Chapter 13
There’s a moment at the end of every match, a handshake at the net. The winner usually pairs it with a gracious smile, a compliment or two, and a short pause to hang back so the loser is the first to shake hands with the umpire. It’s tradition.
I approach Volt, and the bones in my fingers crumble when he grabs my hand. This fucking guy. He pulls me in, mumbles something I can’t hear over the crowd, and I smile, graciously.
And I hang back to let him head to the umpire’s chair.
Because I won.
My legs are bricks after four sets, but I can agonize over that later. Now it’s time to celebrate. I thank the umpire and turn to the court, throwing my arms into the air, clapping against my racket in appreciation of all the fans. A smile spreads across my entire face as they cheer.
Robbie points at me, and I point right back. We did it. We fucking did it.
A tournament official brings me three balls to autograph, and I launch two of them into the stands. I take the third and walk it over to the side of the court. This one already has a home.
“What’s your name?” I say to the kid, crouching down to get to his eye level. I’m bad at guessing ages, but I bet he’s eight or nine. And I don’t think he was expecting a meet and greet, because he just stares at me, frozen.
“This is Peter,” his dad says, giving him a small tap on the shoulder.
“Peter, thanks for being here today. It really helped me out.” I hand him the ball, and he takes it like it’s made of glass. “Do you play tennis?”
“Yeah,” he says, warming slightly. “Every day after school.”
“That’s awesome. I do too. Well, no school anymore for me, but yeah. That’s great.”
“Are you playing tomorrow?” Peter asks quietly.
“I have a day off tomorrow, but the next day, yeah. I’ll see you both then?”
Peter turns with hopeful eyes to his dad. “Oh, I don’t know about that,” his dad responds. “These tickets aren’t cheap. We’ll have to see.”
“Yep, I get it,” I say, standing up. And that’s when I see Peter’s shoes. They knock the breath out of me.
“Those are cool,” I tell him. He smiles and looks down at his scuffed-up white sneakers—with fresh rainbow laces.
“Thanks. I wore them for you.”
And just like that, the kid shatters my heart into a million pieces—broken glass on the court.
“He saw your interview and had a lot of questions,” his dad says, proudly.
I nod, because that’s all I can do as I try to collect myself.
Fans are gathering around the edge of the court.
And there are a lot of rainbows out there—on T-shirts, on wristbands, on hats…
“Austin! Austin!” they shout, reaching for me with things to autograph.
And as I sign my name in ink, again and again and again, a new pressure grows inside me.
For the first time, I feel the responsibility.
I wish I didn’t.
—
Movies want you to believe press rooms are lively and dramatic and packed with reporters shoving mics into your face and hitting you with gotcha questions. But mostly a press room is just a bunch of people slouched in chairs and raising their hands like it’s AP World History.
I start with a guy who for some reason is wearing a corduroy jacket in eighty-degree heat.
“Hi, Austin. Barry Kline, Sydney Post. How do you feel coming off your first win at a major?”
“Uh, a healthy combo of very good and very dead.” Our match was almost four hours, and the time is pushing nine p.m.
“Can you…expand on that?” Barry with the Aussie accent and hard-hitting follow-ups.
“I mean, yeah, I don’t think I’m used to these longer, best-of-five-set matches, so that hill I had to climb after the first set looked pretty steep.”
I point to a woman in a Mets hat next. “Austin, Theresa Sherry, Online Racket. I wanted to check in and see how you were feeling in the heat today, and if you had any injuries from your fall during practice on Friday.”
“All good today. The match was later in the day, so I wasn’t really dealing with the heat as much,” I say, doubling down on my cover story. “And no, no injuries. It looked worse than it was. I think Diego might have pulled something hopping the net, though—”
I catch myself when it’s too late. Why the hell did I just say that? Why did I even mention him? I desperately want to move us out of this question, but dropping Diego’s name is not the answer.
“Was he injured from that?” she asks, smelling blood.
Oh my god. “No, no, not at all.” I have to shut this down, or they’ll take this story and run with it.
“Because he looked fine today.”
“Yeah, no, that was a joke,” I say with an apology smirk. “A bad one.”
She smiles blankly. Behind her, Robbie and Charlotte’s eyes bug out of their skulls.
Another reporter, who I can’t see, chimes in. “Do you have a message for him after his win? Seems like you two are close.”
“A message? Uh…” My chest tightens. There’s so much to unpack there, but mainly, why is this a question for me, during my press conference? I have to say something, and I have no idea how long I’ve been sitting here with my mouth open. “I guess…keep up the good work?”
“Last question!” Charlotte blurts out from the back of the room, her voice cracking. These press conferences are run by the tournament comms team, and I’m sure she just got added to a thousand shit lists, but her attempt to save me is exactly why I love her.
A voice from the corner: “Austin, hi. Matt Reed from the Post. As the first gay man to play in a Grand Slam, can you comment on the historic nature of making it through to the second round?”
What a send-off.
“You know, it’s, uh—it’s interesting, Matt, ’cause I feel like everything I’m doing is making history here. First gay guy to qualify, to win a first-round match—yay—to do a presser with you all, to sip from this water bottle, to take a shit in the locker room.”
Murmurs and scattered laughs.
“What? I can’t do that? Where am I supposed to shit?”
“Okay, thank you, everyone,” some guy with a badge says, jumping up.
And with that, I’m ushered out of the room.
—
Light pours from the top of Arthur Ashe Stadium as Robbie, Charlotte, and I head back to the courtesy car pickup area, finally alone. “How was that?” I ask.
“It was the worst and funniest thing I’ve ever seen,” Char says.
“Thank you so much,” I say, running into her with my shoulder. “Rob, thoughts? I know you got ’em.”
“I’m too happy with your match to be mad,” he says, “but next time, I just want you to get in and get out without talking about your bathroom breaks.”
“They didn’t ask me a single question about the actual match.”
“And you’ve guaranteed that they won’t moving forward,” he replies. “Now you’re the guy who says weird stuff that gives them headlines.”
The gay guy. The anxiety guy. The says-weird-shit guy. I contain multitudes.
Charlotte pipes in, reading texts from her phone. “Mom says she loves you, you’re amazing, and she’s so sad she isn’t here. And also…her friend Mary says hi, and you’ve grown up to be very handsome.”
“Work Mary or Cool Ranch Doritos Mary?” I ask.
“Unclear.”
“Thank you, Mom. Thank you, Mary.”
I throw my bag into the back of an SUV, and slide into the back seat with Charlotte.
Robbie takes the front, and I consider whether I should ask him the question that’s been eating at me since the presser.
“So…Cruz won?” I do my best to make it sound casual, like I don’t even care.
I’d check my phone, but I literally can’t, so I’m stuck harvesting information via questions like a child. This tech-free lifestyle is gonna suck.
“Lost the first set, won the next three.”
“Aw, twins,” Char says. “Will he come over for Mario Kart again to celebrate?”
I shoot her a death stare. She winces.
“Again?” Robbie asks, turning back to us. “You hung out with Cruz?”
“No. Well, yeah. Briefly.”
“Is that why you were exhausted this morning?”
I don’t like what he could be implying there, but I’m pretty sure he doesn’t mean his question that way.
“No, last night was un-Cruz-related,” I lie. “Anyways, he’s an asshole, and that’s the end of it. Please tell your blood pressure.”
Robbie stares, wheels still spinning in his head, but soon he relents and settles back into his seat, and I somehow escape a lecture.
I’m not sure what this one would have been about, though.
The importance of getting enough rest? Not having crushes on the competition?
Please not the “wear protection” one again.
I still have the six-pack of condoms he gave me, all of them still living quiet lives in their wrappers.
The conversation returns to normal as we discuss highlights from the match.
Robbie sounds truly proud. Char does too, but she always does.
I catch extra optimism from Robbie, though.
He’s excited, hopeful. I am too. I made it through this match, and nothing went wrong inside my head. More than that, I won.
Eventually the car quiets, and the hum of the highway starts to lull me to sleep.
For the second time today, I lean against the window and close my eyes.
I try to savor this amazing feeling—because it never lasts.
I’ll wake up tomorrow and feel the fire, the burn in my stomach again.
One win is never enough when you want to win it all.