Off Court - Chapter 9.2

I was lying in bed in my running gear. This was stupid. This was so stupid. Pls come running tonight, his message had read. I had to help him, but God this was stupid. I was a professional tennis player. I had to keep a regular sleeping rhythm.

Christina was in the bed between me and the door and had finally started snoring. I don’t know what she’d have said about me doing this, but I just couldn’t deal with it right now. So I’d worn my pyjamas over my clothes and slipped them off by pretending to toss and turn. I crept out of the bed, carefully transferring my weight onto my feet so that I didn’t make any sound from impact. Then I took precisely measured step after step to the door, making as little noise as was absolutely possible. Christina continued to snore.

Then I was at the door. I eased it open as quietly as I could, which was going fine until something electronic clicked much louder than a manual lock would have. I sucked a breath in and twisted round to check on Christina. She’d gone quiet, but if she was awake, she wasn’t saying anything.

“Kiki?” I whispered.

“You going to him?” she asked.

I jumped a bit, convinced that she’d have asked me what was going on as soon as she awoke. Maybe she’d wanted me to think I’d made it without waking her. Would she even have let me know there was no secret?

“Yeah,” I said, “I know it’s ridiculous and I need my sleep but I have to.”

“It’s okay, I understand,” she said. Then her shadowy figure turned over onto its other shoulder and her breathing slowed back down.

I opened the door and checked the time on my phone. Five past one. I was five minutes late. He was standing literally right there when I opened the door, the creepy fuck. I nearly staggered backwards into the door with shock but he grabbed my arm and held me upright. I wished so bad I could see his eyes but maybe I’d have regretted it. I wouldn’t have betted against them looking totally dead.

He let go of me, then rushed forwards again and gave me a quick hug.

“Thank you,” he said as he drew back.

“It’s fine,” I said as we turned to walk along the corridor, “I want to help.”

He didn’t say anything – I guess there wasn’t much to say – until we had reached the end of the corridor and descended all the stairs. The lobby was a bit more brightly lit and there was a single receptionist staring at her computer as we walked past. Her eyes might have briefly flicked up but she looked far too tired to say anything. All the better for us.

We warmed up in the hotel car park, going over our route as we stretched. He had it all mapped out, didn’t really need my input for anything. Maybe he’d just wanted a friend. That was what I was here to be, so I just nodded along with him.

We started out on the roads, occasionally crossing over into more grassy areas. But most importantly, it seemed, we kept going forwards. We barely looped round at all, or even curved significantly. If it hadn’t been the middle of night, we’d have been running off into the sunset.

Then all of a sudden Camillo put a hand out and stopped running. We were in a little stretch of grass, with a single park bench and a little pond that the stars glittered in.

“Can we sit down for a sec?” he said.

I looked round at him and saw that the whites of his eyes were enormous, big bright beacons reflecting the light of the moon.

“Sure,” I said, following his lead to take a seat on the bench.

“I owe you-” he took a deep breath – “an explanation. When we play tomorrow, you can’t be worrying about me while you’re trying to serve.”

I nodded. There was nothing to say. He was finally talking.

“I’ve had to escape once before in my life, from the war in Syria. Way back then, my parents ran with me, my sister and my grandfather halfway across the world. Well, it felt like that far for a ten-year-old.”

He smiled a little at that, and I wondered what little moment had just popped into his head. Something from his home before the war? The moment they’d reached safety?

“My mum and dad are my heroes. David Ferrer is cool and all, and I know I said he’s my hero ‘cause I never want to give up, but I got that from my parents. They got me across a sea against all the odds, against all the people who thought we were immigrant scum. They ran me away from the last tragedy. But no running in the world is going to get me away from the fact that my dad is going to forget about everything we went through. Still, hat doesn’t stop me wanting to try.”

I took a deep breath and tried to figure out what on earth to say to his. He sat facing straight ahead, gulping occasionally and breathing quickly. I instinctively slid closer to him and wrapped my arm around his waist, letting him lean his head on my shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” I said, almost right into his hair.

“For what?” he said, his voice vibrating my bones as he drew himself closer to me.

“For thinking this was something I could relate to. For judging you and thinking you a shitty freind,” I said. I patted his waist and waited for some more words to come to me. “So you’re trying to escape into tennis?”

“Yes,” he said, “It’s the only place I can go.”

I smiled. “That I can relate to.”

He sat up a bit, but my arm was still around him so that didn’t really work. I lifted it away and turned so I was facing him more straight on.

“So tomorrow we escape then,” he said. I think he might even have been grinning.

“I … I don’t know,” I said, “For the first time in ages, I don’t really feel the need to escape. You brought me out my shell, you monster.”

Camillo chuckled. I’d made him chuckle.

“You can escape if you want to though,” I said, once we’d been silent for a little while. “If that would make it easier for you.”

“Why wouldn’t I?” he asked. This was almost a little sharp, his voice just taking a slightly harder edge than the soft whispers we had been trading.

I fidgeted with the pocket of my shorts. “Well, you haven’t been the most fun best friend for the past couple of days – but really, that’s not important. I don’t want to make things worse for you. So if you need it, I can give you some space. I can do that.”

“Just one more day,” he said, “One more match and I’ll be back to normal.”

I could feel my eyebrows shoot up. “One more thrashing six-love, six-love?”

He laughed. A much fuller, less sardonic laugh. “Yeah, one more of those, then I’ll be a better friend.”

I grinned. I was about to make a joke along the same lines, then a rather more pressing thought occurred to me.

“Uh, you might be a better friend after tomorrow but… How are you currently at being a son?”

That brought his residual giggles to an abrupt end. After a long few moments of silence he said, “I might not have spoken to either of my parents since I found out the news.”

I gasped. “Jesus, Camillo! Okay, you can be a shitbag to me for as long as you want but call your fucking father!”

He was silent for a second, then another, then ten or so more. Then he burst out laughing even louder than he had so far. I glanced around us but there didn’t seem to be too many residential-looking properties nearby.

“I will, Léo,” Camillo said, “And not at the expense of being nicer to you either. After I give you a double bagel tomorrow I promise I’ll call him right away.”

I laughed almost as loud as he had and wrapped him into a tight hug. He crossed his arms over my back and gripped my sides hard, pinching me so much it was almost painful. I buried my face in his neck, which stank of sweat but I didn’t care. I wanted so very much to kiss that patch of skin right there, then pull away and kiss him properly. That’d be one way to escape. But if him kissing me when he’d been rebounding from someone else had been shitty, then me kissing him when he’d just bared the depths of his soul to me was disgusting.