Naked Hero - The Journey Away

at a guess, short black hair and pale white skin which was a bit unusual considering they were in Australia at the peak of its blistering summer. Lewis watched his progress around the room, enjoying what he saw. He had a sort of crooked smile, and a set of teeth that would need some work to put right, but in a way it added to his attraction - it made him real, this imperfection. It should have also made him memorable, and annoyingly it did – but for the life of him Lewis couldn’t place the guy.
    Puzzled, he turned to the bar where his drink was now waiting. A gulp was downed; then glass in hand he swivelled back to checked out the room again, this time behaving by taking in the décor rather than the men. A sort of monochrome effect was dominating the walls, which counterbalanced quite nicely some of the more outlandish outfits on display elsewhere. He noticed the framed posters on each of the walls leading away from the bar: pictures of various sports men and women, all black and white in keeping with the theme. Billie Jean and Martina were easily recognised – pioneering icons from an earlier era. A few of the others were familiar with names that could be guessed at, but most were unknown to Mr. Macleod. Until his roaming eyes reached the far wall where two much larger spot-lit posters dominated the room - and these two people Lewis knew all too well.
    A nother swig of his drink was taken as he considered the poster to the left. It was Chantal Duboir, at the ripe old age of twenty-six, holding aloft the Australian Open Trophy which she’d won the year before. It was her first major title, coming five years after her only previous appearance in such a final.
    Lewis smiled as he remembered the day . He’d watched the match with a fair amount of trepidation, dreading the onset of nerves that had blighted Duboir’s career, denying her the success that her abundance of talent deserved. But the collapse didn’t happen. She had kept her cool all the way to the end and served the match out to love.
    “Cheers, Chantal! God Bless You!” Lewis whispered as he raised his glass in salute.
    Having made his toast with the remains of his vodka, Lewis ordered one more, before turning his attention to the other image at the opposite end of the room. He had seen it before, a few times in fact, and had to concede it captured the moment really well... It was of himself, Lewis Macleod, on a gloriously sunny Fourth of July, kissing the Men’s Singles Trophy at Wimbledon.

Chapter 2
    Lewis took a sip of his second vodka and allowed the memories to come back. It wasn’t difficult. It was only eighteen months ago after all, and not something he was likely to forget, what with all the fuss that surrounded the achievement, and the celebrity status it immediately bestowed.
    Fame, fortune, and don’t forget notoriety! That last one more than anything was the legacy he earned by coming through the rounds and eventually emerging as ‘The All England Lawn Tennis Club Single Handed Champion of the World’.
    Long title! But notoriety went with it?
    Too true! It should have been his first name, for notoriety had certainly preceded Lewis Macleod to his first appearance in the main draw at SW19. He’d been to Wimbledon before and made a bit of a splash, but that was as a junior before his fall from grace, getting to the ‘boys’ semi-final where he lost to the eventual winner. A bright future beckoned. Then it appeared to go up in smoke. Well not smoke as it happens – cannabis didn’t feature in the blood sample he gave a few months later. But cocaine was there along with GHB, and that earned him a ban for two long years and serious notoriety at a precarious age. Lewis already knew about notoriety, although he didn’t know about the drugs. That came as a hell of a shock when he was informed of the results. Of course he worked it out pretty damn quick. A sexual encounter with a man twice his age, involved a weird tasting drink and a thumping head the following morning, residual pain and a hazy memory – the bastard had slipped him a Mickey Finn and in doing so seemingly screwed his career as well as screwing the naive young Scotsman. An explanation would have helped, but Lewis didn’t feel inclined – pig-headed obstinacy and homophobic fears causing him to keep quiet on the matter. Instead he retreated into his shell and spent the two years perfecting his grass court game. As far as Lewis was concerned, there could only be one