Page 14

Chapter Fourteen

Andrew

On Saturday morning, I stand awkwardly in front of the mirror in cream chinos and a light-blue button-down shirt.

Apparently, a certain standard of dress is expected from spectators at Wimbledon, and after consulting British etiquette guides, I quickly determined my generic IT-guy wardrobe wouldn’t cut it.

My personal shopper assured me my current outfit strikes the perfect balance between “respectable tennis spectator” and “definitely not trying too hard.”

The knock at the door interrupts my agonizing. My heart does this embarrassing flutter thing as I move to answer it.

I open the door and…damn.

Damn.

Justin’s wearing a fitted navy blazer over a white shirt that somehow makes his shoulders look even broader than usual. His hair is artfully tousled, designer sunglasses pushed up on top. The overall effect is somewhere between British gentleman and GQ model, and I have to grip the doorframe to steady myself. Which is ridiculous. I should be beyond getting weak-kneed over a well-tailored blazer and a pretty face.

Especially this particular pretty face.

Justin, meanwhile, is doing his own scan of me, which leads me to discover new and exciting levels of self-consciousness I didn’t know existed.

He raises his gaze to mine and holds it just a beat too long, something unreadable flickering in his eyes.

“You look great,” he says finally.

Shit. I’m pretty sure my whole body is flushing at that compliment. I adjust my glasses, trying to recover some semblance of composure.

There’s nothing for me to worry about. Being friendly with Justin is simply part of my revenge plan.

As we travel on the train together, I can’t help thinking that this change of tack is actually quite brilliant.

My initial objective was to make him feel some of the same social embarrassment he caused me in high school.

But I’m not just going for punishment anymore.

I’m going for guilt.

I want Justin to feel guilty about the way he treated me. I want him to see me as a real person, someone who didn’t deserve to be treated the way he and his friends treated me.

The more he gets to know me, the greater the likelihood of that, right?

Like with all good plans, my tactics are simply evolving with the circumstances.

Justin sits beside me on the tube, chatting easily about the players we’re going to watch today. When we reach our stop, he unfolds himself from his seat with his usual athletic grace, making even the awkward train-exit shuffle look effortless.

“So, are you ready to eat overpriced strawberries while watching highly paid athletes argue with line judges?” he asks me as we head up the stairs.

“Sure. I’ve prepared by watching YouTube tutorials on how to look thoughtful while having absolutely no idea what’s happening.”

Justin’s laugh is deep and genuine.

My stomach does this weird flip thing that I’d really like to blame on the train journey but definitely can’t. It’s the same feeling I got when my first line of code actually worked, that surge of achievement mixed with disbelief.

“I’m so glad you agreed to come,” Justin says as we exit the station. “Wimbledon is just so…British. It’s like this weird British theme park where everyone’s obsessed with grass and proper etiquette.”

“Obsessed with grass?”

“Didn’t I tell you about how they measure the grass?”

“No. You failed to share that fact.”

“It’s true. The grass has to be precisely eight millimeters.”

“I’m beginning to feel slightly worried about the obsession with measuring stuff around here.”

“Don’t worry, if they assess you, I’m sure you’ll measure up,” Justin says.

I roll my eyes, and he gives another laugh at my reaction.

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, I mean 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.

But then Pete’s voice cuts through my spiral of memories.

“Drew, mate!” He leans over Dave to shake my hand. “That fix you did for my corrupted file last week was brilliant. I would have been screwed without you.”

“Yeah, and thanks for sorting out my email filters on Friday,” Dave adds. “I can actually find important messages now instead of drowning in spam about enlarging various body parts.”

“Although maybe you shouldn’t be ignoring those emails.” Pete elbows Dave with a knowing wink.

“IT can fix computers, but some hardware upgrades are beyond our scope,” I deadpan.

There’s a moment of silence, but then everyone cracks up laughing.

“Techno-Genius just burnt you,” Pete crows.

“Looks like he’s as good at verbal takedowns as he is at fixing your password fuck-ups,” Dave replies.

A warmth spreads through my chest, slowly displacing the old, familiar tightness.

I glance at Justin, and the tinge of pride in his smile has me taking a large gulp of my Pimm’s.

I can’t handle Justin Morris looking at me like that.

“Drew, since you’re so good at helping people out…” Dave leans forward, a glint in his eye. “You’re single, right?”

“Yes…” I say cautiously.

“Perfect! My sister’s friend Sophie is visiting next weekend, and my sister wants me to set her up with someone who will treat her well. She’s gorgeous, works in publishing, loves Star Wars . What do you reckon?”

Justin stiffens beside me.

My heart starts racing like an overclocked processor. These guys remind me so much of the jocks from high school—the ones who made my life hell because I was gay—that my fight-or-flight response is automatically launching its startup sequence.

But fuck it. I’m never going into the closet. Not for anyone or anything.

“Actually, I’m gay,” I say.

And I wait for the negative jock reaction, the uncomfortable coughs or the awkward silence, the subtle shifting in their seats.

But Dave doesn’t miss a beat. “Oh, mate, why didn’t you say so? My cousin Mark’s just moved to London. He’s a graphic designer, totally into gaming, and he’s got this amazing collection of vintage computers. You two would have so much in common.”

I can’t help my eyes darting sideways to gauge Justin’s reaction. He’s gone completely still like someone’s hit a pause button. The rim of his Pimm’s glass hovers halfway to his mouth.

The old familiar twist starts in my gut, that instinct honed by years of watching for signs of rejection. But before I can spiral too far into those well-worn neural pathways, Dave’s voice cuts through.

“Though fair warning about Mark, he’s obsessed with Pacman. Like, he’s got the original arcade cabinet and everything.”

“That’s actually kind of impressive,” I say, trying to focus on Dave while still hyperaware of Justin beside me.

“Right? Though he named the Pacman ghosts and talks to them when he plays. That might be a dealbreaker.”

Pete leans forward. “Mate, you can’t judge. You named your golf clubs.”

“That’s different! Gloria the 9-iron earned her name after years of loyal service.”

Their easy banter washes over me. There’s no subtle distancing, no awkward topic changes. Just…acceptance.

Justin finally unfreezes, taking a large gulp of his Pimm’s. He chokes on something, causing him to splutter slightly.

“You okay there?” I ask.

“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 shoulder brushing 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 from Time to Vogue since her quantum computing breakthrough. The tabloids are obsessed with her, the brilliant billionaire who codes in designer heels and gives TED Talks that crash YouTube ’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 roundtables where 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.”

I duck away from him, but instead of heading to the restrooms, I try to circle around to another exit. I can always call Justin to tell I got disoriented by the labyrinth of Wimbledon and went out the wrong exit.

Unfortunately, Catherine detaches from the person she was speaking to and wanders in my direction.

A display of tennis legends looms before me like a cardboard Stonehenge.

Perfect.

I duck behind a life-sized cardboard cutout of Rafael Nadal mid-serve, only to discover that whoever designed these displays clearly didn’t account for panicked tech CEOs playing hide-and-seek.

The Nadal cutout wobbles precariously as I brush against it. I grab for it, but my elbow catches the corner of Serena Williams beside me, and suddenly, I’m conducting an orchestra of falling tennis legends. I lunge to catch Murray, overcorrect, and knock over Roger Federer.

I look up from the carnage to discover Catherine right in front of me.

“Andrew?” Her eyes widen with recognition. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“Catherine! Hi!” My voice comes out an octave too high. I scramble to prop Federer up, nearly taking an ace serve to the face.

I send a quick glance around us, but thankfully, I don’t spot anyone from DTL Enterprises. “I’d love to catch up, but I’m actually?—”

“It’s so great to see you,” Catherine continues, her gaze focused on me like a laser. Which is so Catherine. You don’t get to be called “The Queen of Quantum” by letting people escape behind cardboard tennis players. “I was literally about to send you an email. There’s a position on the board of my new startup, and I was hoping you’d consider it.”

I finally manage to restore some dignity to the tennis legends, though Federer’s listing slightly to the left like he’s had one too many champagnes at the Champions’ dinner.

“Um…I’m flattered, but I’m working on a project at the moment, and it’s taking most of my energy.”

“I’ll send you the information anyway. Just have a look. We’re not just pushing boundaries. We’re rewriting the laws of physics. And our funding round just hit nine figures. We’d love to have you working with us.”

“I’ll definitely take a look,” I promise. “Anyway, I must run. Otherwise, I’ll miss my ride. Catch up soon!”

“Looking forward to it.”

I edge away from Catherine just as Justin rounds the corner with Dave and Pete.

When they reach me, Dave’s eyes are wide. “Holy shit. Was that Catherine Zhang you were talking to?”

Justin spins around so fast that I’m surprised he doesn’t give himself whiplash. “Was it? Really?”

“Um…yeah, she was lost and wanted directions to the restroom,” I say.

He blinks at me. “Catherine Zhang just asked you for directions to the restroom?”

Asking me to join the board of her company, asking for directions to the restroom… Same difference, right?

“Um…yeah.”

Justin rocks back on his heels, his eyebrows climbing toward his hairline. His face does this adorable thing where he looks both impressed and skeptical.

“Oh my god, Drew, you’re so chill about it. I would have thought you’d be freaking out and fanboying all over her.”

The irony of Justin thinking I’d be star-struck by Catherine Zhang makes me want to laugh slightly hysterically.

“I am freaking out about it. I just keep my freaking out and fanboying internal,” I manage to say.

He grins at me. “I admire your restraint. Don’t worry. We’ll back you up when you tell Xander and Adam about it on Monday.”

“Yeah, well, wait until you hear about how I gave Bill Gates directions to Pret yesterday. I’m basically tech support to the stars now,” I say, and Justin laughs.

I actually have been on a tech panel with Bill Gates, but it’s not really the right time to share that story. In my Drew Smith identity, I’m supposed to be star-struck by tech celebrities rather than on a first-name basis with them.

My shoulders start to unknot as the distance between us and Catherine grows. Though I can’t quite shake the feeling that my carefully constructed house of cards just wobbled more dangerously than the cardboard cutout tennis players.

My panic over Justin discovering my true identity is just because my revenge plan is on Phase Two: Guilt, right? And the more Justin gets to know me and like me, the guiltier he’ll feel about what he did to me when he discovers my true identity.

I’m still doing this for Teenage Andrew, who learned to make himself smaller, quieter, invisible because of Justin and his friends. That Andrew deserves for Justin to get his comeuppance.

Doesn’t he?

As we head toward the exit, Justin, Pete and Dave still buzzing about my supposed brush with tech royalty, my pulse calms. It’s okay. This is all going to plan. Getting closer to Justin, making him trust me, like me…is all just preparation for the moment I finally reveal who I really am.

So why does the thought of that moment fill me with dread instead of anticipation?