Chapter 21
I hoped the morning would never come, but here it is, shining through the corners of the drapes.
Diego is on the other side of the bed, only two feet away but it feels like miles.
His breathing is slow and deep, and I want so badly to slide across and curl up next to him.
But something in me says, No. Don’t push your luck.
That was yesterday. Today is today. We’re all different people after a drink, and maybe he’s changed his mind and is back to being his guarded self. I’ve been burned before.
I can’t be late for Helen again. If I leave now, I can make it to her office just in time for my next session. Gently, I pull the covers off of me and move toward the edge of the bed, careful not to wake Diego. But something else does.
Bang, bang, bang.
Diego jolts up, looks around like he doesn’t know where he is. Then he locks on me, then the door, then me again, with a panic I’ve never seen in his eyes.
He jumps out of bed in his hoodie and boxer briefs and starts toward the living room. He pauses for a second, holding his hand up to me as if to say, Stay. Don’t move. Don’t make a sound, for all of the reasons I can assume. Again, I’ve been burned before.
He disappears down the hallway of his suite and I hear the handle of the door, then hushed voices speaking Spanish. I catch a few words, but most of them are lost on me as I sit here, waiting in the bed, sensing that this is all about to come crashing down.
After a moment, Diego returns, alone, and I immediately get up to gather my things.
“Morning, Hardy Boy,” he says, opening the curtains, and our cave floods with light.
“Morning,” I say quickly, pulling on my shorts and avoiding eye contact.
“Did you have a good sleep?”
“I did,” I respond, finally brave enough to turn to him. I squint, searching for any clues on how he’s feeling about last night. “Did you?”
“Very good, but now I’m late,” he says, and steps into the bathroom, turns on the shower.
In all the strangeness of the morning after, I start to search the room for my phone for some stupid reason, like I’ve suddenly lost the ability to act like a normal human. I think I just need to get out of here, give him some space.
Then he pops out of the bathroom. “Hey, we’re all going to dinner at Cosme tonight,” he says, shirt off, toothbrush in mouth.
“Yeah?”
“Would you wanna come? You and Robbie?”
“Uh,” I say, surprised, “who’s we?”
“The team—and you two, if you’re free after practice, training.”
I don’t know what to make of this invite, but I guess he might not be as weirded out as I expected. “Okay, yeah. I’ll talk to Rob.”
“Great. I’ll text him the details if I don’t see you before.”
“You have his number?”
“Charlotte gave it to me, just in case.”
I chuckle, and start to feel better about whatever is happening here. He wants to see me again. He wants it to be tonight.
“And say hi to our friend down there,” he shouts, stepping back into the bathroom.
I’m pretty sure he’s making a joke about the lobby guy, but for once, I don’t have a witty reply. I’m too distracted by his bare ass through the frosted glass of the shower.
—
Helen pried this major update straight out of me the second she saw the permanent smile on my face, and it led to a fairly detailed session about my dating history, or lack thereof.
Then, after a full day of practice and training, and after lots of convincing, Robbie agreed to dinner.
He goes way back with Diego’s coach, and it doesn’t seem like he’s a fan.
I again have no idea what to wear, so I just throw on a black T-shirt like Rob usually does, and I pray that he shakes it up for once. No such luck when he knocks on my door.
“Why do you look like me?” he asks.
“Ugh. I don’t know. I panicked.”
“Wear whatever you want. You look good.”
“Of course you’d say that. I’m dressed like you.”
“Well…” he says with a smug head tilt.
We opt to get to the restaurant by subway. It’s only a few stops away, and we can’t really use the courtesy cars for stuff unrelated to the tournament, so the sweaty train it is. I grab on to a metal pole as the train lurches into the next station and passengers pack in.
“Oh, and don’t let them pay for us,” Robbie says over an announcement through the train’s speakers, something about making all local stops. “They’re gonna try to do that. I’ll pick up the check for you and me.”
“Okay,” I say, but I’m not sure why that’s a big deal. The Cruz team is rolling in it. “Any particular reason?”
“We don’t need them to do that. It’s a weird dynamic.”
“But we’re doing a lot better. Our total is what…two hundred thirty thousand dollars now?”
“That number’s deceiving. We’ll need to leverage it to get us through next year, and I don’t want you to think about that right now. We can sort the financials later.”
“And we can work out your salary.”
“Austin, I don’t want you thinking about this now, okay?” he says.
“Okay, fine.” It’s his salary, after all. I was just trying to be nice.
“How are you and Cruz doing, by the way? What’s the latest now that we’re getting family dinner invites?”
He didn’t ask me this when I pitched him on dinner, so he’s probably just trying to change the subject. Rob, the latest is that I spent the night in his hotel room, and I’ve been riding that high all day. But that would break his brain, so all I tell him is, “Nothing new, really…”
I know I’m lucky to have someone like Rob, someone who doesn’t treat me any differently because I like guys.
He’d give me the same discerning look if I were talking about a girl.
He just wants me to make good decisions and not get hurt, and ultimately, he wants me to focus on tennis above everything else.
But the last time I talked about anything like this, it blew up in my face immediately afterward.
And as much as things seem to be working out, it’s all too early to share.
Diego seems chill about it, but I’m still holding my breath.
—
Lush greenery lines the edges of the modern restaurant, dimly lit and buzzing.
There are two empty chairs waiting for us at a large circular table in the corner.
Diego pops up when he spots us, and he goes in for a hug.
“Hi,” he says with a grin. He shakes Robbie’s hand next.
“Nice to see you again, sir.” Achingly polite.
We exchange handshakes and hellos with the rest of his team, five of them including Diego.
“Robbie, what are you drinking?” Diego’s coach asks, raising his hand for service. “We’re having espresso martinis.”
Robbie and I trade a quick smirk at the mention of his least favorite cocktail.
“I’ll have a scotch, neat,” Robbie says to the waiter. “Please.”
Diego’s coach, Emiliano Perez, is a man with presence.
The number two player in the world is at this table, but somehow all the gravity sinks back to Emiliano.
He’s retired, just like Robbie, and they played each other many times over the years.
They had similar careers too, a lot of 250-level wins, some 500s.
They made it pretty far in the Slams but never managed to win one.
“Robbie, how do you feel being back here?” he asks.
“Just as exciting as before. We’re having a great time.”
“One more shot for you, huh?” Emiliano pokes. Robbie just laughs it off.
“It’s not about me anymore,” he says, grabbing my shoulder.
Diego’s physio, a younger guy with a friendly face, jumps in across the table. “And Austin, how are you liking your first Slam?”
“Still getting my bearings. Lots to take in around here.”
“You’re doing well,” Emiliano says. “What’s your secret?”
“Just copying whatever he’s doing,” I say, looking to Diego. I get a few laughs from the table, but Emiliano barely breaks.
“Very good early draw for you. That helps when you’re first starting out,” he says.
“I don’t know if I’d say my draw was so good. I wasn’t happy to see Volt on the first day,” I say.
“That old guy? Not a threat. He’ll be done next year. You served him into his grave,” Emiliano says, with zero empathy. Look. I wanted to kill him too, but have some fucking respect for the dead.
The Diego camp takes control of the ordering, and there’s lots of it: appetizers, shared entrées, personal entrées, another round of caffeinated martinis…
The group gets lost in various stories about Robbie and Emiliano on the tour, and I sneak in a few asides with Diego when I can.
He’s been fairly quiet through this whole dinner, but maybe that’s how he is with his team.
Most of them have pretty dominating personalities.
It’s rare to see Diego not be the center of attention.
Or maybe he’s quiet because he’s coming to his senses about last night.
There’s one moment, though…He orders some sort of fancy steak sandwich, the bread and meat perfectly grilled and glistening.
He tries it and, without even asking, passes it straight over to me.
“You have to taste this,” he says, the corner of the sandwich still wet from his lips.
He doesn’t care about anyone else at the table seeing.
I hesitate before I go for it, and I feel an aftershock of our kiss as our bites overlap.
“Oh, before I forget…” he says quietly, reaching into his pocket. Under the table, he passes me a slip of paper, folded and slightly wrinkled from his pants. “I can’t text you before your match tomorrow, obviously, so here’s a little message.”