Page 49 of The Revenge Game
Justin and I join the stream of people in Panama hats and pressed chinos moving toward the grounds.
Going through security involves a uniquely British dance of excessive politeness.
“So sorry to trouble you, but would you mind awfully if I just…” The guard gestures at my bag.
“Of course, absolutely, terribly sorry,” I find myself responding.
Inside, the grounds of the All England Club are a surreal mix of pristine lawns and precisely arranged queues.
Justin pauses as we reach the Tea Lawn. “I think we need some sustenance after all that walking. And by sustenance, Imean fruit drowned in cream and alcohol garnished with more fruit.”
He’s already joined the line at the strawberry stand before I can object.
When we get to the front of the line, Justin orders two glasses of Pimm’s and two servings of strawberries and cream, and then reaches for his wallet.
“You don’t have to pay for me,” I say quickly.
“I still owe you for rescuing my technology so many times,” Justin says.
I shuffle uncomfortably. “I’m just doing my job. Besides, you paid for my drink at the pub and saved me from a microwave meal that was probably going to strip my stomach lining.”
His eyes find mine. “You can shout the snacks next time we’re out together.”
Next time? He’s anticipating we’re going to go somewhere else together?
A blush creeps up his neck and onto his cheeks.
“That’ll be twenty-eight pounds ninety pence,” the vendor chirps, and Justin turns to pay her, which gives me a chance to wrestle my heart rate back under control.
What the hell was that?
Apparently, my traitorous body doesn’t show any judgment about what good-looking man’s attention it responds to.
Armed with strawberries and trying not to spill my glass of Pimm’s, I follow Justin up the steps that lead into the Centre Court stadium.
“We’re in row D, numbers five and six.” Justin frowns at his phone and then squints as he scans the crowd.
But I’m the one who spots Dave and Pete and other members of the sales department a few rows behind us.
Dave enthusiastically waves us over, gesturing at two empty seats smack bang in the middle of the DTL Enterprises sales team.
Justin’s posture seems to change, his shoulders straightening as we edge our way down the row, doing a complex dance of “excuse me” and “sorry” and trying not to spill Pimm’s on anyone’s pants.
When we reach our seats, Justin does that hand-slapping greeting thing with the sales team that seems hardwired into the DNA of every former athlete.
“Ready to see some proper British sport?” Dave asks.
“Absolutely. I’ve practiced three different ways to say ‘jolly good show’ with varying levels of enthusiasm,” Justin says. “Got to keep up the professional image, right, lads?”
“Did you see that goal late in the Arsenal match last night? It was an absolute banger!” Pete says.
“That keeper moved slower than you on a Monday morning,” Justin replies.
“It was pure filth, mate,” Dave agrees.
I find myself shrinking into my seat as the sales team continues to banter about player transfers, betting odds, and fantasy league standings.
Shit. This is basically a flashback to the jocks from high school, and my only role in their world was as the punchline to their jokes.
