A decade ago, Simon Burnside retired from his career in professional tennis, leaving behind memories, teammates, and a younger player, Luca De Marchi, who had always looked up to him for reasons Simon can't quite fathom. Now working on his family farm in Yorkshire, tennis is the furthest thing from Simon's mind, until he hears word that Luca De Marchi has written a memoir about both his life as a closeted gay athlete and his great respect for Simon.
When Luca comes to town on a book tour, Simon takes the opportunity to delve back into his former life on the tennis court. But when Luca admits his admiration was always more than just professional, will Simon take the shot, or will he play it safe and lose a chance at love?
Luca had sported a silver lamé jacket, shimmering and glinting in the lights like a wearable disco ball. Simon remembered that very clearly, because it had stood out like a beacon among the dozens of black and dark grey suits. His stubble looked artfully cultivated, rather than the result of a long flight and jet lag, like Simon's, and a diamond stud winked in each of his ears. He was an attractive man, in all senses of the word. He was devastatingly handsome, incredibly sexy, and he drew all the attention in the room as soon as he entered it.
Luca's attention, inexplicably, was on Simon almost from the first. Simon could feel it, like a weighty thing, and he could feel himself flushing as he made small talk with Rafael Nadal's coach. As soon as the man turned away to find the hors d'oeuvres -- at least that was what Simon had thought he said, the coach’s English was not the best and Simon was far too well-mannered to let on how little he understood -- Simon raised his nearly-empty glass of champagne to his lips and saw Luca close beside him.
Very close. Simon stepped back automatically, and bumped into a pillar.
“Mr. Burnside, yes?” Luca's blue eyes glittered almost as brightly as his jacket, his smile wide and his teeth white. He spoke loudly, in a strong accent. The few people in attendance who had not already had their attention drawn by his clothing turned to look at the sound of his voice, and, by extension, they looked at Simon.
Simon felt himself flushing. He hated these types of gatherings. He wanted to play tennis. That was all. He had no interest in or aptitude for the social side of it, for the gladhanding of sponsors, the camaraderie, sometimes genuine but often false, with his rivals. He suffered more nerves over parties like this than he did over any match, no matter how important.
“Yes. Um. Yes. Simon,” Simon confirmed.
Luca stuck out his hand. Shifting his champagne glass, Simon shook it, momentarily surprised at the strength of Luca's grip. “I am ... big fan. Of you.” Luca beamed at him. “You best player, yes?
“Oh, I don't know about that.” Simon glanced up. Most of the partygoers had returned to their own conversations, but several pairs of eyes were still trained in their direction. “I'm seeded sixth.” That was a bit of a disappointment, but the tour had not been especially kind to him this year.
“No, no.” Luca shook his head. He sighed, casting his eyes upwards as if asking for some sort of intervention, then returned his gaze to Simon. “I no have the words, yes? But you best player. For me. Wimbledon duemilasette. I see. I want to play you.”
“That's very flattering.” It was. Simon had been born in an age of greats: Nadal, Federer, Djokovic, not to mention many others who were “merely” good. “I'm glad ...” Simon didn't know what to say, and he didn't have the excuse of a language barrier.
“Thank you,” he said, instead. Luca's face lit up like Simon had said something profound.
Before Simon knew what was happening, Luca had thrown his arms about him. Stubble scratched his skin as Luca kissed him on each cheek, then clapped him on the shoulder, hard enough to slosh the remnants of champagne in his glass. “Simon Burnside,” he repeated, enunciating each word with precision. “The best player.”
He walked off to rejoin what seemed to be a coterie of other Italians. Still, for the rest of the evening, Simon would occasionally glance up to see Luca looking at him from wherever he was in the room. He always smiled when Simon caught his eye. If he had a glass in his hand, he inevitably raised it in Simon's direction.
The encounter was a strange one, but Luca, Simon soon learned, was a strange man. He was also an extremely popular one. More popular, in some locations, even than Federer and Nadal. Luca's fans, who called themselves Disciples of De Marchi, soon appeared en masse at every tournament, dressed in the green, white and red of the Italian flag, cheering every point he won. There were a lot of them. Luca rose rapidly in the ranks. Soon Simon saw him at every tournament, from Montreal to Beijing, from Dubai to California. Every time they met, whether it was at the airport or in the changing room or in the hallway of a hotel, Luca embraced him like a long-lost brother, kissing his cheeks and declaring him, “the best player.”
“He fancies you,” Simon's coach, Heather Sturgess, said one evening, after a particularly effusive greeting at a players' luncheon in New York.
“Oh, I don't think that's it.” Luca was magnetic. He could have anyone he wanted. Why would he ever have any interest in someone like Simon?
