In Your Court (The Love Game #1)

One

PEOPLE THINK TENNIS is glamorous. They think of huge crowds at grand slams, of hot men stripping off sweaty shirts, of press conferences, houses in Monte Carlo, and photoshoots for expensive brands.

But tennis is really about sweat. Sweat as effort, sweat as an accompaniment to blood and tears, and sweat dripping endlessly from my goddamn brow.

At the other end of the court, Arthur Geroux was faring no better.

The sun seemed determined to bake us into the red clay beneath our feet, but with synchronised swipes of our sweat bands, we were ready for the next point.

Or at least I was. He kept bouncing the damn ball, on and on for fucking ages before every serve like he needed to get his ten thousand steps in. It was slowly pissing me off.

When he finally served, I slid across the clay and ripped it back full-force, leaving him scrambling.

All right, rapidly pissing me off.

“Fifteen thirty,” the umpire called, and the rowdy crowd didn’t cheer. Over a smattering of polite applause, they waved signs and shouted encouragement to the man across the net as he began his endless ball-bouncing routine again.

It was hot, but it was also the first day of the French Open and the crowd at Roland Garros had a countryman to cheer for, packing our small outer court with French flags and noise. Not that Geroux was a star, just a local wildcard lucky enough to be playing a nobody.

“Fifteen forty.”

You’re not a nobody, Mat, Danny might have chided as I knocked the clay from my shoes, but my coach wasn’t even on the same continent let alone here.

Besides, being a nobody was better than the truth.

Because to those who had heard of me, I was just that Australian guy who hadn’t made anything of his great potential.

The up-and-comer who hadn’t up and come.

The rising star who’d sunk. Or to some people just, “hey, isn’t he the gay one? ”

“Thirty forty.”

That shit usually made me angry, although today it was this French crowd cheering all my mistakes because each one got their man closer to a win.

That and his damn bouncing.

“Game, Russo. Russo leads four games to two.”

I wiped still more sweat from my brow and prepared to serve, determined not to lose. After all, I had a whole crowd to disappoint.

Mum

Congratulations, love! You played so well! We’re still up if you want to call, but all good if you’re busy xx

Nico

MAT! THAT WAS AWESOME!

Katie Zhang

Second round! Fucking finally. We should celebrate later. You know, so long as it’s not expensive, doesn’t involve going out and I get a good sleep. Haha

THE BUZZ OF winning lasted through my cool-down and into the shower, and might have lasted longer if not for the compulsory press commitments.

While most other poorly-ranked players could skate through with just staple questions, I had made myself eternally interesting to a certain kind of journalist.

Stepping into the press room always made me feel slightly ill and today was no exception, my stomach swirling as I headed to the cheap table draped in black.

Microphones sat waiting. A few desultory cameras flashed.

Part of me wanted to say ‘look, we don’t have to pretend you give a shit about me’, but a deeper part wanted to believe they did.

The chair felt too small, the table too close, the lights too bright. But there was water and soon it would be over.

“Mr Russo,” a journalist said—local by the accent. “This is your first time reaching the second round here at Roland Garros, how does it feel?”

I swallowed a mouthful of water and the observation that it was a stupid question.

The chair creaked beneath me. “Yeah, you know, of course I’m disappointed that it’s taken this long, but it’s important to always look forward.

I know what I’m capable of and it’s more than I’ve been achieving, so hopefully this is the start of something better. ”

Terrible answer. Utterly full of myself. I gulped more water and wished someone would enforce dim lighting and comfortable armchairs in these damn things. The whole room smelled of synthetic carpet and a tangle of overwrought perfumes.

A hand went up. “It must be difficult returning after such a serious accident as you had,” the woman said, brushing aside her fringe with the hand that wasn’t clutching her phone. “Did you ever think about not coming back?”

I took a deep breath and let it out – a rule I enforced whenever someone asked about my accident. It had been over four years and they still couldn’t think of a better question. Although the better question would have been ‘why is your comeback taking so long?’

“No,” I said. “Tennis is my life. It’s all I’ve ever wanted to do. Of course, there was a time I thought I might not be able to play again, but I never wanted to give up.”

A beat of silence fell as each journalistic mind turned over the potential for yet another piece of inspirational slop, as though my determination was somehow special rather than the result of a mile-wide stubborn streak.

“Matteo,” another said—an Australian from his accent and easy familiarity. “Australian fans have been watching your career since you won the Australian Open junior title, so they’ll be thrilled by this win, especially with so few Aussies in the draw. Any chance of you going all the way?”

Somehow, the questions were getting worse. “There’s always a chance.” I forced a laugh. “The great thing about tennis is that anything can happen. I’m proud of those junior titles, but once you’re on the main tour they don’t mean a lot. So, I’ll just play my best and take it one match at a time.”

“Well, your next match will likely be against Miles Callahan, if he wins today,” a woman said in a tone of faint triumph. “How do you feel about that match up? Last time you met, he knocked you out of Wimbledon, first round.”

I didn’t need the reminder. “Oh, well, yeah.” I coughed out something I hoped sounded like a laugh rather than a hiss of panic, and fell back into trite tennis speak.

“Miles is an amazing player and he’s having a great season.

He’s always tough to play—was even as a junior—but I’ll just go out there and play my game, and try not to think about who’s on the other side of the net. ”

Lies, but they swallowed them because they had to.

A few seconds of silence slid from brief reprieve into awkwardness at the speed of collective embarrassment, but before one of the tournament staff could wrap us up and usher me off, another journalist lifted a hand.

“Mr Russo, you came out a year after turning pro. How do you think it affected your career?”

“Coming out or being gay?” I asked, forgetting to take a deep breath before replying.

“Because I’m pretty sure my dick doesn’t play the tennis.

” A few sniggers, likely as much at me as the man asking the apparently evergreen question.

“But honestly,” I went on, reining in my temper with an effort.

“I hope being open about my sexuality hasn’t affected my career at all, but who knows. ”

The feeling in the room tightened as another journalist leaned forward. “Does it bother you that you’re still the only openly gay professional tennis player?”

I shrugged one shoulder, the sudden exhaustion engendered by the question making the other an impossibility.

“No? I came out to be true to myself, not to start a flood of admissions. I just hope young players don’t feel pressured to lie like I did as a junior.

It’s not a big deal outside tennis, yet for some reason, inside tennis, it is.

So, if all I achieve is helping people see that it’s fine, then I’m happy with that. ”

More lies, but facing the press wasn’t a good time for introspection.

“Why do you think it’s a big deal inside tennis?”

“Ideas about masculinity?” I said. “Fear of losing sponsors? Inertia? I don’t know. You would have to ask a player who hasn’t come out.”

Seemingly determined to plumb the depths of this problem, the same man asked, “You think there are some?”

“Statistics vary, but somewhere between three and ten percent of men aren’t straight, so you do the math.”

“You don’t think elite tennis might attract a more . . . normal—?”

I was on my feet before I realised anger had won, sending cameras flashing all around me. “Normal? I’m going to pretend you didn’t use that word. But do I think only straight, real men play elite sport? No. Though perhaps such assumptions are what keep people silent. Are we done here?”

Cameras went on flashing, and the silence prickled up my arms and the back of my neck, every shocked, staring face a reminder that I’d stepped outside the role shaped for me.

I’d forgotten to stick to trite tennis words and good sportsmanship, forgotten to be grateful and vague and just smile.

Now, they were thinking that while the inspiration porn would have been good for clicks, stories about a bitter, gay failure were better.

Hopefully, some idiot would smash a racquet into an Escher sketch and shout at an umpire today so I could be forgotten.

With anger cooling into horror, I strode out, needing to find a convenient pillow to stick my head under and scream.

Katie Zhang

Hey, I’m out hitting with Helen but I’ll be back for dinner

No hurry. I’m just laundrying

Oh, did you take the small pile I left near the couch?

Sure did

You’re the best

At laundry

Nope. Too soon after winning for self-deprecation and that’s an order

I LEANED BACK with a hollow laugh and let the ambient noise roll over me, all mechanical whirr and the thump of errant shoes.

While most people travelled the world to see the sights, I had become a connoisseur of laundromats.

People often asked what Shanghai or Prague or Cancún had been like, and all I could say was whether the courts had been nice and I’d found a laundromat with machines that didn’t squeak.

Paris had pretty good laundromats.