Yes, but I meant to...

He still couldn’t quite believe he’d actually done it, hadn’t even known he was going to until the words were tumbling out of his mouth without having the common decency to check in with his brain first.  Not that he’d ever planned on hiding his sexuality, had in fact spent many hours with his team discussing the best way to manage the situation.  When his dad had fired his first manager on the spot for suggesting that he get a pretend girlfriend to hide his sexuality Kurt had known then and there that he would always have his him in his corner.  And with that he could do anything. 

Still, didn’t mean it wasn’t scary as all hell though.

He pushed through the doors to the changing rooms, dumped his bag and was just about to strip off his sweaty clothes when a meaty hand collided with his back sending him crashing to the floor.

‘God, already?’ he thought, as he rolled himself onto his back.

‘Oh crap, sorry mate,’ a man said in a crisp British accent, scrambling to help him up from his undignified sprawl.  ‘Didn’t think you’d go down like that, though I suppose you are a skinny little thing.’

‘You didn’t?’ Kurt asked, eyes trained on the floor.

‘Course not, why would I want to do that?   Great match out there by the way, you fought hard for that one.’

‘Th..thanks?’ Kurt stammered as he brushed of his clothes, adding a muttered, ‘guess you weren’t watching what happened after,’ under his breath.

‘Sorry, what was that?’

‘Oh, nothing, nothing.  Sorry, but who are you?’

‘Oh charming, really.  Noah Puckerman, British number two.  But I suppose I wouldn’t really register all the way over there in the big US of A now, would I?’

‘Oh god, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…’ Kurt trailed off as Noah grinned down at him.

‘Calm down, love, I’m just kidding.  British number two, but barely breaking the top 100.  I’m surprised they even let me in the building, to be honest.  Call me Puck,’ he said, holding his hand out to shake.

Kurt took it, with a shy smile, happy to have made an acquaintance, even if it wasn’t likely to last as soon as he turned on a TV.

‘I should, y’know,’ he said, gesturing towards the showers.

‘Sure thing, see you around, little man,’ Puck replied, grinning, heading towards the exit with a wave over his shoulder.  ‘Oh, and by the way, congrats on coming out too.  That one really took balls.’

………………………..................

‘KURT BUMMEL’

‘BALL BOY?’

‘…as you can see, Holly, the papers are dominated by the shock events on the opening day of Wimbledon...’

‘The tabloid’s headline writers must be having a field-day…’

‘Hummel’s surprise announcement at his post-match press conference set the twittersphere alight…’

‘…words of encouragement pouring in from the likes of Sir Elton John, Lady Gaga and actor Neil Patrick Harris, as well as some rather less friendly comments, of course…’

……..................................................

Blaine clicked off the TV, let the remote drop down on the bed and resumed his pacing back and forth across the hotel room.

‘Stop freaking out.’

‘I’m not…’

‘You’re freaking out,’ Santana interrupted.  ‘You’ve been freaking out for the past 12 hours, you’re still freaking out now, and it’s really starting to piss me the hell off.  So, I’ll say it again.  Stop. Freaking. Out.’

Blaine sank down onto the bed and dropped his head into his hands.

‘I don’t know what you want me to say, Santana.  He…’

‘Yeh, the twink came out, I heard it same time as you.  It’s not that big a deal.’

‘Not that…?’ Blaine’s head whipped around to face her.  ‘How can you even say that?  We’ve been hiding this our entire careers.  Years of lying and pretending and now he just… just walks in on day one and…’

‘Yeh, well…it is what it is.  And you have a match in less than 2 hours, so stop moping and pull your shit together already.’

When Blaine made no move, she rolled her eyes and grabbed her bag from the corner and stalked out of the room.

………………………...................................

‘Wow, this is almost hard to watch, John.’

‘Yeah, Boris.  Jankowic is just getting steam-rollered out there.  We knew Lopez was in the form of her career, but something has certainly lit a fire under her today.  I don’t think we’ve ever seen her serve that fast, and her returns are plain brutal.’

‘Ya, ya.  6-1, 4-0, it doesn’t look like this will be going on much longer.’

‘The same can’t be said for her counterpart, Blaine Anderson, though.  He’s having a nightmare of a game against Berdych, not playing anywhere near the level we’ve come to expect from him this season.  And I’ve just got word in my ear that they’ve now entered their 5th set.  Could we be looking for the biggest upset of the tournament?’

………………………..........................

Blaine stood under the warm spray, rolling out his aching shoulders.  If only he could work out the knots in his mind so easily.  He’d almost let that match get away from him, almost crashed out of his defending run in the second round, he just couldn’t keep his mind on the task at hand.  Hell he must have conceded 20 aces because he hadn’t even realised his opponent had even served. 

He knew he couldn’t carry on like this if he wanted any chance at retaining his title, but he’d been knocked for such a loop by Hummel’s announcement he barely knew which way was up. 

He’d just come out there and said it like… like it was nothing.  Did he not care about his career at all? Was he getting hell from his management and PR teams right now?  Did he even have a PR team yet?

Maybe that was it.  Blaine had made such a splash on the junior circuit, he’d been inundated with sponsorship and publicity deals before he was even 15, and he’d been signed to a PR agency before he even knew what was happening.  When the subject of his sexuality had started to rear its head it had been stamped out and doused before it had ever really started.  He’d been paired up with a young, fresh-faced and fiery-tempered Santana Lopez, and so their dance of lies and pretence had started.  And over 15 years later it was still going strong.

Stepping out of the shower, he shook out his hair, wrapped his towel round his waist and walked smack-bang into the cause of all his problems.

‘Oh god, I’m sorry, I wasn’t looking…aaaaand my hands are on your nipples, I should definitely take them off.  Okay.  Taking off now.  Sorry, sorry I’m nervous.  And your Blaine Anderson.  Which, obviously, you know.  Oh god, Kurt shut-up already.’

Blaine just stared as Kurt continued to ramble to himself.  It wasn’t as if he could hear him anyway, could barely focus on anything other than the feel of those hands hot against his chest.  Even after they’d broken contact, he could feel them, a burning emblem emblazoned across his chest, reminding him of everything he’d denied himself for so long. 

He took a deep, shuddering breath, swallowed hard, and dropped his gaze down, noticing the towel slung low on his hips, doing almost nothing to conceal his ‘response’ to their unexpected collision.  He flushed bright red, stumbling back before spinning around, pretending to rummage through his sports bag.

‘What’s wro…oh, right.  Of course.’  Kurt stepped back , blinking hard.  ‘I’m sorry, um…I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.  I’ll just…,’ he stammered turning and almost fleeing for the exit.   As he reached for the door he stopped, jaw tensing.  ‘You know what?  I’m not sorry.  It’s not catchable.  Screw you, Blaine Anderson,’ he spat out, before striding out of the room, head high.

Blaine stayed standing with his back to Kurt, not saying a word as he had throughout the entire exchange, but as the door swung shut he sank down onto the bench, dropped his head into his hands and cried for everything he’d never had.

..........................................................

‘Blaine, Blaine.’

‘Over here, Blaine.’

‘Blaine, on your left.’

‘One at a time, please guys.  He’s only got one set of ears.’

Blaine gave a grateful smile to his coach, before turning back to the crowd of faces and flashing lights before him.

‘Congratulations on the win, Blaine,’ said a familiar face from press rooms across the tour circuit.

‘Thank-you,’ he said with a genuine smile, giving his full attention to the journalist.  He liked to at least try to give back to those he knew focussed more on the sport than the celebrity of it all. 

‘Looking forward to some harder challenges down the line?’

‘Hey,’ he said, holding his hands up in mock indignation, ‘don’t jinx it.  And Pascale put up a good fight.  He’s got a great game, and in a few years when he’s built up his strength and got some big match experience behind him he’ll be right up there.  I’m sure of it.’

‘And how are you feeling about your game at the moment?’

‘Yeh, pretty good, pretty good.  Like I said, I don’t like to jinx things, but I’m in the best shape I’ve been in for a while now and I feel like I’ve worked out a lot of the kinks I had in my serve back at the French Open so…we’ll just have to see, I guess.’

‘I think someone’s here to congratulate you.’

Blaine frowned, following the reporter’s gaze as he turned towards the back of the room, only to see Santana Lopez sashaying her way towards him beside the rows of chairs.  He smiled brightly.  She really did know how to work a room.

‘Hey hon,’ she purred at him as she ascended the steps to the stage, before pulling him in for a deep, showy kiss.  ‘Heard you did good today.’

Blaine stared at her as she pulled away, eyes wide and lips parted where she had left them.

He may have known Santana most of his life, but he’d never quite got used to her brazen attitude. 

‘Smile for the cameras, Sweetheart,’ she whispered with a sickly-sweet smile, lips wet against his ear.

He jerked his head back to towards the packed room in front of him and gave a nervous smile as they all looked up, cameras flashing incessantly.

‘Uh…sssorry to cut it short, guys, but I think we’re just going to…uh head back early and have an easy night of it,’ he stammered, trying desperately to control his shaking.

‘An easy night, sure,’ one of the reporters leered up at him, and Blaine felt his face flush dark red.  He didn’t dignify the comment with a response, but waved and smiled politely to the crowd before walking towards the exit.

He had only taken a few paces, when he felt a hand grasp his tightly, manicured nails biting hard into his palm. 

‘Don’t wear him out,’ someone shouted at them from the back of the room.  Blaine kept his head resolutely down and quickened his pace, even as Santana turned to throw a wink over her shoulder.

………………….................................................................

‘You really are one hell of a shit actor, Blaine Anderson,’ Santana spat out as soon as they were alone in their room.

Blaine, perched on the side of the bed, looked up, confused.

‘Well, looking completely shocked when your girlfriend kisses you, and then nearly running out of the room without her hardly screams ‘The Happy Couple’, does it now?’

Blaine just shrugged his shoulders and reached for the remote. 

‘You know I don’t like it when you surprise me in front of the cameras,’ he said a few moments later.

‘Aaaw, but I wanted to congratulate my boo on his first round win,’ she said with a playful wink.

Blaine tried to smile, but it fell far short.

‘Oh, come on little Blainers,’ she said, ruffling his hair as she sat beside him on the bed, ‘you know I’m just messing with you.  You did fine.  Plus, those gooey-eyed teenaged girls eat up that blushing, innocent shit you serve like its caviar.’

‘Don’t call me Blainers,’ he said, throwing off her arm from around his shoulders, but his smile reached a little higher. 

He might be living a lie, but if he had to live it with anyone, it would be Santana Lopez.  They’d been best friends since the age of 8, when she had walked onto his court at tennis camp and unleashed all Lima Heights Adjacent Hell on some kids who’d stolen his racket.

He couldn’t ask for a better beard.  And neither could she.

He flopped back down onto the bed and turned on the TV.

‘Tennis, really?’ Santana drawled, as she pulled her top over her head and flung her bra across the room.  ‘Can’t we have a break from it for even 5 minutes?’

‘Oh, man,’ he said covering his eyes, ‘don’t wave those things in my face.’

‘Get used to it, baby boy,’ she sang out as she reached across him for the remote.

‘No, wait, WAIT,’ he shouted, grabbing it back and pushing her away.  He sat up again, leaning forwards and watching intently as a skinny, lithe boy walked into the press room.  His hair was standing straight upwards, as if he hadn’t just played a four and a half hour match.

‘He’s cute,’ Santana called over her shoulder as, still very much topless, she walked into the bathroom. 

‘Shut up,’ Blaine shouted back, throwing a pillow that slapped against the closed door.  ‘He’s the newest American to break into the top 100, and I’m the US captain; I should know how he’s doing.’

‘Uuuhuuuh,’ she drawled.  ‘That’s why you’re interested.  Nothing to do with his nubile, 18-year-old body.’

‘You’re vulgar and I hate you.’

‘I’m right and you love me.’

‘He won,’ Blaine said, eyebrows raised.

‘That he did.  In 5 sets, 4 hours and 37 minutes.  Don’t expect him to get much farther.’

‘Hey, I don’t remember either of us getting through the first round in our first senior tournaments,’ he said.  ‘And how the hell do you know every result before it’s even happened?  You’ve not even glanced at a TV since we got up here.’

‘Wouldn’t want to tell you and ruin the mystique,’ she called out over the sound of a running tap.  ‘I don’t know how he managed it though.  He looks like a sharp gust of wind would blow him over.  Bet you wish you could blow h…’

‘SHUT UP, SANTANA,’ Blaine shouted back louder, turning the volume of the TV up to maximum to cover the sound of her cackling. 

‘…must be pretty pleased with your performance today.’

‘Oh wow, yeh,’ Kurt gushed, cheeks flushed, both from his intensity of his match and the thrill of his first press conference.  ‘For sure.  I was so happy just to get the wildcard into the tournament.  I wasn’t even expecting that my first year on the tour, so to actually win my first match, and against Nadal…Yeh, I mean, wow.’

He giggled and blushed as a ripple of laughter went through the room at his obvious excitement.

‘I’m normally a lot more composed than this, I promise,’ he said with a grin, ‘this is all just really new for me.’

‘Nothing wrong with that,’ one of the reports in the front row said, ‘makes a change from some of the jaded faces we see here time and again.  We’re all very happy for you,’

‘Thank you, I really appreciate that,’ Kurt said with a shy smile.

‘So,’ another voice spoke up, ‘you’ve just beaten one of the most famous faces in tennis, that’s definitely going to get you some attention.  What are you planning to do with your new-found fame?  I bet you’ll have the girls knocking your door down.’

‘Oh…’ Kurt rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, face turning a deep red.  ‘Well….I’m…’ he paused for a moment, looking out across the sea of faces and took a deep, slow breath in and then out.  ‘I’m actually gay, so probably not.  But I wouldn’t say no to some of the boys, though.’

Santana poked her head out of the bathroom, toothbrush hanging limply by her side.

‘Did he just say what I heard him just say?’

Blaine didn’t reply.  Couldn’t reply.  He just sat there, mouth gaping, knuckles turning white as he gripped the remote tightly in his fist. 

‘I think he just did,’ he whispered when he finally regained control of his voice, eyes glued to the screen.