Chapter 8
When I arrive, Robbie’s already standing outside the hotel, racket bag slung over his shoulder, my bag waiting on the ground. The subway was packed and took its sweet time crawling back up to the hotel, and by the look on Robbie’s face, I see we’re behind schedule.
“How’d it go?” he asks, checking his watch.
“Um,” I say, thinking about how to summarize an entire therapy session in a polite sentence.
“Actually, you don’t have to answer that. I’m just glad you went.”
“She’s British.”
“What gave it away?”
I grab my bag, and Robbie points us toward a fleet of black Cadillacs branded with US Open logos. Coming from a “drive it ’til it dies” Honda family, I always feel out of place in fancy cars, but this is our official transportation for the tournament.
“She’s really pretty, Rob…seems like your type,” I say to him, sliding into the back seat of one of the cars with a playful grin.
“Don’t say your therapist is pretty.”
“Oh, is that against the rules? You know I’m gay, right?”
“You’re what?!” he replies, joking—and dodging any more Helen talk. He hands me my daily concoction of supplements that could easily be mistaken for a sample of lake water. I give it an extra shake, hoping it becomes drinkable.
“Straight to site?” the driver asks, turning back to us, removing his dark sunglasses.
“Yes, thank you,” Robbie replies.
“Sorry—you’re Robbie Fellows, right?” the driver asks as he starts to drive.
“I am.”
“Me and my wife were at your match in Paris on our honeymoon. You played Eriksson when he was just starting out, seventeen or so at the time,” he says, eyes shifting from the road to the rearview mirror for his story.
“Oh man, you crushed him in that fourth set. Poor kid’s legs gave out, cramping and whatnot.
He wasn’t ready for those long Grand Slam matches.
But it was incredible to see. You were terrific.
” He slides his glasses back on, and adds, “Sorry. Just had to say.”
“No problem at all. Thanks for sharing that. It was fun to play him that early in his career,” Robbie says. “I actually stood a chance.”
Robbie always knows how to navigate situations like this, and they happen pretty frequently. He never made it into the top ten, but he was definitely a fan favorite. Had to have been that sunny disposition.
The car goes quiet, and I attempt a sip of Robbie’s mystery substance. “This drink feels like punishment today.”
“Trying a new recipe.”
“Does it include burnt rubber?”
I chug the rest to get it over with, and when I come up for air, Robbie has completely turned and is staring right at me. I almost jump out of my seat.
“So, what do you think?” he asks.
“Think about what?”
“The draw.”
“I didn’t look. You told me not to.”
“Oh,” he says, surprised, “I didn’t think you’d listen.”
I throw my hands up. I can’t win.
“Well, the schedule is out too. We start on Monday.”
I nod. Okay, I can handle that. Let’s get it over with.
“Not before three thirty p.m.”
Great, plenty of time to get ready.
“We’re on Grandstand.”
Shit, that’s a big one, the third largest stadium. Why are they putting us there?
Robbie pauses. “And…we’re playing Volt.”
Oh. That’s why. My lips purse and I take a deep breath through my nose, trying to slow the meltdown building inside me. I turn and watch the buildings wipe past the window. “Great. Let’s play Volt,” I finally say. We ride in silence a little longer. “How many Slams has he won, again?”
“He has two Slams…” Robbie says, cautiously, and quietly adds, “And a silver medal.”
“Right,” I say, nodding to myself, my blood starting to boil. “An Olympian…”
“Okay, before you spiral on this, can I give you my take?”
“Not spiraling, just…processing…” And squeezing this bottle like it’s the world’s toughest stress ball. “I mean…this is very unlucky, right? Like, how the hell did I get Volt in the first round?”
“It’s random, Austin.”
“Thank you. I know it’s fucking random,” I snap, unable to hold back any longer. “But, like, cosmically, how did I get Volt? What did I do in a past life for this to happen? Did I murder a puppy I’m forgetting about? I’m gonna get knocked out on day one. Fuck!”
Robbie holds his hand up, trying to lower my volume. I’m sure our friend in the front seat is loving this behind-the-scenes drama. Glad someone is having a good time.
“Can I give you my read now?”
“Go for it,” I say, thumping against the leather of the seat. The car is pumped with AC, but I’m starting to sweat.
“Volt has two major titles,” Robbie powers through my sigh, “but he’s thirty-four. He’s not the same guy he was before, and he’s been injured all year long. He dropped out of the French.”
“He was in the Madrid final like three months ago!”
“It was an easy draw.”
I roll my eyes. “Lucky him.”
“You’re both lefties, so you’re not gonna have your normal advantage, but he’s gonna have a huge problem with your serve, considering his height, so that’s what we’ll focus on this weekend.”
“And what’s his injury?”
“His hip. He’s supposed to have surgery in December.”
“Merry Christmas,” I mumble. But slowly, my mind switches to strategy. “So keep him on the move, run the fucker out?”
“I like that spirit.”
Robbie was right to ask me to wait on checking the draw. This news plus the glacial pace of the subway would have thrown me over the edge.
“How does the rest of the draw look?” I ask.
“I think we should take it one match at a time.”
“You know that doesn’t line up with my desperate need to plan, right?”
“All of this at once is too much. It’s better if we take this one match at a time and keep you focused mentally. That’s gonna be the difference here,” Robbie says as our driver hangs a right onto a bridge toward Queens. Below us, a ferry crosses in the choppy water of the river.
“Volt is an asshole. Terrible temper,” the driver says, shaking his head. “You should kick his ass.”
Now it’s my turn to smile politely. That’s the plan, sir.
—
There are some things I’m really good at—whipping a forehand winner crosscourt, cracking a 130-mile-per-hour serve—but I’m not so good at making friends, and this is on full display as I warm up in the players’ gym, doing band stretches by myself like a loser.
The place is buzzing with chatter, because everyone knows everyone except me.
I scan the room for Robbie. He bumped into a friend like ten minutes ago, and I haven’t seen him since.
A small commotion erupts at the door, and I immediately know who’s there. Diego and Co. have entered the building, and as he makes his way across the gym, every living person there gets a personalized handshake and hug. He’s kissing babies like he’s running for president.
I turn away, yank the band harder across my chest as he gets closer, laughter trailing in his path. Soon the spice of his cologne reaches me, and I flash back to last night.
A hand squeezes my shoulder.
“Hey, brother,” Diego says, extending his fist for what’s becoming our signature greeting and goodbye.
“Hey,” I reply, with a slight question mark.
We hold eyes for a split second as our knuckles meet, and I open my mouth to ask what time he’s thinking for tonight—but some player calls out to him, and he quickly moves on.
I watch him, frowning to myself, wondering why that encounter was so brief.
We just had a whole evening, and I was expecting slightly different treatment than the random physio he’s probably never met who he also just Hey brothered.
Robbie finally appears, and tosses me a medicine ball, starting a new exercise. “What’s up?” he asks.
“Nothing,” I say, swinging the ball to my side and flinging it back. “Why?”
“You look…stumped.”
Accurate read, but I don’t engage. “Nah, I’m good.”
“Volt’s in the corner over there. I was just talking to his coach.”
“How’s his hip looking?”
“Didn’t see an X-ray. Do you wanna say hello?”
“Is that something I should do?”
“You’ve never met before. Might be nice to do it before Monday.”
“Yeah, fine.”
Diego’s on a bike, warming up his legs, surrounded by his team and a few other players when I pass him. He doesn’t notice me as I walk by him. Or he chooses not to acknowledge me? I shake my head, even more confused and irritated by the situation.
“You must be Austin. Nice to meet you. I’m Leon,” Volt says, approaching with a German accent. We shake. “Looking forward to Monday.”
“Yeah, same.”
“Your first major, right? Getting around okay?” Volt asks as I size him up. He appears stocky on-screen, but up close I can see that age has left him fairly soft around the edges, and I’m pretty sure he has the record for shortest man to win a Grand Slam. Look at him, making history too.
“Yeah, I’ve got a good guide,” I say, smirking toward Robbie, who’s off talking to another friend. Volt smiles back, and the skin around his eyes crinkles.
Shit, I forgot sunscreen.
“It’s a bit overwhelming, all of this, right? You will get the hang of it—maybe not this year, maybe not this match, but you will. Plenty of time,” he says, stroking his chin. And then he lifts his hand up and slaps my shoulder—so hard that it knocks me off-balance.
Ah yes, there’s the asshole.
“You know,” he continues, leaning in so close that I can smell chocolate protein shake on his breath, “my brother is gay. We think.”
All I can do is look at him and nod, as if that’s the most interesting and least homophobic thing I’ve ever heard. “Cool,” I reply, and just before I wind up to return his shoulder slap, someone shouts behind us.
“Leon,” the voice says, and Diego is behind me again.
“Leon, are you lost?” Volt laughs as Diego pulls him in for a hug, but he clearly doesn’t follow the joke.
“What are you doing in the gym?” Diego turns to me.
“Austin, this man hates working out,” he says.
“I think it took going up against you to get him to lift a weight.” Diego reaches over and grabs a hefty kettlebell sitting on a rack, lifts it high above his head, and plants it on the ground smack in front of Volt.
“Have to go heavier, push yourself if you want to keep up with his forehand.”
Suddenly, I’m flooded with thoughts. First off, I don’t need Diego’s help here.
But also, his help is kind of hot. Almost as hot as the devilish smirk sneaking across his lips.
Or the veins popping out of his arm from slinging that weight.
Or the fact that he knows exactly who I’m playing. He’s been paying attention.
“Austin, I’ll give you the cheat codes for him tonight,” Diego says, turning to make his way back to his team. “And Leon, I’m only joking,” he says, pointing to him across the room. “Or am I?”
Leon looks me over one last time, any pretense of friendliness now completely dead. “Very good,” he says, and continues his workout, mumbling something to his coach as I leave.
“How’d that go?” Robbie asks at the door.
“Lovely guy. He thinks he has a gay brother.”
“Thinks?”
“Yep. Huge ally.”
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and after I sort through a slew of notifications, my heart just about jumps out of my chest when I see the message.
Pick you up at 8 hardy boy
I look up and spot Diego, phone in hand, across the room. He gives me a small salute.
“What are you smiling about?” Robbie asks.
I shake my head. For now, I’m keeping Diego all to myself.