Chapter 4
I open my eyes to an electric blue sky and a blurry face moving toward me. A second later, it’s in front of me, blocking the blinding rays—and the first thing I notice are his big brown eyes gazing down, locked on mine. The stubble above his plush lips. The orange sunlight glowing through his ears.
He says my name, and a warmth rushes over me.
The second time he says it—“Austin”—my brain fully catches up and reality snaps back. I blink.
Diego Cruz is kneeling beside me.
Actually, more than fucking that. His palm is pressed to my cheek, his fingertips resting just below my eye, so softly that they almost tickle.
Color floods back to my face and a thousand thoughts storm my mind in no particular order.
Holy shit, Diego Cruz knows my name. Holy shit, he’s touching my face. Holy shit, why am I still on the ground? Holy shit, everyone is looking at me. Holy shit, how do I recover from this? Please stop thinking, and do something. Holy shit.
Robbie appears on the other side of me—or was he there the whole time? “Are you okay?” he asks with urgency.
“Yeah, yeah, good,” I say, sitting up slightly. “Just took a little tumble.”
Took a little tumble. Excellent talking. Suddenly I’m an old British woman who slipped in the kitchen.
Diego stands, and I stare at his outstretched hand a second longer than I should before I take it. I wince as he muscles me up, a dull pain shooting through my elbow.
“Does anything hurt?” Robbie says, touching my shoulder.
I swing my arms around, stretch out my legs, do my absolute best to play this off like it was nothing. And, except for a scrape across my arm where I landed, I feel all right. The adrenaline racing through my body is working wonders, and the anxiety symptoms have almost lifted.
“Feel great. Just lost my balance. Went down pretty easy, though.”
“It didn’t look easy. I think you were out a sec,” Robbie says.
“I think he was,” Diego agrees.
“Rob, I’m good,” I snap back. I feel the eyes on me—Diego’s mostly, but also from the stands, the players, their teams. Practice on the courts near us has politely paused, and everyone is standing around to make sure I’m okay.
I give them a small wave, so they carry on, and the crowd claps as I confirm that I’m alive and well.
Nothing to see here, folks. Nothing to see here except World Number Two still hanging out on our court.
I flash him a sheepish smile, not sure what to say here.
“I’m Diego,” he says.
My head tilts. Yes, that is very obvious. Handsome and humble. What a combo.
“Austin,” I say, and for the second time, our sweaty palms meet.
His grip is as firm as I’d expect based on those biceps, his handshake the kind you feel through your entire body—almost like he forgot that the hand he’s squeezing is attached to the arm I just landed on.
But Diego Cruz is touching me, and the tiny pain is worth the price of entry.
“Thanks for checking in. And nice to, uh, meet you…as they say.”
Oh my god, no. Please stop talking now.
Diego’s coach shouts something that my four years of Spanish classes didn’t quite prepare me to translate, and with a quick goodbye grin he doubles back to practice. I watch him jog away, still in disbelief of everything that just went down—me being the main thing that went down.
And then I clock the commentators in their booth, their necks and cameras craned toward us. Shit. I think I just made the news.
“Let’s pack up,” Robbie says.
“We’ve got like thirty more minutes.”
“We’re gonna get you checked out.”
“Rob, no. I said I’m fine. I feel perfectly fine.”
Robbie sneaks a glance toward ESPN. “Austin, please make this easy. We’ll get back over here, but you need to go with me on this. Calmly.” His tone shifts to icy.
I’ve never seen Robbie lose his cool, but he’s come close. I don’t know where he is on the potential-explosion scale, but a blowup would likely be a once-in-a-lifetime, catastrophic event, and I’m not gonna test him. I’ve had enough embarrassment for the morning.
We walk back to the bench and pack up in silence.
Meanwhile, Diego’s practice has resumed and he’s at the net now, working on volleys. He doesn’t notice us walking off the court, and I try not to notice the kid with the giant tennis ball waiting for my autograph.
—
“You’re left-handed, right?”
I nod.
“Okay, we’ll do your right arm, then. Need to protect that forehand,” the nurse says. I feel a pinch and watch my blood inch toward the collection tube.
We’re in a small medical room inside the main building for the tournament.
Robbie sits in a chair in the corner, arms crossed, staring at the ground, bouncing his leg.
The Nike swoosh on his shoe blurs as it moves up and down, up and down.
Nike sponsored him when he was on the tour, and he’s still loyal, decked in their gear from head to toe.
Always. He tried to get them to sponsor me too, but he hasn’t had any luck.
We’ve had interest from other brands, but he’s still holding out hope for a deal with Nike, so he remains a walking commercial for them.
“Do you mind if I play some music on my phone?” I ask.
The nurse looks up at me blankly.
“Austin…” Robbie grumbles.
“What? It’s, like, silent in here. Music could perk up the mood.”
Robbie slouches in his chair.
“All right, we’re all set with the blood,” the nurse says. “We should have your results back overnight, but the doctor said you’re all clear. You guys can hang out here as long as you want.”
“Thank you. Appreciate your help,” Robbie says. The nurse closes the door, and Robbie and I are alone for the first time since practice—if you can call it a practice.
He studies me from across the room, his tongue running over his teeth as if he’s composing the world’s most profound speech on how stupid I am. Here we go. Lay it on me.
He bobs his head, taking his time, and then—
“Okay…let’s go.”
All that buildup for nothing?
“You can carry your bag this time, since you’re feeling so well,” he adds as he walks out the door.
Well, the room feels extra quiet now.
I take a breath, and the cold air-conditioning fills my lungs, fully this time.
I exhale and stretch my hand out in front of me, extending my fingers.
Steady. Dead steady. Seems like we’ve conquered the dizzies.
Sometimes when I return to normal, it’s hard to remember what it felt like when it was bad, even if it was only an hour before.
It makes me wonder if I imagined it. Is it possible to gaslight yourself?
I sit there a second longer. There isn’t even a window in this room, just cinder blocks and fluorescent lights and me on this chair covered in thin paper, and slowly, a new sensation takes over.
Tears build against my eyes, warm, lonely tears—tears I’ve felt many times before but wasn’t expecting in this moment.
I’m twenty years old. I’m an adult with a job. But when something goes wrong—when I get sick, when I’m in trouble—I want my mom. Worse, I want Dad. It hurts so badly to need someone you’ll never have again.
Shutting my eyes as hard as I can, I bury the tears back in my head. If I think about this too long, they’ll fall forever.
I take another breath. I feel better. Yeah, I feel better.
I gather my things, I gather myself, and I open the door.