Love Match (Love Match 1)

“Glad to hear it. What’s up?”

“They want you to come play an exhibition in South America next week. Just show up, play one match, and a big fat check will be waiting in your bank account.”

“I don’t know, Arnie. I’m kind of busy.”

“Busy? What are you busy with that I don’t know about?”

Luke sighed. “It’s nothing involving money, so I’m sure you wouldn’t be interested.”

“Well, if it’s going to stop you from playing this match, you can bet your sweet ass I’m interested.”

“I’m just playing doubles. Trying to get my net game back into shape.”

“Doubles?” Arnie’s voice dripped with disdain. “There’s no money in doubles. Hell, there’s not even glory. What the fuck’s the point?”

“The point is to improve my game so I can win the big money tournaments again.”

“Ahhh, now you’re talking.”

Luke snorted. “Somehow I knew that would get through to you.”

“Come on, you can still do this exhibition. They love you Down Under.”

“South America is not Down Under, Arnie. That’s Australia.”

“Wherever. You’re huge with these people.”

“So huge that they’re asking me a week before the event?”

Arnie was silent for a moment, and Luke could practically hear the wheels in motion. “Well, you see—”

“Who backed out?”

“What? Don’t be crazy. You’re their first choice, Ross.”

“Mm-hmm. Let me guess, Koehler dropped out. Or maybe Castillo.”

“Okay, so Castillo just twisted his ankle. Hey, maybe he’ll be out for the French, too. That wouldn’t be a bad thing.”

“Arnie, it’s going to take more than a Spaniard’s twisted ankle for me to win the French.”

The French Open was the only Grand Slam played on red clay, which slowed the ball down and took away the advantage of the big power servers. Champions at Roland Garros in Paris duked it out from the base line, and often the victors came from Spain or South America, countries where clay courts were common.

“Hey, what’s with that attitude? Come on, Ross, you’ve still got a Slam left in you. I know it.”

Luke knew Arnie’s interest in him would only last as long as the endorsements did, but at least he believed in him. “Thanks, Arn. Sure, tell them I’ll be there.”

“You won’t regret it, Luke. Hey, who’re you playing doubles with?”

“Oh, you probably don’t know him. Jesse McAllister.” A ridiculous blush crept up Luke’s neck.

“Sure, sure, blond kid out of UCLA. He coulda been a contender, but it looks like he ain’t got the chops.”

Luke felt a surge of irritation. “Yes, he does. He just hasn’t quite put it together yet. A bit early to be writing him off.”

“Well, tell him time’s wasting. Speaking of time, I gotta jet. I’ll fax the contract for South America over. Be sure to wear the new shirt Top Spin made for you. You got the shipment, right?”

Luke glanced over at the large box in the corner, still unopened. “Yeah, no problem. Okay, talk to you later.”

He hung up and rummaged around in the fridge, finally deciding on some leftover pizza. He could never eat the stuff cold, so while it nuked, he paced idly in the kitchen, thinking about earlier, about playing with Jesse. When the microwave beeped, Luke shook his head and swore that he wouldn’t think about Jesse McAllister again for the rest of the day.

He lasted all of five minutes.

Traffic at LAX was just as bad going in as coming out. Luke checked his watch repeatedly, even though he was still early enough to make his flight in plenty of time. The driver barely looked at him, just whistled along to a song Luke didn’t recognize on the radio.

He and Jesse had practiced together once more on the weekend, and Luke felt like they were getting into a pretty good rhythm. There was only one near-collision, and Luke had to admit that he didn’t really mind getting close to Jesse when the opportunity arose.

But he was being absurd.

He knew nothing could ever come of it. For starters, Jesse was eleven years his junior. So what if Jesse made him laugh, really laugh, for the first time in a long time? There was no way anything could ever happen. Luke couldn’t get close to anyone again—it just wasn’t possible.

Besides, Jesse probably wasn’t even gay.

Well, okay, he totally was. He’d never said as much, but Luke’s gaydar was pretty finely honed. He suspected there were a few other closet cases on the tour—statistically speaking there had to be—and now he was sure Jesse was one of them. Not that they’d ever talk about it.

The pro tennis tour was still a bastion of old-fashioned macho male egos and swagger—definitely not an environment in which gays found a welcome. The women’s tour had its fair share of lesbians, many of them successful and beloved by fans. However, no male tennis pro had ever come out on the tour. Rumors surrounded the odd player over the years, but those rumors had never been substantiated.