Naked Hero - The Journey Away

amusent,” she replied without displaying the slightest trace of joviality. Instead it was with a frown she continued, “But Lewis, you seem to be making a habit of drawing scandal. What on earth were you up to?”
    “Oh, please!” he protested.
    “I’m not going to lecture you, but you should have been more careful,” Chantal persisted.
    Lewis smirked. “Oh, I was careful alright, but not in the way that you mean.”
    Chantal pouted her mouth in a manner only the French seem to have properly mastered – it was a rebuke more poignant than any words. Lewis’s head dropped, knowing that she deserved more from him that a flippant remark. She was concerned for him, and he adored her for it - this woman whom he had admired for years, and was now privileged to count as his friend, perhaps his only true friend on the lonely unforgiving tour that dominated his life. She more that anyone could relate to what he was going through, and the journey he had made. Marie, sensing that they would like a few minutes alone, slipped away as he lifted his head.
    “How did you cope?” he asked. “I mean… they used to write stuff about you. Did anything like this ever happen?”
    Chantal shook her head and softened her look – sympathy poured from her bright green eyes. “No. There was never anything that would compare to what’s happening to you at present. There have been some awful things said about me, but nothing like this, Lewis... And for what it’s worth - I coped because I always had good friends around me. Now of course there is Marie. Having people you can trust - that’s what makes you strong... strong enough to carry on, whatever others may do or say about you.”
    “Does it ever stop?”
    “No, but it gets easier.”
    “Not for me. The bastards shoot me down everywhere I go.”
    “You give them the bullets, Lewis. I mean... picking up strangers in the bars. What did you expect?”
    Lewis bristled – unfairly he knew, as was the snapped response he then gave. “Christ, you make it sound like I’m out there every night. It was a one off.”
    “Just the once?” asked Chantal.
    Another shrug and a wry smile admitted to more – a lot more than his words suggested. “Well, a few perhaps, but that’s all. And I never let it interfere with my tennis.”
    “You did this time.”
    “They changed the schedule,” Lewis bitterly protested. “I didn’t expect to play on Monday.”
    This indeed was true. Young Mr. Macleod was caught by surprise, but the fault was still entirely his. His first match at the Sydney Open was scheduled for the Tuesday, but as luck would have it, one of the big names withdrew from the tournament at short notice and the organisers needed another top player to open proceedings on the main show court on the first day. Lewis was chosen, as despite the lack of titles since claiming the big one, he was still a well known figure, especially in a city like Sydney. The last minute change was conveyed to his coach on Sunday evening. Lewis, however, was not around to get the news as he was sitting in a bar at the time.
    It was an impetuous decision – but eighteen months on from his Wimbledon triumph, the now twenty-three year old Macleod was a restless spirit with other things on his mind beyond the world of tennis. And it was Sydney after all – a jewel in the gay crown – it seemed only reasonable to go out and have a look at the scene. With no match on Monday, or so he assumed, Lewis saw no harm in popping out for an hour and enjoying a couple of drinks, just to soak up the atmosphere and while away some time. The fact that he did so without notifying Jim Murdoch was neither here nor there in Lewis’s opinion. And leaving his mobile behind was irrelevant as well – the last thing he wanted was a bollocking down the line should Jim discover his absence... which of course he did when the schedule got changed.
    As Jim ranted and raved back at the hotel, cursing his wayward charge to the high heavens – the object of his wrath was actually about to leave the bar he was in and return for the bollocking that was due. He’d been a good boy, or relatively so, having only downed the three vodkas – just one over the limit he’d mentally set. And he’d kept to himself, discreetly observing, discouraging any approaches from admirers or fans with a scowl that he’d lately perfected.
    But fate had a plan and it came wonderfully packaged – big and hunky and golden tanned, with a glint