Page 51 of The Revenge Game
“Yeah, just engaging in mortal combat with garnish.” His voice sounds slightly strained, but he attempts a smile.
I can’t manage a smile in return. Because I shouldn’t be surprised that Justin seems uncomfortable with me sharing with the sales team that I’m gay. Is this his true colors showing through his carefully constructed nice-guy veneer?
Justin’s smile fades, and for a second, I’m worried he’s read my mind and sensed my resentment.
We’re caught in this strange moment where neither of us seems able to look away. His expression is unreadable, which somehow makes it worse. At least in high school, I always knew exactly what his expressions meant—contempt, dismissal, occasional pity. This…I don’t know how to categorize.
The sound of applause breaks through whatever strange tension has settled between us. I force my eyes away from Justin, focusing instead on the two players arriving on the court and the umpire’s introduction of the players.
As the play starts, an almost religious hush falls over the crowd, like we’ve all collectively entered some sacred British sporting temple. Curiosity finally gets the better of me.
“Why is everyone so quiet?” I whisper to Justin.
“It’s Wimbledon. Silence is mandatory except for polite applause.” Justin’s voice is warm, like usual. “Though sometimes people will gasp if things get really wild.”
“What constitutes wild? Someone brings non-regulation strawberries?”
That earns me one of his genuine laughs, making his eyes crinkle at the corners. “Exactly. Or worse, someone tries to add sugar to their strawberries. That’s practically treason here.”
We settle into a comfortable rhythm of watching and talking quietly to each other between points. Justin explains the scoring system, which seems to make absolutely no logical sense—what kind of scoring system defies normal counting rules by going fifteen, thirty, forty?
“I really don’t quite understand why love equals zero,” I say in an undertone.
“Maybe the person who invented tennis scoring had recently been dumped,” Justin suggests in a low voice, his shoulderbrushing mine as he leans closer. “So they decided love should equal nothing.”
“I prefer to think it was an ancient tennis curse. ‘May your love always equal zero.’”
Justin tips his head back as he laughs, and the afternoon sun catches his profile in a way that makes my breath catch. Apparently, the universe isn’t satisfied with making him unfairly gorgeous. It has to provide perfect lighting too.
“Americans, for the full British experience,” Dave announces, gesturing grandly toward the royal box like a tour guide who’s consumed too many glasses of Pimm’s, “I present to you His Royal Highness Prince Callum and the dashing Oliver Hartwell.”
Sure enough, in the royal box presiding over Centre Court is the recognizable blond head of the Prince of Wales. He’s leaning forward to say something to his husband, Oliver Hartwell, who turns to him with a smile.
Given Oliver Hartwell was the British prime minister when Prince Callum met him, their relationship had been quite the scandal.
But my eyes don’t linger on the royal couple. Instead, they drift up a few rows to another guest in the royal box, and a jolt goes through me.
It’s Catherine Zhang, the tech industry’s newest billionaire. She’s been on every magazine cover fromTimetoVoguesince her quantum computing breakthrough. The tabloids are obsessed with her, the brilliant billionaire who codes in designer heels and gives TED Talks that crashYouTube’s servers.
The last time I saw her, we debated artificial intelligence ethics at a conference in Singapore while sharing an obscenely expensive bottle of whiskey.
My pulse skyrockets as I stare at her. Although Leo was always the public face of NovaCore, Catherine knows me as Andrew Yates, tech CEO. She’s sat next to me at roundtableswhere we passed notes rating other CEOs’ PowerPoint skills. And she definitely knows I’m not a help desk technician named Drew.
I take a deep breath to calm myself.
Wimbledon is a large place. The odds that I will run into her are not high.
Still, I can’t completely relax as the tennis progresses. When the match finally ends, I breathe a sigh of relief.
But of course, that’s when the universe decides to call my bluff.
“Want to grab a coffee before we head out?” Justin asks as we join the crowd filing toward the exits.
I’m about to agree when I spot Catherine’s distinctive silver hair ahead of us. She’s chatting with someone by the coffee stand directly in our path to the exit.
My throat closes. But before I can work out what to say, Justin’s phone buzzes in his pocket. As he checks it, his easy smile shifts to his professional one. “Sorry, it’s that new client from Bristol. Mind if I take this real quick?”
“No problem,” I say, trying not to sound too relieved. “I need to use the restroom anyway.”
