Chapter 26
We don’t speak as Robbie drives the rental car through Brooklyn.
All I know is that we’re picking Helen up and heading to the Hamptons, and it will take about two hours to get there.
I don’t care about the other details. I just sit slouched in the passenger seat, rewriting my text to Diego and rereading the New York Times article.
I’ve never seen a player level up as quickly as Austin has these past two years. I’m glad the world finally sees how special he is. And he really is a force. If he can keep his mind clear, if he can stay focused, he’ll have an incredible career. This is just the beginning.
One of the three quotes from Rob. The article ends with this one. I glance over at him, his hand on the steering wheel. He had no right to give an interview. He had no right to keep it from me. He can’t win me back with flattering quotes that Charlotte probably wrote for him.
I text her the article and fire off a bunch of question marks with it. She needs to answer for this too. It’ll probably be the first time in her life that she doesn’t text me back right away.
Next up is Diego. I drafted a long message for him in my notes app, but I need it to sound more casual, more unscripted.
hey everything ok over there ?
Another—
im sorry if last night was weird
I send another one right after, like I’m writing them as I think of it.
how was ur sleep
Fuck. I immediately regret the last one. Shit, that sounds needy. I’m cringing at myself. Should I unsend it? What do I do? Shit.
“Austin,” Robbie says.
“What?”
“I said, move to the back seat.”
I look up to see Helen coming out of her apartment building in a green baseball hat, sunscreen caked on her nose.
Robbie gets out to greet her. She sets her bag down on the sidewalk with a warm smile, and they hug.
I shove my phone into my pocket, get out of the car, and lean against the hood, giving them some time.
They exchange a few words out of my earshot, and finally she looks my way and walks over to me.
“Austin, good to see you. How are things?”
“Loaded question, Helen.”
“Well, we’ve got plenty of time to sort that today,” she says.
I open the passenger door for her with a pained smile. “Welcome to the shit show.”
My phone buzzes as I settle into the back seat, and I carefully inch it out to sneak a glance. I’m not ready to let Helen down just yet.
Not Diego. Charlotte.
Robbie asked me not to mention it, I wanted to tell you
But you didn’t. You listened to him. That’s just as bad.
“So, Austin, how are you feeling today?” Helen asks, tilting around from the front seat.
“Fine. Pretty fine, I guess.” A lie. I don’t feel like talking about the truth. I feel like sulking. I feel like drifting away into the sea. “Maybe tired?” I add, giving her a breadcrumb of something.
“Couldn’t sleep again?”
I shrug.
“Any reason why?” she presses.
“Is this a session? Are we starting…with everyone?” My eyes dart to Robbie, seemingly minding his own business, but it’s a car and we’re all in it, so…
She smiles, understanding my hesitation.
“No, not a session, just a conversation, and we don’t have to talk about anything you don’t want to. Is it all right to talk about your match yesterday?”
“Did you watch?”
“I was there.”
“Oh my god, you were there?” My brain twists with shock and—gratitude? I’m actually touched. “You weren’t sitting in our box.”
“Oh, no. That’s way too close for my liking. I didn’t want to bother, didn’t want to distract, just wanted to…see.” I look to Rob again, his eyes still glued ahead. I’m sure he arranged her ticket, and I don’t know whether to be grateful, or upset about yet another thing he kept from me.
“Well, you picked a dramatic one,” I say, feeling a tinge of embarrassment. I played really well yesterday, but I’m not super proud of my behavior—it wasn’t a great first impression for Helen.
“I did! It was extremely exciting to watch. And then that comeback! The trick shot! What do you call that?”
“An underarm serve.”
“Underarm serve! Brilliant. Excellent shot selection.”
“The vocab…You sound like a commentator.”
“I feel like one!” she says with a grin. “But tell me—what did you do to get back in shape after the third set, after the bathroom break?”
“Well, that guy was an asshole, and it was messing with me,” I say, settling back in my seat, “and I was starting to feel it in my face—a pressure in my cheeks, my eyes, throbbing in my head. It felt like it was only a matter of time before…I dunno.” I stop short.
I don’t want to freak Robbie out—because it felt like what was happening on the practice court last week.
“So I used my bathroom break. I didn’t even need to go or anything.
I just needed to reset. And I sat on the floor and closed my eyes. ”
“To try to calm yourself down?” Helen asks.
“Yeah, I tried to think about…nothing? Like, meditate, like we talked about. And that worked a little bit, but it’s not easy.”
“It isn’t.”
“Then I…thought about my dad. A memory floated up, but not in a sad way. It was a happy memory. And I guess that helped.”
Helen nods.
“And then I bent some rules and fucked with the guy right back. The end.”
“That’s brilliant. Just brilliant. I love that you did that—the meditating and the fucking-him-up bit.”
We smile at each other—except for Robbie. There’s nothing on his face when I catch him in the rearview mirror. He moves his eyes back to the road.
—
Two hours later, I crack my window and salty air hits my face.
The Hamptons have always sounded like a faraway, mythical place full of wealth and beaches and expensive restaurants.
Charlotte’s told me about coming here to work fancy PR events, and it doesn’t sound like a place that I’d like.
I don’t feel like I would fit in here, even though Diego’s watch might say otherwise.
I was too wrapped up in everything this morning to take it off, and I’m too afraid to leave it in the hotel or bump it around in my bag, so here it lives, on my wrist—a permanent reminder of him, as if he didn’t live permanently in my head.
Light catches the polished metal of the bracelet as Robbie turns our car down a neighborhood street with perfectly manicured lawns.
“Okay, so, who are we visiting?” I finally ask Robbie.
“A friend.” It’s always a mysterious friend with him. “You’ll like this one too,” he adds, indirectly referencing Helen.
We pull into the driveway of one of the smaller homes on the street—it’s beautiful, just a little more modest than the others—and, standing at the door, cup of coffee in hand, is the last person I would have expected to spend the day with. My jaw drops and stays there.
Lucas Eriksson, sixteen-time Grand Slam champion, grins at us with his sparkling white teeth—perfect, just like his record against everyone.
“This is your life now, old man?” Rob calls over to him as we exit the car.
“Yep, just watching the grass grow,” Lucas replies, and they embrace.
I catch Robbie’s eyes when he turns back to us.
I think my mouth is still open, because he gives me a knowing smile.
It is so fucking cool to be here—not cool enough to forgive him, but cool enough to drop our feud for the day.
It’s not smart to walk around mad anyway, not now.
I should say thank you, but instead, I just mouth, Wow.
Bits of gray have found the hair on Eriksson’s temples, but that’s somehow made him even more handsome, aged him like a fine retirement wine.
I’ve barely seen him on TV since he left the tour.
No one has seen him, really. Some players retire and become commentators or make brand deals or start foundations, build empires, but it seems like Eriksson is content living a quiet life running HOA meetings.
He has enough money to do whatever he wants anyway.
“This is my good friend—and Austin’s therapist—Helen,” Robbie says. Austin’s therapist. Way to put it all out there.
“Lovely to meet you, Helen. Do you have any availability for me?”
“I’d be happy to help if you let me move in.” They shake. “Do you have room for a family of four?”
Eriksson glances back, into the house. “I might, actually,” he says, considering.
“And this,” Robbie says, “is Austin.”
I extend my hand, and thankfully he takes it before he sees it trembling. “Nice to meet you, sir.”
“No, no. Call me Lucas,” he says.
I don’t think I’ll be able to do that. Tennis legends are known by last names only. “Lucas,” I say, nodding. Nope, feels wrong.
“You know, I started on the tour when I was seventeen—a little younger than you.” Of course I know that. His biography is a ten-pound brick, and I’ve read it cover to cover twice.
“Feels like ages ago, like a completely different life,” he says. “I wish I remembered how it felt, so I could give you some advice. I just remember crying a lot, and a fair amount of screaming.”
From a man who grew up to be one of the coolest, most levelheaded players in the history of the sport, that’s hard to believe, but the biography backs him up there too. The writer did his research.
“But, Austin, you’ve been incredible this week. I’ve watched everything, and I’m so impressed.” God, I think I’m actually blushing. If Robbie planned this meeting to calm me down before tomorrow, it was a bad idea.
“Thank you, I’m—I’m having a good time.” Robbie gives me eyebrows. Overstatement of the century. I’m currently in hell.
Lucas puts a hand on my shoulder. “I hope so,” he says. “Come in, everyone. Come in. We have a breakfast-spread situation in case you want anything, and Killian is warming up on the court.”
“Killian Warner?” I ask.
“She’s your hitting partner today,” Robbie says.
“Well, shit,” I say to myself.