Chapter 3 #2
Dad’s life insurance was evenly split between Charlotte and me.
It’s been covering travel, equipment, things like that, but I’m not sure how much longer it will last. I’ve made it pretty far into some Challenger tournaments, but the prize money is hardly enough to pay Robbie—not that he would take it.
Robbie has refused any money from us since I started training with him as a junior, and that deal has continued into my pro career.
“Let’s give it a good year, and we’ll see how we net out,” he keeps saying.
Here we are, well past a year now, and I remain feeling a complicated mix of gratitude and guilt.
As we approach our court, I almost stop in my tracks. “Rob, is that—”
“Yep.”
“Whoa.”
“Are you gonna be able to contain yourself?”
“Shut up. I’m fine.”
Actually, I’m not, because on the court next to ours, right beside the ESPN broadcast booth, is the current world number two and tennis golden boy, Diego Cruz.
And as if he didn’t need more attention, he’s currently practicing shirtless, with all eight abs on display.
Perpetually ready for a photo shoot, he was on the cover of Men’s Health last month.
And yes, I did steal Charlotte’s log-in to read the full article—definitely not for the photos.
Okay, I don’t blame him for the nude hitting session—it’s hot as balls out—but please.
People are trying to work. Any sort of muscle I try to pack on promptly slips right off me, so my shirt will very much be staying on today and always, thank you.
You don’t normally see tennis players with a ton of build, and maybe that’s why Diego is so striking in the flesh, looking like he’s taking a quick break between starring in Marvel movies to win a Grand Slam.
I toss my bag down and try to act cool, even though he has no idea I exist and he hasn’t even noticed me over here. He’s clearly dialed in, his trademark grunts echoing across the court with every ball he hits.
I glance at my phone and find—no exaggeration—a hundred more notifications. People keep reposting the video and tagging me. My heart beats faster.
“All right, let’s get started,” Robbie says, and we begin at the net.
Above us are a few rows of bleachers for fans to watch the practice sessions, and ours are already filled up. A few people randomly shout my name. Someone shouts to Robbie too. I’m not used to an audience for practice, so this should be interesting.
Robbie waves me back after some warm-up volleys, and we start hitting full court. Lately we’ve been working on a very aggressive forehand with heavy topspin, and it’s certainly been working. He throws up a hand signal to indicate more.
I increase my swing speed and windshield the shit out of the next ball.
It arcs over the net, flying through the air.
We smack a few more at a quick pace, neither of us missing—about ten, fifteen in a row.
I mishit one of them, and it weakly floats to Robbie’s backhand.
He seizes the opportunity to drop-shot me, the ball landing just beyond the net.
In a flash, I’m dashing as fast as I can to it. Faster! Faster, you fucking sloth!
I make it just in time to scoop it back at a sharp angle, nowhere near Robbie’s reach, even though he tries for it.
He claps his hand against his racket, acknowledging the shot, then calls me to the net. “What’d you miss there?”
“What did I miss? I won the point,” I say, catching my breath.
“You missed something, and we’ve talked about it. What was it?”
“Fuck, Rob, didn’t you see me sprinting? I made it in time.”
“You made it in time, but you didn’t recover. You assumed I wasn’t going to be able to return it, so you just sat there—”
“But you didn’t return it.”
“I didn’t return it.” Robbie pauses. “He will.” He nods at our shirtless friend next door. “You’re in a different league now, and you can’t assume any point is over until it’s over.”
My eyes shift toward Diego—at the exact same time he looks at me. Shit. I quickly look away. Did he catch me? Shit.
“Okay?” Robbie taps my chest. My heart thumps harder.
“Yeah.”
Robbie studies me for an extra second. “Are you feeling all right?”
“Yeah. Why?” I ask with a salty tone, ready for this lecture to be done.
“ ’Cause you’re doing your blinking thing.”
“No, I feel fine.”
“You’re not feeling anxious at all? No other symptoms?”
“I just had a lot of coffee. I’m good.”
“All right, let’s stick to just one espresso martini tomorrow.”
“Yeah. Good,” I say, walking back to the baseline.
“Austin!” A kid hangs over the railing with a giant tennis ball full of Sharpie autographs. “Will you sign this please?” he asks.
“I’m practicing now, dude. I will after. I promise.” I’d be annoyed if he hadn’t asked so nicely.
“Austin!” someone else shouts from farther back. Are they supposed to be doing this? Because practicing here might be terrible if they keep interrupting me.
Robbie points to the sky, and we switch to overheads.
His next ball sails high above me. My arm extends into the air as I track it through narrowed eyes.
Can we get this sun on a dimmer switch? It’s blistering.
I move my feet quickly—small steps to get into just the right place to attack.
Here it comes. I squint harder. My eyes are basically closed, but I’m ready.
My racket dips behind my head just before it slingshots up, making perfect contact with the ball.
It pops down, smack into the net. Fuck.
“It’s okay. Let’s go again,” Robbie says.
He launches another ball into the air. This fucking sun! I can’t see anything. My soaked shirt slides across my chest as I get in place for the shot.
Smack. Another ball into the net. “What’s happening over there?” Robbie says, walking toward me.
“I can’t get a lock on it. The sun is being an asshole.”
“Austin! We love you!” Another outburst from the stands. My body tenses.
I rest my hand on the net and close my eyes for a sec. I try to take a deep breath, but it feels shallow.
“What’s going on?” Robbie asks.
“Nothing. Just hot,” I mumble.
“Let’s do water.”
Sure, maybe water will distract my body from what I pray isn’t happening.
I drag my hand across the net as we walk toward the bench. I don’t want to admit it, but I’m using the net to brace myself as the world starts to spin.
Next to us, Diego’s grunts are still in full force, but they start to seem…distant. I squint in his direction as he hits a clean winner down the line. The crowd erupts into washed-out cheers.
I take a long gulp of water and feel it collect awkwardly in my stomach. I try for another breath. Still fucking shallow. Jesus Christ.
Robbie pretends not to watch me, sitting at the other side of the bench. After a minute, he says, “You know I need you to tap out if something is up. I’m not in your brain, so I need you to tell me.”
“Yeah,” I say, closing my eyes. I have to knock this out.
I lift my water bottle high above me and squeeze. Freezing water pours across the top of my head, dripping into my ears, down my neck, meeting my sweat-drenched shirt. I lean back as my body starts to settle. That shock to my system feels like a restart. Maybe we’re through this.
Out of habit, I pick up my phone—my digital security blanket, always an easy escape when I’m afraid to deal with life, but it’s not a great distraction today.
I blink and I’m already back in the comment section of the video, as if my thumb is divorced from my better judgment and leading me straight off a masochistic cliff.
Unfollow
Go for it. No need to announce.
Just play tennis who cares who u fuk
Not the allyship you think it is, bro.
I’d care more if he was actually good
Terrible idea. I shove my phone into a side pocket of my bag and yank the zipper closed. “Okay.” I pat Robbie’s knee.
“Okay, we’ll start back slow. I’m gonna hit to either side of the court, forehand, then backhand. Just hit straight back to me. Not too hard. Just keep it in, slow and controlled. Good?”
“Good.” I do a few butt kicks as I walk back to the baseline, stretching out the hamstrings. Things are feeling better.
Our rally starts just as Robbie instructed, with slow, easy swings. It’s feeling good. He starts to take me back and forth. I’ve got plenty of time to get to each ball.
He starts to go a little wider, still nice and slow. I get there too, no problem. Feeling fine. He picks up the pace.
I’m hitting everything in open stance now, don’t have as much time, but I’m handling those too.
He hits the next ball with a little more pace, and I chase across the court to it—make it.
Dash to the other side—make it.
Dash again—barely make it.
Dash—
No, no, no!
I feel the dizzies coming on again. I swallow air.
Why is this happening? I thought I was fine.
I make it. Swing—pop. My ball sails straight back to Robbie—somehow.
Robbie returns it to the other side. I can make it if I just run, run, r—
The ground starts to spin. The lines on the court blend together.
Power through it. It’ll pass.
I reach my racket as far as it will go—and at the same time my left foot scrapes against the court, catching my other one.
And I go down. I go down hard.