Chapter 27
“We should watch highlights from Cruz’s match after this,” Robbie says in between bites of his burger.
“I think I’m good on that.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I’ve seen enough of his matches. I don’t want to stare at his face.” I’m gonna be staring at him a long time tomorrow, and that should be enough.
Robbie frowns. “Is everything okay there?”
“Yeah. Fine. Why?”
“You’re testy about it,” he says. “More than usual.”
“It’s a big day tomorrow. Could that explain it?”
“Are you worried about going up against him?”
“Are you trying to psych me out or something?” I reply, blood heating. “You didn’t catch any tips from Helen today? Why do you say shit like that?”
“It’s a valid question, Austin. It’s not meant to psych you out.
I competed against friends many times, and it’s not an easy thing to do—for either of you.
” My mouth twists, but I have nothing to say.
“I know it’s not exactly the same thing,” he adds.
He says it like he knows more than I’ve told him.
He’s smart enough to take an educated guess.
I silently push my uneaten rice across the plate. I never came out to Robbie—not technically. My parents told him about Jake when all of that went down—I said it was fine for them to tell him—but Robbie and I never actually had a conversation about it.
We used to take lots of weekend trips to Robbie’s house—LA is only a two-hour drive from San Bernardino.
Jake came with us once, back in middle school.
“Bring a friend sometime,” Robbie had told me.
We played basketball in his pool, Robbie grilled pork chops, and Jake and I watched Big Mouth on his enormous sofa while the adults talked over wine in the backyard.
Jake didn’t laugh at a joke that was basically written for exactly him, and I turned to find him asleep, his head hanging to the side.
I watched him from the other end of the couch, his lips parted, hair dried in a funny way after being in the pool.
I wanted to slide over and let him rest on my shoulder.
I’d always thought he was cute, but that was when I knew I liked him much more than a friend.
That was when I knew I was falling in love.
A few years later, during my freshman year of high school, the family was on another trip to Robbie’s.
Dad was having one of his good days and was up for the travel—and I was having one of the worst days of my life.
I had just come out to the whole school, and Jake had broken up with me. I spent that week barely living life.
“Hey,” Robbie said to me when he opened the door.
“How ya doing?” And he squeezed my neck.
I wasn’t as tall as him at the time, still had about six inches to grow.
I looked up at him, and—I can’t explain it—I knew he wasn’t asking about Dad, like he normally had since that impossible sadness had slowly moved into our lives.
He was asking about me. He was asking about Jake.
“I’m good,” I said, desperate to hide the lump that would live in my throat for years to come. I smiled right through it, and brushed past him inside the house.
I knew they told him. He knew that I knew. But he didn’t make a big deal about it. He never told me the cliché shit like love is love. We just continued our lives.
Sure, occasionally we’d be watching a show and he’d say a guy was hot.
I very clearly remember this happening while we were watching some travel series starring Zac Efron—I forget the name of it.
Robbie made some comment about how good-looking he was, which was undeniable in that show.
It was supposed to be about sustainability and saving the planet, but the whole thing felt like an excuse to strip his clothes and make him jump off cliffs.
And of course I was thinking the exact same thing as Robbie.
I had a sexual awakening watching this old Zac Efron movie called 17 Again in my bedroom when I was nine—he’s my guy.
“That’s a handsome man,” Rob said. He didn’t turn to me for my opinion.
He just put it out there, building a safe space where it was okay to drool over Zac’s perfectly carved chest. Mom agreed.
Dad was resting in the other room, but he would have agreed too.
And then Charlotte went off on some tangent involving Vanessa Hudgens and the whole thing moved on from there.
There’s a second, years later, as I sit at this table with Rob, staring at my chicken, when I consider telling him everything. He’s asking. He cares. But I just can’t bring myself to do it.
It feels just like last time. I threw myself into something, got so excited, only for it to crash and burn in front of me. But this time I picked the worst person imaginable. Or he picked me. It doesn’t matter at this point, and I have to deal with the consequences.
“How do we beat him?” I ask Robbie.
“We watch his match and we talk about it,” he replies, with no hesitation.
I sigh. I knew he would double down. I’ll do anything it takes to win tomorrow, and if doing that bumps up my odds, let’s go stare at Diego’s face. Then I’ll take him down.
—
“You’re gonna have to stand farther back than normal on those first serves,” Robbie says as we huddle around his iPad in his hotel room. “You’ll need more time.” He reaches for his dry-erase pen and draws a red line across the screen.
I cringe. “Please use a screen protector if you’re gonna do that.” It gets me every time. But the marks come right off, so what do I know.
Robbie ignores me and we continue our homework.
“He normally favors a slice down the middle on his second serve. Stand closer to center on the ad side.” He marks the screen again.
“It’ll set you up for more forehand returns—you can take control of the point right away,” he says. “And you’ll get in his head.”
We’ve been at it for an hour, and the more we talk—strategy, adjustments, mentality—the more Diego becomes an opponent, not a friend, not whatever it was I thought we were. He’s someone standing in my way, and we have a plan to beat him.
“And if any of this goes south, just look over to me and we can readjust on the fly,” Robbie says. “But it’s gonna be a little loud in there.”
“It’s officially on Ashe?”
Robbie nods.
A chill rushes my body. I’m going up against Diego in the largest tennis stadium in the world. I’m smart enough to know that no strategy can prepare me for that.
“What are you thinking?” he asks, sensing my fear.
I can’t describe it.
“You’re thinking holy shit?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
“That’s exactly how I felt when it was me out there,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “And here I am. Alive. Survived it. And you will too.” I smile and try to believe him. “And you’re better than I am—was.”
It’s the first time he’s ever said that to me, and he never gives a compliment unless he means it. “Because I’m special?” I ask with a head tilt. When he realizes I’m quoting his New York Times interview, he looks away, clears his throat. But a moment later, he returns. “Yes. Because you are.”
The nerves, the warmth, and the love twist and turn into a feeling I can’t contain, and all of it pours out of me in two words. I don’t say them enough. “Thank you.”
“Yep.” That’s his reply. With a simple nod. “Yep.”
—
I knew watching Diego’s match was a bad idea, and in my room later that night, I wish I could take it back.
Because there’s something in me I can’t control now.
Like I’m someone else. Like I’m not the one pulling my phone out of my pocket.
Like I’m not the one flipping through videos the algorithm is serving up. Like I’m not the one watching this one.
It’s another fan edit of Diego and me. A compilation of footage from our helicopter ride, the video of the incident at practice, and highlights from both of our matches over the past week.
And now I’m sitting here reliving our entire week, underscored with “Perfect” by One Direction.
Of all songs, this fan had to pick that one.
Watching his match put me on a slippery slope.
I knew it would. And it led me here. And now my stomach is battling anxiety and a stupid crush.
I can’t even call it that anymore, because it’s so much more.
God, I want him. I want this match. I want to be able to take a full breath right now.
I was confident this morning. Shit, I was confident an hour ago. And I spiraled right back here.
If we could just talk, if we could reset, I think it would calm my racing mind.
No, I can’t call him again. That would be absolutely wild. Calling would be asking a question I already know the answer to.
But maybe he’s ready to talk now? Maybe he wasn’t before, and he’s been going through the same thing as me?
I can’t call him. I can’t.
But I do.
The phone rings three times. I feel each ring like a drum in my chest. And in the middle of the fourth—the call cuts straight to voicemail.
He sent me there.
I close my eyes, slowly lean down to press my head against the bed, and I pretend it doesn’t hurt as much as it does.
I’m okay. I’m okay. I don’t need him. I’m okay.