Chapter 26 #2
Killian Warner is ranked number five in the world.
She’s been hovering in the top ten for years now, and considering her forehand averages a ferocious eighty miles per hour, it’s no surprise why.
Unfotunately, she got knocked out in the second round of the tournament—by a qualifier, I think, in a big upset.
We’re really shaking things up this year.
“Her dad’s a friend of the family—just like Rob here,” Lucas says as we follow him into the house.
I immediately look for the trophies, the magazine covers, the memories, but instead, the dark hallway we enter is lined with abstract paintings.
It leads us into a sun-drenched living room and kitchen, and to a beautiful breakfast, just as promised: fresh fruit, bagels, eggs, and coffee.
All the smells of a warm and loving home.
“Austin, we have yogurt in the fridge. We have granola there, hot sauce,” he says, pointing at the items, “and grapefruit juice—at least half a glass as long as no one else touches it.”
I turn to Robbie. He nods. He sent my superstitious breakfast order ahead.
“I’m sorry. Thank you,” I say to Eriksson, embarrassed that he had to go to the trouble.
“My superstition was avoiding the lines. I never stepped on the lines between points. One time—the one time I actually count—I stepped on a sideline in a doubles match in Australia.”
“Did you lose?” I ask him.
“It was against him, actually.” Eriksson points to Robbie.
“And no, he did not lose,” Robbie says.
Eriksson shrugs.
I glance into his living room with a wall of windows overlooking a singular, spectacular tennis court down a small slope. And there’s Killian, attacking a ball machine, her grunts echoing all the way up here. They’re maybe even louder than Diego’s.
I realize it’s the first time I’ve thought of him in five minutes, and I’m grateful for that precious time of peace. Let’s go for ten minutes next time, see if I can set a new record.
“All right, I’m finishing up a few things. Make yourself at home, everyone. The court’s just down there. I’ll come and join you in a bit,” Lucas says, “if that’s okay with you, Austin.”
“That would be—yeah—I won’t be nervous at all about that.”
“Hey, it’ll be good practice for tomorrow. You’re playing on Ashe, right? You’ll have lots more famous people than me there.”
“Yeah, we’re expecting Ashe. Cruz has been there all week,” Robbie says.
So much for forgetting.
“Oh, you’ve got Cruz tomorrow. Right. That’ll be great. Such a nice guy, so personable. I met him a few years ago now—Wimbledon, the only time I’ve been back.”
“Yeah, he and Austin have been hitting it off,” Robbie says, and my cheeks flush.
I glance over to Helen, who’s straight-faced, scooping strawberries into a bowl, holding all my secrets.
“Oh yeah? That’s great,” Eriksson says. “I made some of my best friends on tour.”
“Yup, really nice guy.” That’s all I can muster.
“How are you feeling about going up against a friend?” Eriksson asks.
My stomach’s full of nails, sir.
“Have any tips?” I ask.
“Show no mercy, and use everything you have against him. Everything.”
He says it so seriously that it almost sounds like a joke—but he doesn’t flinch. “Right, Rob?” he adds.
“That’s what he did to me,” Robbie replies, nodding to Eriksson. “Worked out great for him.” And they finally break into a laugh.
I’m so happy these heteros could navigate their simple friendships on the court. It’s a lot easier when you’re not in bed with each other.
Eriksson disappears to his office, and Helen joins Robbie and me after studying a canvas down the hall. “The most gorgeous house, the most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen,” she says.
It’s hard to disagree. And I still can’t believe we’re actually here.
“Okay, have your blueberries, and let’s get to work,” Robbie says.
—
The stats don’t lie. Killian’s forehand is unreal.
There’s almost no spin on her ball, and it barely clears the net, but she never misses.
I have to crouch down super low to get the ball back to her, and it’s tough with the pace she puts on it, but I end up beating her 6–4 in our first practice set.
“Jesus, you’re good,” I say, taking a water break. Robbie, Helen, and Killian’s coach watch from chairs at the side of the court.
“Nope. No way. I’ve been playing like shit all week. Today’s the exact same,” Killian says, annoyed.
“I dunno. I thought you looked great.”
She eyes me as she takes a swig from her bottle. “You’re not gonna be as lucky in the next one.”
“Luck’s gotta run out sometime,” I say.
“Plus, if you beat me again, you can’t join our club.”
“What club is that?”
“Our gay tennis club. They haven’t invited you yet? That’s surprising. You’re on all the posters.”
“Oh my god,” I groan.
“Yeah, every other week we meet at Billie Jean King’s house and make blood sacrifices in jewel-toned blazers. But now that our messiah has arrived, all of us lowly women will rip off her crown and place it on your saintly head—right where it belongs.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“Exactly,” she says with a grin.
“You know I don’t care about any of that press. It’s annoying. I just want to compete.”
“Oh, you don’t care about any of your amazing press? After queer women opened all the doors for you to have a nice time here?”
I shake my head. I don’t really have a defense.
“I’m just messing with you,” Killian says.
“I know…” At least, I hope she is.
“Billie Jean would never give you her crown. She’d murder you first.”
“I would love to be murdered by Billie Jean King.”
“It would be an honor,” Killian says. “And I’d feel the same way if I were you. It’s annoying to be asked about your sexuality all the time, but if it wasn’t that, they’d find something else to fixate on. But nobody ever asks me anymore. I should start dating a man, to shake shit up.”
“Do you want to date a man?” I ask her.
“Once was enough.”
“Yeah, men suck.”
“You really do.” We smile in agreement. “Okay—ready to get bloodied up?”
“Go easy on me. I have a big match tomorrow.”
“I’ll go so much harder now,” she says, pulling her hat close to her eyes. “Austin, patron saint of homos…”
I shake my head as I walk back to the baseline.
Killian wins the next set.
—
The scent of freshly cut grass fills my nose as we walk back up the hill.
I’m sweat drenched and exhausted, but feeling good—and I’ve barely thought about Diego for two hours.
I glance back at Robbie, Helen, and Eriksson, a few strides behind me, chatting, laughing, working on strategy.
I smile to myself. This must be what it feels like to have a team, rallying around me, lifting me up, all with different sets of skills.
I don’t feel lucky that often, not since Dad died, and any success I find in tennis, I justify with hard work.
But as the breeze catches the back of my neck, I feel lucky to have them. I feel lucky to be here.
Eriksson took over for Killian after our second set. I beat him. He didn’t do much to acknowledge that, though. “Must have stepped on a line,” he told me, adding a wink. I, however, will remember that win for the rest of my life.
Helen catches up to me as we approach the house. “Why do some players grunt so hard when they hit?” she asks.
I laugh. “Killian’s a little loud, right?”
“Lots of you are.”
“It’s supposed to help with breathing and rhythm. You should be exhaling with every swing. The grunting makes it easier.”
“Why don’t you do it?”
“It feels way too extra. I don’t need to.”
“You don’t want to stand out?”
I snort. “That theory sounds very therapist-y.”
“Breathing is powerful—on court, off court. Maybe you’re not doing it as much as you should. It could release some tension in both places.”
“Are you telling me to live, laugh, grunt, Helen?”
“Wouldn’t kill you,” she says with a chuckle. “Also, what’s that in your pocket?”
Shit. “Did Robbie tell you?”
“No, I have eyes. And phones are very large now.”
I let out a sigh. “Am I in trouble?”
“That’s not how this works. I’m not making a judgment. I was just curious.”
“No phone worked for a while, and I’m glad we gave it a shot. Really. I just—I feel better enough to have it on me again.”
Helen studies me like she isn’t convinced. So much for being judgment-free.
—
I rinse off in Lucas’s outdoor shower, nestled around the corner of the house, ivy growing up its stone walls. Everyone decided I was too sweaty to enter the house or soak the seats in the rental car.
Cold water pelts my scalp and lifts the heat of the late afternoon.
I don’t always leave practice feeling great, but this practice was excellent.
And with all the attention on who I’m playing, I realize I’ve never really taken a second to celebrate how far I’ve come here.
I made it to the fourth round of the US Open—my first Grand Slam—and it’s very likely that I’m playing the night match on Arthur Ashe Stadium tomorrow.
That thought scares the shit out of me, but beneath it I’m thrilled.
I’m exactly where I always wanted to be.
Back in the house, down one of the hallways, I find Robbie in Lucas’s office, a quiet room overlooking the court.
This is where he hides all his tennis memories.
The dark wood paneling on the walls is collaged with framed photos from tournaments, with actors, politicians, musicians…
Robbie hovers at the dark brown trophy case, staring down at a sparkling golden cup, a replica Wimbledon trophy—they don’t let you keep the real thing.
“Where are all the other ones?” I ask Robbie, joining him.
“At his different houses, probably—here, LA, back in Sweden.”
“Why does he keep all this stuff hidden away? I’d put this trophy on the kitchen table, eat cereal out of it, bask in my glory every morning.”
“He never really liked tennis.”
“Yeah, that’s what his book said, but that can’t actually be true.”
“No, it’s true. He hated it.”
“Why didn’t he retire earlier, then?”
“It’s hard to quit something you’re the best in the world at,” Robbie says, staring through the glass of the trophy case. “But this whole sport, this life—it can eat away at you.”
“How long would you have stuck around if you didn’t fuck up your shoulder?”
“I don’t know. It would have been nice to have one of those.
I might have kept trying until I got one.
” This is the first time I’ve heard Robbie look back at his career with remorse.
It is what it is. I was lucky to be there, he always says.
Reserved, humble, grateful—that’s the Robbie I know.
“But sometimes life takes you out first,” he says, and I suspect he means a few things there.
“I’m gonna win one,” I tell him. “For you. For Dad.”
Robbie turns to me, looks me straight in my eyes. “You have to do it for you, Austin. That’s the only way it works. It’s gotta be for you.” With that, he pats my shoulder, and the floorboards creak as he walks back out to rejoin the others.
Alone in the room, I catch myself in the reflection of the Wimbledon cup.
When I was a kid, I stole a package of tinfoil from the kitchen and used the entire roll to build my own trophy—except it wasn’t a Wimbledon trophy like this one.
It was for the US Open. It was lopsided, and it was makeshift, but when I held it in the air, high above my head, that kid in the mirror knew that one day it would be real.
I knew it because I’ve never wanted anything more in my entire life.
I wanted it so badly that I would cry myself to sleep.
I would lose a match and I would cry until my pillow was soaked, because I was one step further from my dream.
Maybe it’s because I’m lost in this memory, or because my dream has never been this close, but I feel a tear build against my left eye.
I let it fall, and I dip my head in time to see it tumble to Lucas’s office rug and disappear into its red fibers.
Fifteen years of my life could fit inside that single tear—fifteen years of sweat, blood, and belief.
I don’t hate tennis like Lucas. I love it with every ounce of me.
And I don’t care what Robbie says. My parents sacrificed so much for me to be standing in this room now, to stand on that court tomorrow, and I’m gonna win the match for them.
And I’ll give everyone a new record to talk about.
I’ll write a new page in the history books.
I’m going to be the first guy—gay or otherwise—to go through qualifiers and win the whole fucking thing.
It’s never been done. Then they won’t talk about who I am. They’ll talk about what I’ve done.
Diego is good. But he’s not invincible. He gets cocky, and he makes stupid mistakes. I just have to power through and stay consistent. As he enters my brain again, I pull my phone out of my pocket, barely thinking, and open our message thread.
My heart skips a beat when I see it.
A read receipt.
Just like before—history repeating. He saw my message, didn’t care to respond, and moved on. He’s over whatever it was we had—and I am too.
Show no mercy, and use everything you have against him. That’s what Eriksson said. That attitude got him sixteen Grand Slam titles, and it’s about to get me my first.