Chapter 23
Davies doesn’t even shake my hand when it’s all over. We meet at the net like normal, he looks me right in the eyes, and he turns sharply toward the umpire chair. I stand there a second longer, and throw my arms up a bit, but ultimately, who cares? I won.
I could really fuck shit up and call him a homophobe during my interview, but I don’t think that’s what his snub was about. All homophobes are assholes. Not all assholes are homophobes.
I do make a point of apologizing to the chair umpire. “Sorry about all that,” I say. It can be a thankless job. Sure, umpires can make terrible calls, but I can hit terrible forehands.
I look up as the crowd boos Davies, exiting the court.
The dude deserves it, and I have no sympathy.
But now I’m realizing that I played another match that will make a dramatic highlight reel.
Code violations, extended bathroom breaks, trick shots, absent handshakes…
People will have lots to say about this one, and I’m thankful that once again I’m blissfully unaware of the chatter, my phone tucked away in a dark pocket of Robbie’s bag.
He’s still barely talking to me, but hopefully he’ll liven up after this win.
“Austin, good to see you again,” a man says behind me—and I turn to see Backward-Hat Ryan from qualies, ready for another on-court interview.
“The feeling’s mutual, Ryan,” I say as I join him on the court.
“Austin, you have another packed house here tonight. How does it feel to have this many people behind you?” he asks, and passes his mic to me.
“Yeah, I just want to say, thank you, everyone, for being with me through the ups and downs of this one. I really appreciate the support, and you definitely helped lift me back up.”
“What do you think it is about your game that packs a stadium like this?”
“Well, I think people love cheering for an American at this tournament, and I’m just trying not to disappoint.” The crowd responds with claps and cheers.
“You certainly aren’t disappointing anyone with this remarkable run.
I think we all love the drama you’re bringing this year.
And I have to ask you—I saw that you and Diego Cruz had a pretty iconic arrival on Wednesday, in a helicopter.
” My stomach drops at the mention of him. “What’s the story there?”
What’s the story? Hold on to your hat, Ryan. “Yeah, you know me, always causing a scene,” I say, deflecting. The last thing I want to do is talk about Diego, but this interview has other plans.
“It seems like you two are becoming good friends.”
Looks can be deceiving, and so can Diego Cruz.
Char wasn’t able to make it to this match—she had to work, for once—but I channel her and summon my last ounce of media training.
“Yeah, well, I’m new here, and I don’t have a lot of friends on the tour, so he’s been really nice and kind of showing me around a bit. ”
“And how are you feeling about going up against him in the next round?”
The possibility of this happening has lingered in the back of my head long enough for me to have an answer to this question.
But I don’t. I don’t know how I feel—especially after last night.
I fight to keep it from my face, but nerves are already pulsing through my veins.
“I mean, it’s always hard to compete against friends.
We both want it really bad, and he’s obviously an amazing player, so I’ll have to bring everything I’ve got. ”
“Well, you might not need to worry. I know you haven’t been following along, but Cruz is down two sets against Gerard, and he’s in a pretty deep hole in the third.”
I can’t help the look on my face after this news. It falls flat, and I stand there with my mouth open. “It’s possible he comes back, though,” Ryan says. “We’ve seen it before.”
“Yeah, he’s…” I pause. “Full of surprises.”
—
“Austin, they’re ready for you in the press room,” someone shouts into the locker room, but I’m still glued to the TV mounted on the wall.
Diego is down 2–4 in the third set, and the camera tracks his face as he walks to the baseline to serve.
He mops sweat from his forehead with his wristband, cleans the corners of his mouth.
I recognize the panic in his eyes as they dart around—up to his box, back to the court—searching for a way to stay in the match.
Come on. You can do it.
The thought surprises me. Shit, do I actually want him to win? He lied to me. I emptied my heart to him, and he gave me lies. Plus, I prefer my chances with Gerard, who’s ranked a lot lower than Diego.
But I feel him tugging my heart from the screen. Why is it so hard to watch him lose?
Diego shouts at Emiliano after he mishits another forehand and the ball flies off the court.
He’s close to tears. I know that feeling.
I was just there. You’re flailing, trying to stay above water, and that makes you stress even harder.
The camera pans to his face again, and I can see world number one floating away from his reach.
“Austin.” Another voice at the door. “They’re waiting for you.”
It’s time to talk about my win. For a second, I was so consumed with watching Diego that I forgot that I should be celebrating. I won. I won—but I’m distracted? I won—but I want him to win too? My win isn’t enough?
Fuck, I’m in this deep.
When I arrive in the press room, I scan for a TV even though I know there isn’t one. I don’t want to leave Diego’s match, so I’ll make this quick.
—
They’re in the fifth set by the time Robbie and I are in the car and going home.
Huddled in the back seat, we watch on Robbie’s phone.
We missed Diego’s comeback in the third set.
He narrowly took the fourth. And the final set is another nail-biter—tied, three games all—but there’s an extra spring to his step.
Diego whips a running crosscourt winner, and the crowd roars like it’s the most incredible thing they’ve ever seen.
Maybe it is. Now it’s Gerard’s turn to be afraid.
You don’t want to be on the other side when Diego catches fire.
“Your presser was good,” Robbie says to me, keeping his eyes on the screen. “No drama, just answered the questions and moved on.”
I haven’t heard a compliment from him in a while. Yes, he hugged me after the match—how could he not be happy?—but the tension from dinner hasn’t lifted.
“Thanks. I just wanted to get out of there.”
We go back to watching his match in silence. It’s hard to look away. Even the driver keeps turning his ear toward us to catch the score.
“I have a plan for us tomorrow. I think we need to get away,” Robbie says.
“Get away where?”
“Somewhere in the Hamptons. I’m still working out the details, but there’s a court, a gym, everything we need. And it’s away from all this.” He gestures to the city whooshing by us in the car. “Helen is gonna join.”
“Helen?”
“Yeah, we’ll pick her up on the way.”
My eyes narrow. “Is that…weird?”
“Lots of people have psychologists on their team, and they’re with them all the time. Helen hasn’t ever been with you on court. I think it could be helpful.”
“We have to start paying her. You realize that.”
“This was her idea.”
I mean, I guess it couldn’t hurt.
“We’ve got one day to prepare you for Cruz, physically and mentally,” Robbie adds.
Another cheer from the crowd drags us back to the screen. Diego holds a hand to his ear, encouraging more applause. He flashes a smile.
“You think he’s gonna pull this off?” I ask.
Robbie doesn’t answer, but we’re thinking the same thing.
He usually does.