The Unforgiving Minute (5 page)

“Elena, look, I told you—”

“You’re not in the mood, I know,” she said, dumping the bag on the desk and starting to unpack its contents. “But what are you going to do? Sit here and cry about losing a match?”

“
Elena.
” For a moment he was torn between real anger and despair, because she just would not behave like a normal human being.

“Look, Ryan, I get it,” she said, waving a very sharp-looking knife in his direction before thankfully returning it to the lime in front of her. “But you know how it goes—”

“Someone’s gotta win and someone’s gotta lose. Yeah, Elena, believe it or not, I get it.”

The edge in his voice obviously got through to her because she looked up from where she was squeezing a lime into what looked like half a pint of rum, cocked her head, and looked at him properly. “So what’s the problem?”

“The problem is that I didn’t get beaten. I
lost.
”

“Ah,” she said. “Yeah, that makes a difference. You know why?”

Ryan sat down on the bed again, and maybe he sighed just a little dramatically but it was allowed in the circumstances. “No idea. After he won the tiebreak at the end of the second, I lost concentration or something at the beginning of the third. I don’t even know why. I let him control the pace, and suddenly the match was over.”

Elena sat next to him, offering him a glass, which he accepted gratefully.

“I know you know this, and I know Stefan will have told you, but you have to learn from it and move the fuck on. If you keep thinking about it, beating yourself up, it’s going to affect your next game.”

Ryan buried his nose in the glass and took a hefty swig. And then choked. “For God’s sake, Elena, how strong did you make these?”

“As strong as they need to be. Now, did you hear what I just said?”

“I heard.”

“So?”

“So I’m going to have more of these and cry on your shoulder, and then tomorrow I’m going to move the fuck on and beat the world.”

Elena grinned and tipped her glass to clink against his. “That’s my boy.”

They turned on the TV and happily insulted Australian shows while they drank more than they strictly should, given the whole elite athlete thing.

“Mom and Dad called earlier,” Ryan said, halfway down his third glass and apropos of precisely nothing. “They wanted to commiserate, but they thought I should be so pleased I got as far as the fourth round.”

“You might not like me saying this, Ryan—”

“But you’re going to say it anyway.”

She continued as if he hadn’t interrupted. “A year ago, you’d have thought the same thing. You’re playing a hell of a lot better now, sure, but your attitude’s changed as well.”

“I’ve never enjoyed losing,” he protested.

“Who does? But now you know you’re damn good and on a good day you can go up against any of the big boys and beat them.”

“I’d like to go up against big boy Josh Andrews,” he mused.

“Damn it, Ryan, why did I think alcohol and you were a good idea?”

“Or Mitch. I don’t think that belt buckle’s compensation in his case.”

“You do realize that the tournament program isn’t a catalog for you to pick boyfriends from?”

“It’s not?” Ryan was aghast. “Why doesn’t anybody tell me anything?”

“And since when are you and Chase Mitchell best buddies, anyway?”

He looked at her.

She bounced her eyebrows suggestively. “I hear things.”

“Lily.”

“It sounds like he stole you away for a heart-to-heart. Anything you want to tell me, Ryan?”

“Uh….”

“And let me remind you, that wasn’t a question. Come on, tell me: since when are you and he best friends, and how does he score out of ten?”

“
Elena!
We haven’t— It’s not— Damn it, woman!” He reached up the bed for a pillow and flung it at her. It didn’t dim her grin.

“He just came up to me the other day in the lounge and started chatting. He’s a really nice guy.”

“And?”

Ryan sighed. “And nothing,” he said.

“You sound disappointed by that.”

“He’s hot, you know? When he’s talking to you, when he’s looking at you, it’s like you’re the only thing in the world that matters. That’s pretty sexy.”

“And those long legs, muscled arms, and ass you could bounce a quarter off have nothing to do with it, of course.”

“Are you crazy? They have
everything
to do with it.”

“I thought your heart belonged to Andrews after your love-in at the restaurant. I can’t keep up with you,” Elena complained.

He thought again about Josh emerging from the ice bath, clothes clinging in a way that was somehow even more enticing than if he’d been completely naked. Although, was he insane? Nothing could be more enticing than Josh Andrews completely naked.

A piece of lime hit him between the eyes. “Your eyes are glazed and you’re practically drooling, Betancourt. I don’t want to know.”

“Uh, yeah,” he said, and pulled himself together. “So what’s going on with you?”

He’d meant it as a general question, but Elena fidgeted and looked away.

“What?” he demanded. “Tell me, Sanchez, or I’ll tickle it out of you.”

“It’s nothing much,” she said. “Just Marc Porcallo’s asked me to partner him in the mixed doubles at Roland Garros.”

“That’s awesome!” He pulled her into a hug.

“Yeah, hopefully,” she said, her face alight with excitement.

Elena didn’t want to say more than that in case somehow it jinxed it, so they ended up in a slightly drunk and giggly pile on the bed, talking about ordering room service. Elena’s phone buzzed and she read the text that had come in. “I should go,” she said. “Remember what I said about moving on, and I’ll see you soon.”

As he rolled into bed a few minutes later, Ryan thoughts were no longer dominated by his performance in the match that had so consumed him only a few hours before, but by Josh and Mitch. He knew it was all harmless fantasy that he could share with Elena in safety. He also knew that even if either of them was gay, the chances of them acting on it with a fellow player on the Tour were slim to zero. Tennis didn’t have the same problems that contact sports did, but the locker-room atmosphere was still the same old locker-room atmosphere, and openly gay pro tennis players were few and far between.

Until now, Ryan hadn’t thought twice about no-strings sex if it felt right with whoever he’d met, but he suddenly realized that, as he was becoming better known, he should make a decision about this. If he was going to be out, he’d rather do it himself than have somebody sell a story to a tabloid. And if he wasn’t going to be out, then he would have to be careful and discreet and make sure his partners were the same. He snorted. His partners. Right. Because he had such a good track record in that respect. He mostly seemed to meet guys on his yearly beach vacation. The whole living clean, training hard, and getting a good night’s sleep meant clubs were out of the question most of the year round. He wasn’t so sure they appealed to him anyway. Call him a hopeless old-fashioned romantic, but he’d rather have a conversation with someone before screwing them.

Truth to tell, and this was definitely the alcohol talking, he’d rather have a relationship with someone than just a few nights of sex. Maybe one day he’d meet someone who didn’t have a problem with the way tennis took him round the world. Until then, he always had his right hand. His right hand that seemed to be bored of his brain going in circles and was helpfully getting on with matters right now.

He knew it was a spectacularly bad idea to do this, because what happened if he had to play Josh one day, but Ryan was, as he kept reminding himself, only human. Thoughts of Josh Andrews’s ass, so clearly defined by those wet shorts, were just too tantalizing to resist.

As were the thoughts of how things might have worked out if they’d been alone in the treatment room, and how willingly Josh would have gone face first against the wall for him, his breath coming fast and his cock hard in those wet shorts of his. How he’d have let Ryan do everything he wanted and how he would have loved it, moaning as Ryan’s hands explored under that see-through T-shirt of his, fingers teasing his tight nipples, and then he’d push backward in invitation when Ryan pulled his shorts down and started rubbing his cock tantalizingly over that perfect ass. And somehow, Josh was already slicked and ready for him and all Ryan needed to do was push in. If, as he came, long legs in faded jeans and a belt buckle were involved, well, Ryan wasn’t complaining.

Chapter 6

T
HE
call from Brad Sweeney, tennis
legend
and now coach of the American Davis Cup team, had blindsided Ryan. Tommy had been forced to pull out of the upcoming tie against France due to a shoulder injury, and Brad Sweeney’s response had been to call Ryan to see if he could step up.

Somehow, and he had
no
idea how, Ryan had managed not to gibber at Brad Sweeney as he’d graciously accepted the invitation to join the team. The
Davis freaking Cup
team, where he’d be representing his country. He’d double-checked he’d killed the call before dancing round his hotel room, snatching up a racket to perform a celebratory tango—including the sexiest dip
ever—
because he had the feeling that if Brad Sweeney could hear his whoops of joy, he might just change his mind.

The short notice meant that in a matter of days he was at the training facility in Florida, which looked more like some sort of plush country club than somewhere where people actually sweated and worked. He’d dropped his cases in the room he was given, which wasn’t quite as plush as the downstairs areas but definitely expensive, and changed into training gear before making his way to the courts. And when he said courts…. This was tennis heaven. So many courts, so beautifully maintained, and so confusing when he tried to find the one where he was due.

He finally found the right one by the simple method of spotting a familiar figure in whites. Josh Andrews was deep in conversation with Brad Sweeney on the edge of one of the clay courts. The French, as hosts for the tie, had gotten to choose the surface and they’d unerringly picked the one that the Americans in general were weakest on. As Ryan walked over, telling himself he belonged here and that it would not be at all awkward interrupting the conversation between Josh freaking Andrews and Brad freaking Sweeney, Brad turned to him.

“Ryan, good to see you.”

“You too, Mr. Sweeney,” Ryan said, shaking his hand. “Thanks so much for asking me. I won’t let you down, I promise.” And then he realized what he’d said and what an impossible and ridiculous promise it was to make. “What I mean is that I won’t let you down on purpose, of course, and I hope not to let you down at all, which kind of goes without saying—” And please God, could he just stop talking or would somebody rescue him?

“You want to warm up?” Maybe not God but close enough. Josh Andrews had cut across his floundering.

“Yes,
please
,” he begged.

“Half an hour, boys,” Brad said, and wandered away, presumably in search of his doubles players.

“Thank you,” Ryan said meaningfully.

“I’m guessing you babble when you’re nervous. Or maybe you’re just like that the whole time?”

“Somewhere between the two, I’m told,” Ryan said. “Ryan Betancourt, by the way.”

“Josh Andrews,” Josh said. As if Ryan wouldn’t know. Josh then started stretching out on the court in a way that had Ryan’s mouth dry for an instant before remembering he wasn’t here to watch the supple perfection that was Josh Andrews, but to warm up enough to play some tennis himself. And once he settled down to concentrate and work, he almost forgot it was Josh Andrews he was doing this with. Josh was just another player with whom he exchanged the occasional breathless, rueful smile when things got tough.

They had a good coaching session that afternoon. Ryan had been nervous about working with someone other than Stefan in case it undid or somehow undermined what Stefan had been working on with him, but he found that it actually gave him a different perspective on the same things, albeit with one huge difference: Brad was all about emphasizing teamwork. He stressed how different this was from any other tennis experience, and how they could support and help one another in ways that would help them all play better tennis and come home with a good result.

Even with his concerns about possible conflicts with Stefan’s coaching, Ryan had expected he’d learn from working with Brad. He hadn’t, however, expected to learn from watching Josh. Ryan always worked hard and paid attention to his coach, but seeing Josh approach the session with exactly the same level of seriousness and focus he would give a match was a revelation. There was no goofing off if things were going well, before settling back down. And as he watched yet another Andrews backhand disappear past him at bullet-like velocity, just kissing the baseline on its way into the outer atmosphere, he realized that Josh was equally serious about engaging his killer instinct even in a practice session. It seemed Ryan still had some attitude adjustments to make.