The Open Era

Chapter 1

In tennis, love means zero, and yeah, that sounds about right.

My bag hangs heavy on my shoulders as we enter the tunnel. It feels even heavier when the roar of Arthur Ashe Stadium reaches my ears. Twenty-four thousand people are waiting for me.

The tunnel walls are lined with larger-than-life photographs of past winners—no trophies in hands yet, no smiles for the camera. The photos capture what’s required before the celebration: the pure determination, the ambition, needed to make it here in the first place.

A woman with a headset stops us just before the entrance to the court, and my knees weaken. This is not how I imagined this moment. This is not how I dreamed it. I’ve spent my whole life training for this. I should feel ready. I should feel strong.

But all I feel is Diego Cruz behind me, standing only a few feet away.

We haven’t talked in two days. Or, I should say, he hasn’t talked to me in two days. I texted him asking if he was okay. I double texted to apologize, even though I shouldn’t have. And yes, seconds later, I triple texted, because I simply could not help myself.

It started as a friendship, something I desperately lack in my life.

I haven’t had a real one since freshman year of high school, so of course I fell for it.

But then it all spun out of control. I can’t get over how the same guy who’s ghosting me looked into my eyes and told me everything would be all right.

That was a lie, because it very much isn’t all right. And it’s all happening at the worst possible time.

Instead of focusing on the absolute biggest moment of my life, I’m spiraling about him. I could fucking scream. Why can’t I settle my mind? Why can’t I tune this out? But the truth is I’ve never been very good at that. And this shit is next-level.

“Austin, I’ll cue you to walk out in a few seconds,” Headset says to me.

My stomach drops.

Discreetly, I lift my hand to my chest, try to take a full breath, but it doesn’t feel like air is going in. Not a good sign. Please, don’t let this happen again. I’ve somehow found a way to handle my anxiety over the past two weeks, but my defenses could crumble at any point.

“New York…” The voice of the announcer booms over a sound effect of a heartbeat. I almost confuse it for my own.

Bump, bump. Bump, bump.

“This year marks his very first appearance at the US Open…” Bump, bump. “At twenty years old, from the United States, please welcome…Austin Hardy.”

The lights dim. The music swells. Headset gives me a friendly push, and I step onto the court of the largest tennis stadium in the world.

Holy shit, this place is packed. Rows and rows of fans tower up into the night sky.

A kid in the stands wears a white headband just like mine and holds a flag tightly in his little hand—a pride flag. He waves it as hard as he can as I walk by, his eyes as bright as the stadium lights.

I spot another flag, and another one, and another—a sea of rainbows.

Of all nights for this specific match to fall, coincidence scheduled it on Pride Day at the US Open.

The crowd is cheering for me. They’ve had my back since my first match here. You’d think that would help, but if I’m being honest, the pressure is close to killing me.

Smile, stupid. Wave or something. Act like you’re anything close to normal.

I show some teeth, lift an arm, and try my best to act cool. But I’m pretty sure I look like someone who’s just learned how to walk as I make my way across the court, enormous broadcast cameras tracking my every step.

Over in the corner, my mom and sister sit in my players’ box, clapping with everyone else. Love and excitement pour out of them, and for a moment, I feel a little better. I’m sure they’re freaking out right now. I am too, just in the complete opposite way.

Robbie, my coach, is next to them, hand pressed to his mouth.

He gives me his signature nod, but there’s an extra dip in his eyebrows, holding the weight of the past year and a half—me dropping out of college, the accident at practice, and so much more.

He doesn’t know what’s been going on exactly—I haven’t told him—but I know he senses the shift in my demeanor, in my attitude, in my game.

He’s worried again.

I make it to my bench and start to unpack my bag: racket, electrolytes, container of dried fruit for midmatch energy. Robbie packed five bananas—one per set—in case I need them. Everything has been perfectly prepared and placed.

The voice of the announcer is back, with a sentence that kicks my nausea into a new gear. “And returning to Arthur Ashe Stadium tonight, the number two player in the world, at twenty-three years old, from Mexico, please welcome—”

The crowd screams. I instinctively turn to watch him enter.

“—Diego Cruz!”

Fuck.

Every time. Every time I look at him, even now, he knocks me out. How is it possible to be that talented, to destroy everyone in his path, and to look like some sort of muscled-up superhero doing it?

He waves to the crowd with an ease I can only dream of. And from what I can see, he’s completely unaffected by me. I search his face for any evidence otherwise. Nothing. Just those big brown eyes, that thick head of hair, and a shit-eating grin, his usual commercial for confidence.

We meet the chair umpire at the center of the court for the coin toss.

On the other side of the net, Diego is alive with energy as I sneak glances his way.

He’s bouncing on his feet, hitting aggressive shadow swings, jumping as high as he can.

This is his normal routine, but this time it feels like he’s cranking up the intimidation.

He wins the coin toss and chooses to serve first, because of course he does.

“Okay, gentlemen. Photo, please. This way.” The chair umpire gestures us together for the prematch tradition, and for the first time all day, our eyes meet.

It happens so fast that I don’t know who looks away first. Our shoulders brush as we turn toward the cameras.

Gluing my arms to my side, I work every muscle in my face to paint on a smile, wincing through the flashes of light.

Please, by all means, let’s capture this wonderful moment.

And then…a touch pulses up my spine. His hand rests softly on my back. It’s over before I have time to be shocked. It’s a normal pose, but I wasn’t expecting it with him today, and I certainly wasn’t going to initiate it.

“You good?” he asks, lifting his voice over the crowd, turning to me slightly.

My smile fades. Diego waits for my response as he backpedals to his side of the court to start our warm-up.

“What the fuck does that mean?” I snap back reflexively.

That’s all he has to say to me? You good? Seriously? Fuck this guy. My nerves evaporate as blood rushes to my face and anger takes over.

I shouted it way too loudly, but at this point I don’t care. Everyone’s already talking about me.

I’m already the story.

Austin Hardy, the first openly gay guy to compete in a Grand Slam tournament. The spectacle. The significance. Austin Hardy is making history.

I don’t want to make history. I just want to play tennis. I just want to win.

I glance up at the commentators’ booth, looming high above the court, broadcasting into homes and sports bars around the world. My ears burn.

Will Austin Hardy continue to make history tonight, or will his impressive run since qualifiers be cut short by certified asshole and world number two Diego Cruz?

What they don’t know is there’s an even better story beneath the surface.

They don’t know Diego Cruz has hung out with me almost every day since we met.

They don’t know he kissed me two nights ago.

They don’t know he hasn’t spoken to me since, and that it’s crushing me.

And they don’t know I’m about to crush him back.