Chapter 21 #2
As I start to open it he stops me, places his hand over mine.
“For before your match,” he says. “Follow the rules.” And as he leans away, his hand drops to my inner thigh.
Safely hidden by the table, it lingers there a moment.
I glance around, trying to contain the thousands of thoughts racing over my face and down to my crotch.
Does he know? Does this man know what he does to me?
Please take your hand and go back to your meal so I can breathe again.
Wait. Don’t. Leave it there. Leave it there forever. I’ll breathe when I’m dead.
But soon his hand travels from my leg back to his spoon and toward the scoop of orange blossom sorbet in front of us.
Dessert continues, and while Diego’s team has been pounding drinks, I’ve been chugging my way through glasses of water, trying to hydrate after practice.
I wait as long as I can, but eventually I excuse myself from the table.
The cramped bathroom is even darker than the rest of the restaurant. An expensive candle sits on a ledge above the urinals, and as I lean over to read the label on it, the door opens.
I turn, expecting Diego—it would be nice to have a solo moment—but instead I get his coach.
Emiliano nods as he enters and takes the urinal smack next to mine.
We could have had a nice buffer, but for some reason he wants to be up close and personal.
Luckily for me, I’m too full of water to get pee shy.
After a moment of courteous quiet, Emiliano shakes things up.
“So, first gay player, huh?”
Jesus Christ, I was just thinking how nice it was to have dinner and have that not come up.
“Not exactly,” I say.
“Right, well, it’s wonderful, just wonderful for the sport,” he says, and clears his throat. “Must be a lot of pressure, though. All eyes on you.”
“Been handling it so far,” I say, and if he had an ounce of self-awareness, he’d know that’s about as far as I want to take this conversation.
He drops his head and looks down at his stream—a normal thing to do—but then he looks over at mine, holding his eyes there for just long enough.
This fucking creep. He’s not even trying to be subtle.
I wrap things up and scoot over to the sink, the bathroom falling quiet again.
“You know, Diego is under a lot of pressure too. We’re one spot away from number one, and this is going to be his year,” he says, zipping up and joining me to wash his hands.
“And he has a tendency to get distracted with…all sorts of things.” He turns on the faucet. “Girls,” he says, and pauses. “Guys.”
Guys? What is he talking about?
“So I don’t think he should be having any more sleepovers,” he says. Our eyes lock in the mirror. “Do you understand?”
I continue my stare and say absolutely nothing.
“Oh, and very nice watch, by the way,” he says, and we both look down to Diego’s watch on my wrist, a few beads of water sitting on its crystal. Welp, maybe he wasn’t looking at my dick after all. “We’re going to need that back.”
“Are you low on funds?” I ask without skipping a beat.
He snorts. Smirks. Scratches his head. And walks out the door.
As it closes, I let out a breath and reach over to turn off the faucet. Quiet again.
What the fuck was that.
In a daze, I take my seat at the table as it’s being cleared.
“Welcome back,” Diego says.
I muster an absent smile as a terrible feeling creeps through my bones.
What did he mean by guys, plural? Multiple guys. I spilled my guts to Diego—my embarrassing coming-out story, my anxiety—and he kept this all to himself. He even said, I felt straight until you came around. I don’t know who he is now. I don’t know what’s been real.
“Well, I hope you boys get to play each other one day,” Emiliano says, signaling the waiter for the check.
“One day? That’s this week,” I snap back. We’re still on a collision course if we both win our next matches, and I am sure he fucking knows that.
“Who are you playing tomorrow?” he responds.
I glance at Rob. I know who I’m playing, but I could use some backup here, and I don’t want to look at this dude anymore.
“We’ve got Davies,” Rob says.
“Like I said, one day,” Emiliano says, turning to the rest of the team. An invisible laugh travels around the table.
Robbie smiles painfully, but keeps his mouth shut. I don’t know how he keeps it buttoned up, because I’m about to explode.
The waiter hands a leather folder holding the check to Emiliano, and just as he reaches for it, I snatch it first. “If you don’t mind, me and Robbie would love for this to be on us tonight.”
Robbie shoots me a look of panic, but I continue. “It was just so fun hearing all of your stories from the olden days tonight. I…feel like I’ve learned so much.”
An awkward silence settles over us as I place our shared credit card in the folio and snap it closed—I don’t even look at the total.
“Well,” Emiliano says, shifting in his seat as the waiter takes the bill, “that’s unnecessary…but very generous.”
“Hopefully this helps keep things on budget,” I say, my eyes full of ice. Diego, of course, hears and turns to me, confused. I don’t acknowledge him.
A painful minute later, the waiter returns, and I sign the receipt and stand to leave with Robbie.
Diego gives me a goodbye hug. “Good to see you, dude. And thank you for dinner,” he says.
“Good luck tomorrow,” I tell him, no emotion attached.
“Yeah, you too,” he replies, but it sounds more like a question. I don’t care.
We’re one step outside the door when Robbie wheels around.
“What the fuck was that? Jesus Christ, Austin!”
I don’t respond as I barrel past him toward our subway entrance.
“That meal was thousands of dollars!”
“I’ll pay us back.”
“Austin! Why did you do that?!” he shouts. “Slow down!”
I whip back, ready to shut him up. “How much do I get for a third-round win?”
“What?”
He stares at me, rage and confusion fighting for time on his face.
“It’s our hundred thousand dollars,” I say, answering my own question, “and I’m gonna fucking win it. I think that’ll cover the bill.”
He won’t look at me during the entire ride back. And that’s fine with me. I don’t want to get into it—any of it. The only thing I care about is showing those fuckers that I deserve to be here, and I can’t prove it with my words. I have to prove it on the court.
I know Diego’s confused as hell right now, but welcome to the shitty club.
And if his coach is so concerned about lending out watches, he’ll be happy to find Diego’s Rolex sitting on the restaurant table. I hope Diego doesn’t miss it—or it’ll be a very expensive tip.
—
The phone in my hotel room is ringing when I walk through the door.
Robbie will sometimes use the phone for a morning wake-up or to tell me something he remembered about my last match, but I know it’s not him calling now.
“Hello?” I answer, expecting Charlotte or Mom trying to get me for a nighttime check-in.
I should’ve known better.
“Hey…” Diego says. My back straightens. I stand with the phone to my ear, silent, waiting for him to continue.
“Are you okay? I feel like I missed something big…” he says.
I open my mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. My breath shallows, and before I even think about it, I turn to the bedside table and hang up.
Clothes still on, I crawl into bed and slump my body across the pillows. A minute later, he calls again. I sit there as the shriek of each ring echoes from my ears to my chest. I run my fingers along the crease of his note in front of me, sharpening the fold again and again.
The marks of his colored pencils show through the paper like a mystery. And as much as I want to erase him, and as mad and confused as I am, I want to know what’s on the other side.
Ignoring his instructions, I open it.
And there I am—a drawing of me, Wilson racket in hand, finishing a swing over my shoulder. A toothy smile. Blond hair tied back with a headband, the ends of it swirling like decorative ribbons up the page and forming the first letter of his message to me for my match tomorrow.
brEAK A LEG, it says in all caps.