Chapter 28
Somehow, I was able to fall asleep last night, but my nerves wake me up before my alarm. They usually do—why do I even bother to set it. I know I won’t find anything from Diego, but I check my phone anyway. Nothing. I let out a deep breath. One step at a time today. Follow the routine.
In a daze, I shower, get dressed, and head down the hallway to Robbie for my morning shake. I hear laughter as I near his door. Did he have someone over last night?
It was very awkward the last time I ran into one of his overnighters. “Give me a sec here,” he shouted from behind the door. I heard a woman’s voice next, whispering something. He cracked the door and said, “Hey, sorry, I’m just…I’ll come grab you in a second.”
“Oh god, yeah, okay,” I said, cringing. “Do I know her?” Couldn’t help but tease him a bit.
“You do not.”
“Can I meet her?”
“You cannot.”
“Rob, if she’s gonna be in our lives, that’s gonna need to happen.”
“I’m closing the door now.”
That was a few months ago, and I’d rather not repeat it today—I’ll just text him and tell him I’m ready when he is. I turn to head back to my room, but I stop when I recognize the voice—voices? I knock on the door, and my lips muscle into a happy frown when Mom answers, Charlotte behind her.
“What are you doing here?” I say as Mom wraps me into a hug.
“The biggest match of your life today—you think I could miss that?”
“We’re not calling it the biggest match,” Robbie says, lacing his shoes on a chair in the corner of his room. “Just a normal, everyday match.”
“A normal, everyday match in front of twenty-four thousand people,” I add. And against the love of my life. I leave that part out.
“Mom, you were literally just here,” I say to her, still trying to get my head around her surprise arrival. “It’s so far and so expensive.”
“I’m exhausted,” she says, resting her hand on my shoulder, “but I would never, ever miss this. I’d rather go bankrupt.”
“She didn’t go bankrupt,” Charlotte says, and I turn to her. I’ve been ignoring her texts since the article. “But you owe me a shit ton of Amex points.”
She hugs me and I let her. If she thinks this can win me back, she may be right.
I lean against the wall, looking at the three of them, overwhelmed by their presence.
We’re missing one, but this is family. A lump builds in my throat.
I want so badly to give in and let my tears fall.
I’m stuck between feeling the love of three incredible hearts and the ice of another.
I want to crouch on the floor, let it all out, and tell them everything.
But I don’t. Today is about strength. I swallow the pain and carry on.
Stick to the routine.
“When did you get here?” I ask.
“I took a red-eye and landed an hour ago.”
“Remember when you thought red-eye flights were faster, Auz?” Charlotte asks as Robbie hands me my shake.
“The name makes them sound like they’re faster,” I reply. I still think I’m right.
The room laughs and I join in. I’m glad they’re here to get me through this.
—
After breakfast with everyone, Robbie and I arrive at the tournament.
We aren’t scheduled until tonight, but he wanted us here early—to acclimate, hit the gym, hit some balls, have a meal, and get ready.
My stomach kicks as soon as I step out of the car.
This is it. I’m here. And I’m not leaving until someone wins and someone loses. And then something catches my eye.
“Wait,” I say to Rob, stopping in front of the brick exterior of Arthur Ashe. “Why is it gay?”
He turns to me, and I point. Rainbow flags slowly ripple on the screens lining the building.
“Oh my god, is it Pride Day?”
He pauses. “It is.”
“Today. Today is Pride Day here?”
“It is,” he says again, same delivery.
I take a long drag of air through my nose, slowly push it out through my lips.
“It’s just a coincidence,” Robbie says. “Scheduled long ago.”
“And it just happens to be—”
“It just happens to be,” he says with a knowing nod.
The US Open does a Pride Day every year—as they should.
They host panels on the importance of inclusion and visibility, ball kids wear rainbow wristbands, and there’s merch in the stores.
At night, the whole exterior of Arthur Ashe lights up in celebration.
And yeah, there is so much to celebrate, but today, it just feels like pressure.
“It’s gonna be fine. You’re gonna be fine,” Robbie says.
A drop of warm water hits the top of my head. Gray clouds paint the sky, taunting us with rain. I wished for the sun to take a fucking break all week, and it finally has, but now—now it just feels ominous.
We enter the main building, walk past security, past check-in, and my eyes dart down every hallway, looking for him.
Is this my entire day before it happens?
We have to run into each other sometime.
This place is big, but it’s impossible to avoid someone forever.
Tennis isn’t like other sports, where teams have separate locker rooms. Here, we’re all in the same one.
The guy you beat could be showering in the stall next to you twenty minutes later.
Tennis forces you to collide, on court and off.
What would I even say to him? I don’t want an explanation at this point. I can manage to be polite—I can give him a friendly nod—but he’s going to have to say something first. This shit is on him.
There’s no sign of him during practice. I’m scheduled on the same exact practice court where we first met, and when I toss my bag on the bench, fragments of that day come rushing back: the fall, Diego’s eyes in my face, fighting with Rob about dropping out.
I lift my arm to my chest, just to feel things out.
My breathing is fine. My pulse is slightly elevated, but that makes sense on a day like this. Overall, I feel fine.
We don’t have Other Austin with us—the boys’ singles tournament starts today, and his match is in an hour. To be honest, I kinda miss his toxic positivity—and having someone who can hit a clean ball.
“Hit it harder! What are you doing?” I shout to Rob, across the net.
“Just hit it back, Austin. Don’t tell me how to do this,” he says with a tone he’s had since breakfast. We’re all on edge over here.
“I just don’t get the point if you’re not going to hit as hard as him.”
It’s the first time I mention Diego out loud all day. Him, I say, disconnecting him from his name, creating distance. Robbie smacks the next one straight down the line, and it catches me by surprise. I extend to reach it, but it zips by me.
“I wasn’t ready!”
Robbie shuts his eyes.
We spend the rest of the practice rallying, crushing balls over and over again, and I pour all my anger into every swing. Robbie hits some of them back, but there are plenty of balls he doesn’t even go for. He’s not fast enough to keep up anymore.
He joins me on the bench and rubs his hand on his shoulder, wincing.
“How’s it feeling?” I ask.
“Fine,” he mumbles. Always his response.
That shoulder took him out of professional tennis.
He was in the third round at Roland-Garros when he felt the snap.
His doctor said it could be fixed with surgery, but the first operation didn’t go well.
The second one was better, but he could never shake the pain during a serve or a heavy forehand.
He was forced to bow out. Some endings you don’t get to choose.
—
I don’t see Diego at player dining either.
There was a commotion at a table at the opposite end of the room, a bunch of laughter and voices all tangling together at once.
My neck whipped immediately because I knew it was him—but it wasn’t.
It was just a doubles team reuniting with an old friend and being loud about it.
This place is always loud—it’s a glorified high school cafeteria of reunions, rivalries, and people just trying to scarf down meals, like me.
Robbie’s normally a social butterfly around here, but even he isn’t feeling it today.
I do a quick lap around the locker room when I get there, scoping out the place to see if Diego’s here. It’s pretty empty now, except for a few guys in the shower.
Where is he? This is getting weird.
I circle back to my locker, at the far end of the room, and change into my Nike kit. Robbie hasn’t heard from Nicole since thanking her for the clothes she sent a few days ago. Maybe she’s not a fan of my interviews. Maybe she’s ghosting me too.
At the mirror, I push my hair back and stretch my white headband across my forehead.
I broke in a fresh pair of shoes yesterday.
My socks are stretched up, my shorts hiked against my quads, tanned from years of constant sun, and I wear a dark blue shirt with a zipper centered at the collar.
I zip it all the way up and meet my own stare in the mirror.
I lean in close, my nose to the glass, to get a look at the bags under my eyes, which have been slowly forming since qualies, like a collection of everything that’s gone down.
Only one thing can fix them. Rest. And my job here isn’t over.
—
I hear him first.
We’re forty-five minutes from the match. I just left the locker room, and his laugh carries from around the corner and down the hall toward me and Rob, headed in the opposite direction. And there he is, Emiliano and a few others in front of him, almost blocking him from view.
He’s all the way down there, past the posters, past the tennis histories on the wall.
I have about ten seconds to decide what I should do, what I should say.
My entire body tenses as my mind floods with options.
I should probably just smile, nod, keep going.
I don’t have to do more than that. He doesn’t deserve more than that. Emiliano spots us.
I wish I had a larger group, instead of just Robbie, and a US Open escort leading us to the warm-up room. “Say something to me,” I whisper sharply to Rob through the side of my mouth.
“What?”