Mitch’s toast. “The future,” Mitch said.
That was a toast Ryan could definitely get behind. They talked about their plans for the rest of the year, albeit only in general terms, because while Ryan might not be as superstitious as some players, he wasn’t an idiot when it came to tempting fate. They then got into a heated discussion over who was the best player of all time, until Ryan found to his surprise that he’d finished his beer.
Mitch got them both a fresh bottle and they took them outside to sit at one of the tables, where Mitch wanted to know all about Ryan. His eyes were steady and warm on Ryan’s face, filling with laughter whenever Ryan said something funny, and it seemed that Ryan was definitely on a roll with that today. Either that, or Mitch was easily amused. He told Mitch about his mom and dad, both high-school teachers until his mom had resigned a couple of years ago to concentrate on helping out at the local animal shelter, with a bit of private tutoring thrown in. He also told him how nobody in the family that they knew of had ever done anything more sporty than skiing on vacation. His dad, who was interested in genealogy, was still trying to work out where the rogue tennis gene had originated.
“Because that whole sporty thing does tend to run in families,” Ryan expanded, gesturing enthusiastically with his beer. “Look at the number of doubles players who are brothers or sisters, or there’s Erika Meissen, whose mom was such a good junior player, and then there’s Josh and his dad.” And damn it, Ryan could feel a slight blush starting on his face as he mentioned Josh, and his voice sounded funny to him—overly casual, as if he was trying too hard.
Mitch had definitely noticed something, judging by the way he was looking at Ryan.
“Of course, if that really follows, I should have been a vet or worked at an animal shelter,” Ryan said, trying to cover. “I’d probably be an intrepid earthworm rescuer, swooping in at the last minute wherever new homes are being built, and plucking them out the way of the diggers, like a superhero or something. You reckon earthworms have superheroes?” he asked, warming to his theme. “I wonder what sort of costume I’d have.”
But Mitch was not to be distracted. He reminded Ryan of a robin who’d spotted a nice, juicy earthworm and was going to pin it down without anything stopping him, because, unfortunately for Ryan, earthworm superheroes did not exist.
“How was it, playing with Josh Andrews at the Davis Cup?”
“Yeah, fine,” Ryan said. “Josh kind of helped me with it all, it being my first time.”
Even though Ryan was concentrating on the label he was trying to peel away from the bottle in his hands, he knew Mitch’s eyes hadn’t left his face.
“He was okay with you?”
Ryan looked up, confused. “Yeah, of course.”
“Good,” Mitch said. He started working his thumbnail under the corner of the label on his own bottle, looking awkward about what he was about to say. “You know me, Ry. I don’t want to badmouth anyone, but Josh Andrews can be a real bastard. You can’t trust a word that comes out of his mouth.”
Fury burned through Ryan, sudden and shocking. He fixed his eyes on the bottle in his hands again because otherwise he would say something he really, really shouldn’t, and probably ending up outing Josh and himself with the vehemence of his reply.
Mitch put a hand briefly on his shoulder, in semi-apology. “I just don’t want to see you get taken for a ride by him.”
Ryan forced himself to loosen up where he was rigid under Mitch’s hand. “Whatever,” he said, trying for casual but suspecting it came out more as angry.
Mitch took a swig from his bottle, gazing into the middle distance, and Ryan copied him, willing the anger in him to fade as swiftly as it had flared up.
“A brown and crinkly giant condom,” Mitch said.
Ryan choked on his beer. “What the hell?”
“Earthworm superhero
That was a toast Ryan could definitely get behind. They talked about their plans for the rest of the year, albeit only in general terms, because while Ryan might not be as superstitious as some players, he wasn’t an idiot when it came to tempting fate. They then got into a heated discussion over who was the best player of all time, until Ryan found to his surprise that he’d finished his beer.
Mitch got them both a fresh bottle and they took them outside to sit at one of the tables, where Mitch wanted to know all about Ryan. His eyes were steady and warm on Ryan’s face, filling with laughter whenever Ryan said something funny, and it seemed that Ryan was definitely on a roll with that today. Either that, or Mitch was easily amused. He told Mitch about his mom and dad, both high-school teachers until his mom had resigned a couple of years ago to concentrate on helping out at the local animal shelter, with a bit of private tutoring thrown in. He also told him how nobody in the family that they knew of had ever done anything more sporty than skiing on vacation. His dad, who was interested in genealogy, was still trying to work out where the rogue tennis gene had originated.
“Because that whole sporty thing does tend to run in families,” Ryan expanded, gesturing enthusiastically with his beer. “Look at the number of doubles players who are brothers or sisters, or there’s Erika Meissen, whose mom was such a good junior player, and then there’s Josh and his dad.” And damn it, Ryan could feel a slight blush starting on his face as he mentioned Josh, and his voice sounded funny to him—overly casual, as if he was trying too hard.
Mitch had definitely noticed something, judging by the way he was looking at Ryan.
“Of course, if that really follows, I should have been a vet or worked at an animal shelter,” Ryan said, trying to cover. “I’d probably be an intrepid earthworm rescuer, swooping in at the last minute wherever new homes are being built, and plucking them out the way of the diggers, like a superhero or something. You reckon earthworms have superheroes?” he asked, warming to his theme. “I wonder what sort of costume I’d have.”
But Mitch was not to be distracted. He reminded Ryan of a robin who’d spotted a nice, juicy earthworm and was going to pin it down without anything stopping him, because, unfortunately for Ryan, earthworm superheroes did not exist.
“How was it, playing with Josh Andrews at the Davis Cup?”
“Yeah, fine,” Ryan said. “Josh kind of helped me with it all, it being my first time.”
Even though Ryan was concentrating on the label he was trying to peel away from the bottle in his hands, he knew Mitch’s eyes hadn’t left his face.
“He was okay with you?”
Ryan looked up, confused. “Yeah, of course.”
“Good,” Mitch said. He started working his thumbnail under the corner of the label on his own bottle, looking awkward about what he was about to say. “You know me, Ry. I don’t want to badmouth anyone, but Josh Andrews can be a real bastard. You can’t trust a word that comes out of his mouth.”
Fury burned through Ryan, sudden and shocking. He fixed his eyes on the bottle in his hands again because otherwise he would say something he really, really shouldn’t, and probably ending up outing Josh and himself with the vehemence of his reply.
Mitch put a hand briefly on his shoulder, in semi-apology. “I just don’t want to see you get taken for a ride by him.”
Ryan forced himself to loosen up where he was rigid under Mitch’s hand. “Whatever,” he said, trying for casual but suspecting it came out more as angry.
Mitch took a swig from his bottle, gazing into the middle distance, and Ryan copied him, willing the anger in him to fade as swiftly as it had flared up.
“A brown and crinkly giant condom,” Mitch said.
Ryan choked on his beer. “What the hell?”
“Earthworm superhero
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