first time. During the course of the evening, there’d been some back-slapping and congratulations for them both, and a whole number of people politely ignoring the whole subject, and then there’d been one or two people who would normally have come and talked to one or both of them who had stayed away. That was the polite face of prejudice, Ryan guessed.

He thought that Josh’s status and resulting influence in the game was probably protecting them from more of a fallout in the tennis world. Only time, and tomorrow’s front pages, would tell what the media representatives who’d been assembled on Centre Court had made of discovering that the new Wimbledon Champion was gay. It would be fair to say that not all of them had seemed quite as enthusiastic as the crowd had been. A shocked silence had fallen over the crowd for an instant as they’d kissed, but then another cheer had swelled, one which would have taken the roof off the court had it been closed. Ryan was under no illusion about people in the crowd being of one mind on the matter, but it seemed those who disapproved were vastly outnumbered. Maybe times really were changing.

“You’re getting dance lessons before next year,” he said, poking Josh in the ribs until Josh wriggled. “You need to do something about that drunken-elephant impression of yours.”

“Says the guy who failed to see the umpire’s chair placed exactly where they’re always placed.”

“I was taught never to take my eye off the ball.”

Josh snorted slightly just as the car turned onto Ryan’s street. As they approached Ryan’s building, the driver, Seb, slowed. “Would you like me to drop you somewhere else?” he asked, which made no sense at all to Ryan until he looked out of the window and saw what Seb had obviously already seen. There was a large group of people waiting on the steps outside Ryan’s apartment. As he watched, they deserted the steps and started streaming toward the car.

“It’s okay,” Josh said on a sigh. “Might as well get it over with.” He turned to Ryan. “Don’t say a word, just smile.”

The car stopped. Seb got out and opened the door on Ryan’s side just as the pack of reporters converged on them, nearly blinding Ryan with constant camera flashes as they barked question after question. And then Josh was there too and, between them, he and Seb had Ryan up out of the car and onto his crutches. Both of them ignored the tumult as they did so, which meant it only got louder and more demanding.

“Josh, did you and Ryan—”

“Who knew—”

“How long—”

“—other boyfriends—”

Ryan took Josh’s advice and tried to paste a smile on his face as the mob surged forward, shoving cameras in his face, but he was really watching Josh, because he seemed completely calm and confident in the midst of this pandemonium, slipping Seb something as he thanked him. That surprised Ryan because he’d thought you weren’t supposed to tip in Britain, but Seb seemed to have no trouble accepting it. And then the car was pulling away.

Ryan felt suddenly vulnerable without its solid shape at his back as the mob hemmed him in. Their voices were loud and demanding, shouting his name as well as Josh’s, and the questions were coming so fast and from so many different directions that Ryan could only catch words here and there. The flashbulbs kept firing, and it felt like an out-of-control carnival ride, dizzying and disorienting and about to end in a spectacular crash.

Josh glanced at Ryan. “You okay for a minute or do you need to sit down now?”

“I’m fine,” Ryan said defiantly, because he wasn’t leaving Josh on his own to this feeding frenzy. He’d seen that film about piranhas.