Love Match (Love Match 1)

“Mm-hmm.” Jesse drifted back into an uneasy sleep.

When sunrise filled the room with a warm glow, Luke was still awake, Jesse’s fevered skin flush against his chest.

“Would you stop fussing?” Jesse batted Luke’s hand away from his forehead.

“I am not fussing. I just want to make sure your temperature’s staying down.”

The cab driver kept his eyes on the road towards the airport. He seemed more interested in the pop song he was singing along to, rather than Jesse and Luke. The traffic was moving quickly—so quickly that Luke wondered if they’d extended Germany’s Autobahns to Italy as well.

“I just slept for, like, sixteen hours or something. At least I’ll be well rested for practice later.”

“You’re going to practice today?”

“Jeff said the court is booked if I’m feeling up to it.”

“Just remember you’ve got a layover in Rome before you make it to Germany.” Since Jesse was never supposed to be in Venice, he couldn’t very well arrive on a flight from the city.

“I feel better. I haven’t puked since yesterday and I’m not seeing spots. So don’t worry, okay?”

“When were you seeing spots?”

Jesse rolled his eyes and smiled. “I wasn’t, it’s just…a figure of speech, or something.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Yes, it is.”

“Since when? Since when is ‘seeing spots’ a figure of speech?”

Laughing, Jesse shrugged. “I don’t know, I didn’t get a memo or anything.”

“No? No memo?” Luke reached over and tickled Jesse’s ribs.

“Hey!”

They tussled briefly, Jesse giggling as he tried to squirm away. Luke was about to go in for a second attack when he glanced at the rearview, meeting the driver’s eyes. The laughter died in his throat and his hands fell into his lap. Jesse looked at him quizzically, just for a second. Then he cleared his throat and shifted away, his gaze turning out the window.

As they neared the airport, the driver turned down the radio and asked them again which airline. When they pulled into the terminal, he asked them if they’d miss Italy. Luke could feel Jesse’s eyes on him as he said that yes, he would miss Italy very much.

Steve Anderson took a swig of water and rolled up his shirtsleeves. “Can we get a fan or something in here? It’s hotter than hell.”

His producer told him they were working on fixing the A/C, and Steve continued grumbling. Then the players were back on court from the changeover and he was back on the air.

“The players are evenly matched at one set apiece,” Steve said. “Although they’re not so evenly matched when you look at their records on clay. This surface just hasn’t been kind to Rossovich over the years. He’s a great champion, but I think the one year he made the semis here at Roland Garros might be the farthest he’s going to go.”

His partner in the booth agreed, rattling off some statistics for both players. However, they were broadcasting on an American network, and the public wanted to at least hold out some hope that their favorite players could pull the upset. Therefore, Steve added, “But Luke did get to the quarters last week in Hamburg, so there’s hope yet. Maybe he can take this third set and pull ahead of Marcel Lopez.”

Steve and his partner looked at each other and rolled their eyes. They’d be surprised if Luke Rossovich ever won another Slam in the twilight of his career, let alone the French Open.

Clouds crept across the Paris sky, threatening rain. Luke wiped his brow with the sleeve of his T-shirt and bounced the ball twice before going into his service motion. It had rained the day before, making the clay court even slower, and Luke’s usually killer serves were turning into easy returns for his opponent.

Lopez blasted a backhand over the net and Luke ran for it, smacking a forehand return back. Luke had taken the first set, but Lopez had drubbed him in the second, winning it 6-2. They rallied back and forth, Luke finally winning on a forehand reach that had him sliding onto the clay court on his ass. He stood up and brushed himself off as the crowd applauded.

He was popular no matter where he went in the world, and shouts of “Allez, Luke!” could be heard throughout the stadium. It was the round of sixteen, meaning that sixteen players were left in the draw. Luke had been seeded seventh in the tournament due to his world ranking, but at Roland Garros, that didn’t mean much. He’d been in the top ten in the world for the past nine years, but on clay, there were dozens of men who could beat him.

He lunged for a passing shot and missed. Lopez pumped his fist, a break of serve within his grasp. Luke wiped his brow again and huffed out a breath before bouncing the ball. He threw it up into the air and hoped for the best.