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“Shit! It’s him,” Michael hisses, sitting up in his chair and leaning forward like a bloodhound in the direction of the press area. “How do I look?”
Isobel lifts her gaze from her phone, expression extremely unimpressed, and arches a perfect brow.
“Like a douchebag,” she answers with a shrug. “Tennis whites. It’s not your fault.”
Michael scoffs, but he knows she’s right. Throughout their long and illustrious career, he’s tried to make the pastel polos and sweatbands he absolutely needs to harness his wild curls during a match work for him, but despite his best efforts he just looks like an enormous tool. And right now, sitting on a rickety chair on the baking asphalt of the court directly following he and Isobel’s winning mixed doubles match for charity, he probably looks like a sweaty, dirty tool.
“Which one has you all ‘heart eyes’ again?” Isobel asks, craning her neck to scan the sea of camerapeople, reporters, and assistants.
“That one,” Michael sighs dreamily, nodding towards a slim, broad-shouldered reporter with dark eyes, tan skin, and wind-swept brown hair. “The new reporter for ESPN. God, he’s beautiful. And his voice is fucking dead sexy.”
“Nice,” Isobel says, assessing the man with an approving gaze before returning to her phone. “He looks like he could keep you in line.”
“Fuck, I’d step out of line just so he’d put me ba--” Michael cuts himself off, glances quickly away when the reporter suddenly turns sharply, dark eyes finding Michael across the court.
Isobel laughs.
“Very smooth,” she teases him.
Michael turns slowly towards Isobel for cover but follows the reporter over her shoulder as he makes small talk with his colleagues. The reporter laughs and smiles, but his head is tilted slightly towards where Michael and Isobel sit, and he brings his hand up to left ear more than once. Michael wonders if his ear is hurting, and also if he’d let Michael soothe it with his mouth.
“Did he see me staring?” he asks.
“Oh, definitely,” Isobel nods, barely glancing up. “So, if you wanna fall to your knees for this guy so badly, why not just throw him one of your ridiculous puns about your balls? For some inexplicable and horrific reason, that seems to work for you.”
Michael shakes his head vehemently, curls flying.
“Not for nothin,” he drawls. “I want to marry this man. I want a white picket fence and kids. I want him to fuck me on Sunday mornings on our California king and then let me make him waffles. This is not the time to be talkin’ about my balls.”
“Okay!” the event coordinator chirps, a bit too loud, suddenly standing in front of Michael and Isobel with Michael’s reporter at her side. “You two ready? We’ve got to keep a bit of a tight ship, so you’ll have fifteen minutes with each outlet. First up is Alex Manes with ESPN.” She gestures at the reporter beside her. “Oh, and have your mics been checked?”
A loud, gleeful laugh bursts out of Isobel as Michael gapes. Their fucking mics. For a wildly hopeful second he thinks maybe the reporter--Alex--hasn’t been mic’ed yet, but as the pieces fall into place--the touch to Alex’s ear, his sudden eye contact across the court--Michael knows he’s not that fucking lucky. Not off the court. Not today.
“No need,” Alex says smoothly, tapping his left ear. He makes direct eye contact with Michael and adds, “We hear them loud and clear.”
Isobel, wretched sister that she is, claps her hands together excitedly as Michael groans.
The event coordinator rushes off and Alex takes his seat before them, smirking at Michael as he stumbles to apologize.
“I’m so--I mean, I can’t--Fuck, I really--”
“Don’t worry about it, Michael,” Alex says as Michael hangs his head. “Though, if I could offer some input...”
Michael snaps his head up, a chaotic grin stretching wide across his face as Alex meets his gaze with warm, teasing eyes and a soft, almost shy smile.
“Yeah?” Michael breathes.
“I’ve always wanted a beagle.”