Chapter 38: Chapter 38
The silence lasted so long Violet thought they’d both fallen asleep. Then Andrey’s voice cut through the dark, quiet and clear. “My arm is dead. You are crushing it.”
Violet jerked, beginning to shift her weight off his bicep. “Oh god, sorry.”
He tightened his fingers around hers, stopping her. “It is okay. It was a good death.” A low laugh rumbled in his chest. “Worth it.”
Sascha snorted from behind her, his breath warm against her shoulder. “Dramatic.”
“You are not the one being crushed by two people,” Andrey retorted, but there was no heat in it, only a rough affection.
Violet relaxed back into the warmth of them, the strange new geography of their bodies. The initial intensity had faded, leaving a heavy, languid awareness in its wake. Her mind, however, was beginning to stir from its stunned quiet. The reality of the situation—naked in a tangle of sheets between two of the world’s top tennis players—threatened to descend with a dizzying, anxious rush.
“What time is it?” she asked, just to say something.
Sascha reached over her, his movement causing the mattress to dip. The bright screen of his phone lit his face in a pale blue wash. “Half two.” He tossed the phone onto the nightstand. “The night is young. For some people.”
“For normal people, it is the middle of the night,” Andrey mumbled, already sounding drowsy again. “I have practice at nine.”
“So cancel it.”
“I cannot. My coach will murder me. Slowly.”
Their familiar, grumbling banter was a lifeline. Violet clung to it, letting the normalcy of their friendship soothe the buzzing in her veins. This was just Sascha and Andrey. The same guys who’d argued over the music in the car, who’d teased each other while cooking. She’d just… crossed a new line with them. Several new lines.
As if reading her thoughts, Sascha’s hand, which had been resting on her hip, slid up to her ribcage, his palm flat over her heart. He could probably feel its quick rhythm. “You’re thinking too loud again,” he murmured.
“It’s a lot to not think about.”
Andrey turned his head toward her. In the faint light, his eyes were dark pools. “What is the loudest thought?”
She hesitated, then gave voice to the simplest one. “I just don’t want this to be weird tomorrow.”
Sascha’s chest shook with a silent laugh. “It will be a little weird. That is inevitable. But it does not have to be bad weird.” He paused. “We are still the same people who ate your terrible moussaka.”
The unexpected callback startled a genuine laugh from her. “It was not terrible!”
“It was creative,” Andrey offered diplomatically.
“See?” Sascha’s thumb stroked a slow arc on her skin. “We survived the moussaka. We will survive the morning after.”
The simplicity of his logic disarmed her. He was right. The world hadn’t ended. They were just here, talking in the dark, sticky and tired and real. Her heartbeat began to slow under his hand.
“I should shower,” she said after a moment, though the idea of moving felt impossible.
“Da,” Andrey agreed, making no move himself. “You smell like Sascha’s expensive cologne and poor decisions.”
Sascha pinched her side gently. “He means me. I am the poor decision.”
Finally, with a collective groan, they untangled themselves. The cool air of the room hit Violet’s skin, raising goosebumps. She fumbled for her dress, slipped it on, the silk clinging unpleasantly to her damp skin. They moved through the dark villa like ghosts, not speaking, the only sound the slap of bare feet on polished concrete.
In the bathroom, Sascha turned on the shower. Andrey leaned against the sink, scrubbing a hand over his face. The bright lights were merciless, highlighting the fatigue under their eyes, the faint red marks on skin. Violet caught her own reflection: hair a wild tangle, smudged mascara, a faint red patch on her neck from Sascha’s stubble. She looked thoroughly debauched. A slow flush crept up her chest.
Andrey noticed her staring. He met her eyes in the mirror. “What?”
“Nothing. Just… reality check.”
He turned, leaning back against the sink. “Reality is overrated.” He reached out, snagging the belt of Sascha’s robe where it hung on the door. “Here. You look cold.”
She took it, wrapping the soft, monogrammed fabric around herself. It smelled overwhelmingly of him—laundry detergent and that distinct, clean scent. It was a possessive gesture, but it felt protective.
Sascha tested the water, then stepped in, beckoning them. It wasn’t like before. This was functional, sleepy. Andrey shampooed his hair with his eyes closed, swaying slightly. Sascha soaped a cloth and handed it to Violet without ceremony. She washed, the hot water sluicing away the physical evidence, though the sensory memory felt etched into her nerves.
After, wrapped in towels, they stood in the dim hallway. A subtle uncertainty returned. Where did they sleep? The unasked question hung in the air.
Andrey solved it with a yawn so wide his jaw cracked. “I am taking the guest room. My snoring will keep you both awake.” He said it casually, as if declaring his choice of breakfast cereal. He gave Violet’s damp shoulder a brief squeeze, his touch firm and warm. “Goodnight, Violet. Do not let him steal all the covers.”
He padded down the hall, leaving her alone with Sascha.
Sascha watched him go, then looked down at her. His expression was unreadable, a mix of exhaustion and something more guarded. “You okay?”
She nodded. “Yeah. Are you?”
He shrugged, a slight, elegant movement. “It’s a lot.” He ran a hand through his wet hair. “My bed is big. You can have your own side. No expectations.”
The offer was kind, and it made her decision easier. “Okay.”
His bedroom was immense and minimalist. The sheets had been changed, a fresh, cool expanse of white linen. He climbed in one side, she the other. There was a full meter of space between them. They lay on their backs, staring at the ceiling.
“The comma,” she whispered into the dark.
“Hmm?”
“You said this was a comma. Not a full stop.”
He was silent for a long moment. “I meant it.”
“What does a comma look like tomorrow?”
He turned his head on the pillow. She could just make out his profile. “Coffee. Maybe a walk. Andrey will complain about his practice. I will check my emails and ignore most of them. You will probably overthink something. Normal things.”
“And after Monte Carlo?”
“You have a visa. A passport.” He said it simply, as if the logistics were trivial. “The tour moves. Madrid, Rome, Paris, London. Hotels and rental houses and airports. It is not a glamorous life. It is repetitive. But you could see it, if you wanted. From the inside.”
The invitation was staggering. It wasn’t a declaration of love; it was a practical offer of access into the grinding, unglamorous machine of their world. It felt more real than any grand promise.
“I might want that,” she said, her voice barely audible.
“Good.” He shifted, turning onto his side, facing away from her. “Then go to sleep. The comma needs a pause to be effective.”
Violet woke to the smell of coffee and low, aggravated Russian muttering from another room. Sunlight streamed in through the slats of the blinds, painting bright stripes across the bed. Sascha’s side was empty, the sheets cool.
She sat up, clutching the duvet to her chest. The events of the night before descended not with a shock, but with a deep, resonant thud of reality. She listened. Andrey’s voice grew louder, punctuated by the clatter of what sounded like a pan. Sascha’s lower tone replied, calm and needling.
A slow smile spread across her face. It was just… morning.
She found Sascha’s discarded t-shirt and pulled it on. It fell to her mid-thigh. Padding barefoot into the sprawling kitchen, she found the scene. Andrey, dressed in practice gear, was glaring at a sophisticated espresso machine. “It has too many buttons! It is a machine for making coffee, not launching a rocket.”
Sascha, leaning against the counter with a full cup, smirked. “You have to grind the beans first, andriukha. Not just stare at it with menace.”
“I am menacing the beans into submission.”
Violet’s laugh broke their standoff. They both turned. Sascha’s gaze did a quick, sweeping assessment, from her messy hair down to her bare legs, and a faint, approving smile touched his lips. Andrey just looked relieved.
“You can work it?” he asked, gesturing at the machine.
“I’m Australian,” she said, as if that explained everything. She nudged him aside, familiarized herself with the controls, and within a minute had a steady stream of dark espresso flowing.
Andrey exhaled. “You are a genius. I will name my first child after you.”
“Violet is a terrible name for a Russian boy,” Sascha said.
“It will be a girl. With a terrifying backhand.”
The normalcy was disarming, and utterly perfect. They moved around each other with a new, unspoken ease. Violet sipped her coffee at the island, watching as Andrey gulped his down and grabbed his bag. He came around to her, hesitated for a second, then dropped a quick, firm kiss on the top of her head. “See you later. Do not let him be boring.”
And then he was gone, the front door closing with a solid thud.
The silence he left behind was different. Lighter. Sascha rinsed his cup, his back to her. “So,” he said. “The day after.”
“So,” she echoed.
He turned, leaning against the sink. “I have a few calls. You’re welcome to the house, the pool, the media room. There’s food. Or…” He tilted his head. “You could come with me. I’m just going to the club. To hit for an hour. Shake out the stiffness.”
It was an invitation into his real life, the unglamorous work behind the spectacle. The chance to see him in his element, not as a host or a lover, but as a athlete.
“I’d like that,” she said.
“Good. Wear something you can sweat in.” He pushed off the counter, walking toward her. He stopped close, but didn’t touch her. He just looked down, his eyes searching hers. The morning light showed the faint lines at the corners of his eyes, the subtle stubble on his jaw. He looked more human than he ever had on a magazine cover. “No regrets?”
Violet thought about the anxiety, the dizzying improbability of it all. Then she thought of the silence in the dark that had felt full, not empty. Of Andrey’s kiss on her head. Of the simple offer of a day.
“No,” she said, and found she meant it. “No regrets.”
A genuine, unguarded relief flashed across his face, so brief she might have imagined it. He nodded once. “Then get dressed. I don’t like to be late.”
As she walked back to the bedroom to change, her phone buzzed on the nightstand. A notification from a tennis news app flashed: Zverev Spotted with Unidentified Woman in Monte Carlo. Below it was a grainy, long-lens photo from the port yesterday, of the two of them walking, his hand on the small of her back.
The comma, it seemed, was already being read by the outside world. Violet picked up the phone, took a deep breath, and swiped the notification away. The story could wait. The reality was right here, waiting for her in a sun-drenched kitchen, and it was far more compelling.
The three of them, nestled in the dark, in a silence that was no longer awkward, but deeply, profoundly full. Violet’s last conscious thought was that this must be what peace felt like, a heavy-limbed quiet that reached all the way to her bones.
She woke to the smell of coffee and the low murmur of German from the kitchen. Morning light, sharp and Mediterranean, cut across the rumpled duvet. She was alone in the bed, but the indents on the pillows next to her were still deep. A man’s navy bathrobe was draped over the footboard. She pulled it on, the sleeves swallowing her hands, and padded barefoot across the cool tile.
Sascha was at the espresso machine, shirtless in sweatpants, his back a fascinating map of muscle and old tan lines. Andrey, already dressed in a fresh t-shirt and shorts, was scrolling through his phone at the breakfast bar, a cup steaming beside him.
“Sleep okay?” Andrey asked, not looking up.
“Unbelievably,” Violet said, her voice still rough.
Sascha turned, holding out a small cup. “Here. This will help.”
The espresso was bitter and perfect. She drank it standing there, the robe gaping slightly, feeling utterly and strangely normal. The world hadn’t ended. The sun was up. They were just three people in a kitchen.
“I have to be at the club in an hour,” Andrey said, finally setting his phone down. “Hit with Medvedev. He will probably yell at me for two hours straight.”
“He yells at everyone,” Sascha shrugged, leaning against the counter. His eyes, calm and appraising, stayed on Violet. “What about you? Plans for your last day in Monaco?”
The question was casual, but the air tightened. This was the unspoken edge of the “comma.” Violet traced the rim of her cup. Her old anxiety whispered about overstaying, about becoming a burden. But the memory of his hands, of Andrey’s voice in the dark, was louder.
“I don’t know,” she said, opting for honesty. “I should probably figure out my train to… somewhere.”
Sascha exchanged a glance with Andrey, who gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod.
“Or,” Sascha said, pushing off the counter, “you could skip the train. Come to Madrid. Watch this one get yelled at by Medvedev.” He gestured at Andrey with his chin. “The tournament there is good. You said it yourself.”
He wasn’t pressuring. He was simply laying a card on the table, his expression open. Andrey watched her now too, a faint, curious tension in his shoulders.
Madrid. It was a real place with logistics and crowded practice courts and hotel rooms. It wasn’t a candlelit fantasy in a Monte Carlo villa. It was the relentless season, and he was offering her a glimpse inside. The shy fan in her screamed yes. The pragmatic woman from Melbourne calculated costs and impropriety.
But the woman who had slept between them, who had felt a sense of belonging so profound it terrified her, that woman was in charge now.
Violet took a final sip of espresso, the decision crystalizing as the bitter liquid warmed her throat. She set the cup down with a soft click on the marble.
“Okay,” she said, meeting Sascha’s gaze directly. A smile, bright and unguarded, broke across her face. “Yes. I’d like to see that.”
SHE ACCEPTS HIS OFFER.
The three of them, nestled in the dark, in a silence that was no longer awkward, but deeply, profoundly full. Violet drifted in that weightless space between sleep and waking, aware of the heat of them, the solid press of Sascha’s chest against her back, the rough brush of Andrey’s fingers against her palm. The world had narrowed to this bed, this breath, this unprecedented peace.
A faint, grey pre-dawn light was seeping around the edges of the blackout blinds when she stirred. Sascha was gone from behind her, the sheets cool in his absence. Panic, sharp and instant, sliced through her calm. She bolted upright.
A soft snore came from her left. Andrey was sprawled on his stomach, face mashed into the pillow, one arm flung out where she had been. The sight unknotted something in her chest.
From the doorway, a shadow moved. Sascha leaned against the frame, a glass of water in hand, watching her. He was wearing just his briefs. “Hey,” he whispered. “It’s okay. Just getting water.”
She fell back against the pillows, a hand over her pounding heart. “Sorry. I thought…”
“I know what you thought.” He walked over, offered the glass. She took it, the water cool and anchoring. He sat on the edge of the bed, his eyes tracing the lines of Andrey’s sleeping form, then returning to her. “It’s a lot.”
“Yeah.” She drank, then passed the glass back. “A good lot.”
He smiled at that, a small, private thing. Setting the glass aside, he ran a hand through his sleep-tousled hair. “My back is screaming at me. That rug is not a mattress.”
The mundane complaint made her laugh, a short, quiet puff of air. It felt normal. Andrey grumbled, burrowing deeper into his pillow. “You are both so loud,” he slurred, voice thick with sleep.
“Go back to sleep, ребёнок,” Sascha said, the Russian endearment rolling effortlessly off his tongue.
“I would if you stopped talking.” Andrey cracked one blue eye open, finding Violet. A slow, sleepy smile spread across his face. “Morning.”
“Morning,” she echoed, her own smile forming in response.
The domesticity of it was disorienting. Sascha stood, stretching, his spine giving a soft pop. “I’m making coffee. And ordering actual breakfast. No more cold, sad chicken.”
He padded out of the room. Violet and Andrey listened to his footsteps fade down the hall. The silence that followed was different from the night’s—lighter, filled with the promise of a new day.
Andrey rolled onto his side, propping his head on his hand. He studied her face, his gaze tracing the features he’d learned in the dark. “You stayed.”
“Where else would I go?”
He shrugged, a slight movement. “Some people bolt. After.” His finger reached out, lightly tracing the bruise beginning to bloom on her shoulder from Sascha’s mouth. “It’s a lot to process.”
“I’m processing,” she said, catching his hand. She linked her fingers with his, feeling the calluses on his palm. “I’m just… doing it here.”
He brought their joined hands to his lips, kissing her knuckles. The gesture was so unexpectedly tender it made her chest ache. “Good,” he said simply.
The smell of coffee soon wafted into the room, a siren call. They disentangled themselves, finding discarded clothes. Violet pulled on Sascha’s discarded t-shirt, which hung to her mid-thigh. Andrey tugged on his jeans, commando, not bothering with a shirt.
The main living area was bathed in the clear, sharp light of a Monte Carlo morning. The sea beyond the windows was a dazzling sheet of blue. Sascha stood at the professional espresso machine, a study of concentrated domesticity. He’d put on grey sweatpants.
He slid a cup toward Violet as she approached. “Short black. Like your soul after last night.”
She took the cup, the ceramic hot against her palms. “My soul feels fine, thanks.”
Andrey rummaged in the fridge, emerging with a carton of eggs. “Scrambled?” he asked, holding it up.
“Please,” Violet and Sascha said in unison.
They moved around the kitchen with a practiced, non-verbal coordination that spoke of years of shared spaces on the tour. Andrey whisked eggs in a bowl. Sascha found a pan. Violet set three plates on the island, watching them. This was their reality: transient, functional, a bubble of routine between matches.
“So,” Sascha said, as the eggs began to sizzle in the pan. He leaned back against the counter, crossing his arms. “Madrid.”
Andrey didn’t look up from the stove, but his shoulders stiffened slightly. “What about it?”
“My flight’s at four. Practice at six tomorrow with Becker.” Sascha’s tone was casual, but his eyes were on Violet. “You said you’d think about it.”
She took a sip of the bitter, excellent coffee. The offer from last night, the ‘comma,’ lay between them on the marble countertop. She thought of her hostel room in Nice, her backpack with its worn copy of The Unbearable Lightness of Being and her tournament schedule. She thought of watching him practice, not as a fan behind barriers, but from the players’ lounge. She thought of Andrey’s simple statement: She could come to Madrid.
It was insane. It was impulsive. It was the most real thing she’d ever been offered.
Andrey scraped fluffy yellow eggs onto the plates. He passed one to Violet, their fingers brushing. “You don’t have to decide right now,” he said, but his voice was tight.
Violet picked up a fork, pushing the eggs around. The momentum of the night was still with her, a current pulling her forward. This was the next beat. To stop now would be to let the comma become a full stop. She looked at Sascha, at his carefully neutral expression, and saw the faintest trace of that same loneliness she’d sensed days ago. She looked at Andrey, waiting, trying so hard not to seem like he was waiting.
She put the fork down.
“I’ll need to get my stuff from Nice,” she said. Her voice was clear, firmer than she felt. “And my flight out of Barcelona isn’t for another ten days. I’ve got the flexible ticket.”
Sascha’s neutral mask slipped into a grin, bright and relieved. Andrey let out a breath he seemed to have been holding for an hour.
“Okay,” Sascha said, pushing off the counter. “Okay, good. I’ll have my guy call, get you a seat on my flight. You can stay at the player hotel. Or,” he glanced at Andrey, “wherever.”
Andrey shoved a large forkful of eggs into his mouth. “My apartment has a guest room,” he said after he swallowed. “It’s quiet. Better than a hotel.”
Violet nodded, her heart hammering against her ribs. “The guest room. Okay.”
The conversation shifted then, into logistics and timings, the language of their world. Training blocks, press commitments, the best tapas bar near the Caja Mágica. Violet listened, absorbing it, the surrealism of it hardening into a thrilling, concrete plan.
After breakfast, she showered in the guest bathroom, washing away the last physical traces of the night. Her clothes from yesterday, folded neatly on a chair, felt like a costume from a past life. She dressed slowly.
When she emerged, Sascha was on the phone, speaking low in German, already transitioning back into the world of Alexander Zverev, professional athlete. Andrey was packing a gym bag, his movements efficient.
He looked up as she entered. “Ready?”
“I think so.”
Sascha ended his call. “Car’s coming in twenty. It’ll take you to Nice, then me to the airport.” He walked over to her, his business-like demeanor softening for a second. He tucked her hair behind her ear, his thumb brushing her cheek. “See you in Madrid, Violet Campbell.”
He kissed her, not deeply, but with a firm certainty that felt like a promise. Then he turned and headed toward his office, already on to the next thing.
Andrey shouldered his bag. “He’s like that. Once the day starts, it’s a switch.” He picked up her small backpack, holding it for her. “It’s not personal.”
“I know,” she said, and she did.
The drive to Nice was quiet, the sleek car humming along the coastal road. Andrey held her hand, his thumb stroking her palm, but he was distant, already mentally in Madrid, on the practice court. At her hostel, he waited in the car while she ran upstairs.
Her room was exactly as she’d left it: the unmade bed, the open suitcase, the view of a dusty alley. It felt like a museum exhibit of a person she no longer was. She packed in under ten minutes, her movements hurried, afraid the spell would break if she lingered.
Back in the car, she had her backpack and a small rolling suitcase. Andrey took them from her, storing them in the trunk. “All set?”
“All set.”
He got back in, but didn’t immediately start the car. He turned to her, the sunlight hitting his reddish-blonde hair, making it look like a halo of fire. “This is real,” he said, not as a question, but as a statement for both of them.
“It’s real.”
He leaned across the console and kissed her, a deep, claiming kiss that tasted of coffee and resolve. When he pulled back, his eyes were clear. “Good. Now, I have to drive to the airport and pretend for the next six hours that I am not thinking about last night. This will be very difficult.”
She laughed, the sound bright and free in the confined space. “I believe in you.”
He started the car, pulled out into the traffic. The Mediterranean glittered beside them, endless and blue. Violet watched the coastline blur past, her old itinerary dissolving, a new, uncharted map drawing itself in its place. The momentum carried her forward, away from the shore, toward the heart of the season, toward the comma that was stretching into something she didn't yet have a name for.