Chapter 6
That night, I push a luggage cart stacked with suitcases, racket bags, and my “second dinner” burrito bowl down a long hotel hallway.
My legs scream with every step—these matches are really catching up to me—and I want to kill Robbie for refusing help from a very kind hotel guy downstairs.
A “bonus training session,” Robbie called it.
Joke’s on me for insisting that I’m feeling better.
Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, I see the last bit of daylight dipping behind the Midtown skyline. “Big upgrade from last week,” I say to Robbie, who’s trailing behind me. I’m happy to have escaped the tiny room we shared during qualifiers. “I bet this place has water pressure.”
“Courtesy of the USTA. Make it to the main draw, you get two hotel rooms.”
“It pays to win.”
“Literally.”
Literally is very true. Winning qualifiers got us a hundred thousand dollars.
And yes, I definitely saw dollar signs when I was reminded of that.
It sounds like a lot of money—it is a lot of money—but we’re heavily in the red.
Once a week, Robbie and I sit down to go over the spreadsheet, carefully documenting everything that goes into and out of our business account: flights, hotels, meals, shoes, racket stringing…
All of it adds up quickly, and that’s not including what Robbie’s salary should be—not that he would take it.
Our finances will look a lot better if I can get further into this tournament.
Grand Slam matches have the highest payout.
“Okay, this one’s you,” Robbie says, handing me my key. “I’m down the hall.”
“Shocked you didn’t request adjoining rooms.”
“Hey, I need a break from you too,” he says, as I heave my bag to the ground. “And I set up your first therapy session at eight a.m. tomorrow. Her name is Helen.”
“And she’s not charging us for this? How do you know her, again?”
“I told you, she’s a friend.”
I squint. “Now, when you say friend…”
“Nope, no, not doing this. Irrelevant to the situation,” he says, sticking to his trend of being cagey about his love life.
He’s snuck away a few times this year, in various places, and seems to have situationships scattered across the world.
He was engaged to an actress before he retired, and everyone thought she was going to be the one to settle him down.
But it fell apart for some reason, and now he just grumbles anytime that T-Mobile commercial comes on.
“Is she gonna be able to be objective, though,” I tease, “if you guys have history?”
“People can just be friends, Austin,” he says, shaking his head. “I’ll text you the address—it’s down in Greenwich Village. Come back up here after, and we’ll head straight to site for practice.”
I wheel my suitcase into my room, and Robbie hangs by the door a moment longer. “And I know you’re feeling fine now, or that’s what you want me to think,” he says, “but if that changes, I’m right down the hall. My phone’s on the whole night.”
Immediately, my eyes drop to the geometric print on the carpet. I give myself a beat, willing the tears away. On special occasions, Robbie will say something like that, like a warm blanket that hits me like a bag of bricks.
God, it’s been a day.
Robbie lifts his arms to hug me, and I let him. A moment passes, and then he quickly turns, hiding his face when we pull apart. He heads down the hall with his luggage.
We asked Robbie to speak at Dad’s funeral.
He declined, but the night before, he changed his mind.
He got up there, and made it through about two sentences before he broke down, couldn’t get through it.
That was five years ago, and that whole day is foggy for me, probably for the best. But that memory of him—folded paper in his hand, sobbing—is seared in my mind.
It’s the only time I’ve ever seen Robbie cry. I think he wants to keep it that way.
—
I treat myself to a hot shower. I’ve gotten used to cold ones in the morning, even colder ones at night. As painful as they are, they’re good for recovery. Not tonight, though. I crank that shit over to piping hot and steam floods the bathroom.
I close my eyes as the water pelts my scalp, and I finally let go. Tears mix with sweat and soap as the day rains off my body and circles the drain. When it’s all over, I can breathe again.
Afterward, I put on one of those plush hotel robes and flop onto the bed, ready to do nothing but rot and read for the rest of the night, but my phone has other ideas.
It buzzes and once again lures me to the digital world.
Another hundred notifications are waiting.
I posted Char’s “heat exhaustion” statement about thirty minutes ago.
It was simple, didn’t make much of it, and she even made it sound like I wrote the thing.
I’d expect nothing less from Charlotte. It’s no wonder her job loves her so much.
She’s brilliant, and most of all, she’s ambitious.
We’re similar in that way, hungry to prove ourselves as we race to the top, like we don’t have time to waste.
The replies are already coming in, and I give them a quick scroll.
Glad you’re ok austin
I hate the summer be careful out there
Hello from Brazil
U r gay
Did Diego make you faint?
I’ve watched every version of the Diego-net-jumping video I could find, over and over, trying to make sense of it.
This guy doesn’t even know me. Why did he drop everything he was doing to make sure I was all right, in the most dramatic way possible?
Maybe that’s just who he is. Perfect on court.
Perfect off court. Volunteers at community tennis centers. Cares about gay dudes in distress.
Diego please save me next
I check the view count on this one. Two hundred eighty-eight thousand. I get it. It’s quality content.
My phone buzzes, and it almost flies out of my hands. I check the notification to make sure I didn’t imagine it.
Oh my god. Diego Cruz just followed me.
I tap the profile to make sure it’s really him and not some fan account with tricky spelling, subbing a 1 for an i.
Yup, verified and everything. Of course I was already following him—and now I’m blushing alone in my bed.
In my defense, everyone in the world is following him, but it still makes me want to melt into the mattress.
His grid is somehow perfectly curated, in an effortless way.
Professional photos and a healthy mix of selfies and shots from his phone.
With friends. With other players. With trophies.
With his dog. And, down a little farther, with an ex-girlfriend.
He stopped posting with her a while ago—not that I’ve been keeping tabs.
Another notification startles me out of my casual stalking. Holy—
He DMed me. He just fucking DMed me. God, I wish Char was here. I want to scream. I stare at his message as if it’s a love letter, but really, it’s only one simple word: hey
How is this happening right now? What do I do? Where is Char?!
SOS HE DM ME, I text her—no time for grammar—and I go back to his message. How long should I wait to respond?
Apparently the answer is right around two seconds. yo, I reply.
Dots pop up. He’s typing. He’s typing!
Char texts me OMG and an eggplant emoji.
omgg stop, I text her back.
Diego replies, Are you staying at the Intercontinental?
I snap a screenshot and send it straight to Char. he knows where I live. howwww??
Lol wHeRe YoU LiVe, she fires back.
I stare at Diego’s question, and carefully consider my response. I need something short. Something chill. Something that doesn’t indicate that I’m currently pacing the room and spinning around in my socks.
yeh, I reply.
Not yes, not yeah, I give him a yeh because that’s exactly how easygoing I am. Oh, am I at the InterContinental? Funny you should know that, Detective Cruz. Yeh, I guess I am.
what room? he asks.
Immediately I’m back to Char. jfc he just asked what room im in, I text her.
WUT, she replies. Did you tell him?
no what should I say, I ask.
She responds in all caps, because I deserve it. TELL HIM DUMMY
what if he murders me tho? im the competition and he wants me dead
I will miss you, she replies, with a gravestone emoji.
I switch back to Diego and think for a second. why haha, I reply.
Typing dots.
Wanna hang? he asks.
Wanna hang. “Wanna hang?” I say it out loud to make it sound more real, because I can barely believe this is happening.
yeh, I reply. Me and my favorite word again.
What the hell is my room number anyway? Caught in the absurdity of the situation, I race over to the door to check the number on the front, and almost lock myself out in the process. im in 968
I stare at his thumbs-up response, as the reality of all this closes in.
Is world number two Diego Cruz on his way to my hotel room right now?
Suddenly the bathrobe draped casually around my body seems…
sensual, seductive, and not quite the vibe for a hotel hang.
I chuck it onto a chair and start tearing through my suitcase, eventually finding my blue hoodie and some shorts I’m pretty sure are clean.
In the shuffle, I manage to put on shoes.
Wait—do I need shoes? Does hang mean go out somewhere?
Does hang mean stay here? What the shit does hang mean?
I kick off my Nikes and sit on the edge of the bed, perching like a weirdo. Guess I’ll find out soon.
—
Half an hour of anxiety-fueled doomscrolling later—a knock. I immediately jump up, but I take my time getting to the door. Be cool. Be chill. After a breath, I pull it open.
Diego is in a sweatshirt and sweatpants, his hair a little wet, and he’s holding a Nike shopping bag.
“Yo,” I say.
“Yooo,” he replies, with a smirk. We stand at the door for a second, nodding our heads about nothing.
Making friends is weird.
“I just wanted to check on you, see how you’re doing,” he says.