Chapter 29
You good?
The question he asked me at the net, his hand on my lower back. And it’s the question I answer with each backhand down the line. With each forehand, muscled with topspin, whirling the ball through the air with everything I have.
This one dives heavy onto his side of the court and bounces high. Diego pummels it back with a fierce grunt.
Split step, dash to the left, reach racket, reeeach…
Chip it back. Race to the other side. Smack it crosscourt. Hard. He returns it. I smack it back again. He returns it. Again. Again.
Again.
This rally won’t die, but I won’t either. I won’t be the first to blink.
My ball lands straight on the baseline, forcing him back, and I’m sneaking up to the net, fast and silent. I strike a volley at a sharp angle. He goes for it—of course he does. And of course he gets it, just like Robbie said he would.
Shit! He lobs it over my head and I’m dashing backward.
Faster, faster, faster. I can get it. I know I can.
I reach it before it lands, widen my legs, and hit right between them. Whipping around, I see the ball sailing through the air, and I pray to the gods of tennis that it lands where I want. No, not where I want—that’s too hopeful—just anywhere on his side of the fucking court. Please.
The crowd gasps. Then roars.
The point is mine, and I win the very first game of the set.
Charlotte and Mom are screaming from my players’ box, but my eyes are locked on Diego as we head to our benches for the first change of ends.
There’s a sliver of space between the net and the umpire’s chair, room enough for one player to pass, not two.
So if you arrive there at the same time—and we do—it’s courteous for one to let the other go first. Well, I’m not feeling courteous today.
I plow on through, almost shouldering him, and utter something that takes both of us by surprise.
I just broke your serve. You’ve been living on this court, and it’s my first time here. I’m just getting to know the place. I should be the one struggling right now, but, surprisingly—I’m good.
“Are you good?” I say, stone-cold, dripping with confidence.
His mouth drops—and I know it landed.
Standing at my bench, I take a quick sip of water. All I have to do is keep this energy up, this attitude, whatever it is I’ve unlocked here. Keep him on edge. Don’t let him settle. He’s not king of this court, and now he knows it.
I wonder what he’s thinking. He double-faulted on his very first serve of the match.
That was a shitty way to start, but the worst part was the crowd.
His first serve hit the net, and there was a spattering of claps.
His second serve did the same, and there were cheers—not a good look from the crowd, and as much as I hate the guy, it was rude.
Cheer for a proper point won, not for something like that.
But the fans want their players to win so badly that they’ll celebrate anything.
And it appears they’re on my side again. New York loves an underdog.
In that moment, I felt bad for him. He dipped his head after his second serve hit the net—a tiny bit, but I caught it. And I caught my heart being pulled toward him. It scared me, because as much as I want to punish him tonight, something in me feels permanently attached to him.
Wiping the sweat off my face, I take a look around the stadium.
Pride flags and T-shirts are scattered throughout the massive crowd.
The electric buzz of conversation and energy here is unrivaled, constant.
Even during a point, it’s impossible for this place to fall silent. It’s too alive to settle.
A single raindrop hits my forearm.
The umpire leans toward the mic. “Time.”
I turn to toss my towel onto the chair, and that’s when I see a familiar face a few rows back from my bench.
It’s Peter, with his dad—sitting next to Nicole from Nike in perfect seats.
I missed all the press when it first came out, but apparently Peter has become a little celebrity himself.
There have been quite a few articles and posts about my enthusiastic new fan ever since I accidentally scared him during that first match.
Apparently, Nicole is riding that publicity wave.
She shoots me a nod like she runs the world.
Peter’s eyes bulge under his lime-green Nike hat when he sees me noticing him.
He launches up, fist in the air, a rainbow wristband on his arm.
“Let’s go, Austin!” he shouts.
I return his smile—and I add yet another item to the list of things I have to do tonight: play amazing tennis, lock in my sponsorship, murder my crush, and carry the weight of being this kid’s hero…Am I missing anything?
When I’m back on the baseline to serve, my eyes rise toward Diego to make sure he’s ready—to make sure he’s good.
I feel actual pain each time I look at him directly. It doesn’t bother me to catch glimpses of him during a point—there’s too much going on for that to matter much—but as the crowd quiets and it’s just the two of us waiting to start, I need the moment to end. I can’t take it.
Smack. I serve.
Smack. He returns it, straight down the line.
I can’t even reach it. Holy shit, that was fast.
The crowd cheers. His fans just woke up.
I blink—and the set gets away from me. I’m down 3–5, and he’s one game away from winning the first set.
It’s early. Strategically, it’s fine for me if he takes this one—there’s plenty of time to come back—but I hate it. I hate the look of it. I hate whatever it is he found over there that’s brought him back to life, how it undoes my wonderful start, cancels it out like it never happened.
But what I hate most of all is the fear, the doubt starting to creep into me.
You really thought you could beat him?
He launches a serve.
You think you deserve to be here?
I chip it back. Barely.
Everything leading up to this has been a fluke.
He fires a forehand crosscourt. I chip it back, but it floats too high.
It’s going out.
It goes in. Right on the line.
Luck. Same reason you’re here.
His backhand zips down the line. Fast.
Because he’s better than you.
I reach it. I don’t know how. I hit it back. He runs for it.
He doesn’t care about you.
He’s running.
Doesn’t care about you, just like Jake.
I’m racing to the net to meet him.
And the next guy.
He slides, racket stretched, and hits the ball right before the second bounce.
He’ll be gone soon, just like Dad.
It lands, too far from me but I try for it anyway. I’m reaching, stretching as hard as I can—
And I tumble—shoulder, hip, foot—hard against the court. I never even make contact with the ball.
Applause. Cheers. Glory. Diego throws his hands into the air, gesturing for more from the crowd, for credit for the amazing point he just gave them. And they give it to him. This is the show they wanted. This is what they paid for.
I lie on the ground, panting in a pool of my own sweat. Through the crisscross of the net, I see Diego circling back to make sure I’m okay. I hop up so he doesn’t come any closer. I don’t want to be near him. I don’t want his fake concern. I throw my hand up. I’m fine. I’m fine.
But I don’t feel fine. A rage brews deep inside me.
He serves again. My return is weak, and he hits me with a drop shot. And I sprint as fast as I can.
My racket scoops the ball inches from the ground, and I send it back over the net.
Diego is already there to grab it and lifts it right back.
And now it’s a battle of volleys, quick shots in split seconds.
There’s barely even thought involved. We’re relying completely on muscle memory and perfect hand-eye coordination.
After the fourth volley, I’m annoyed. Finish this. Finish him. And I do. My take-back is a little too far, and I smack the ball with a grunt-like scream. It hurtles straight at him. He slides his racket to block it, but not fast enough.
The ball collides with his chest with a thump, and a dusty wheeze escapes his mouth.
Gasps from the crowd.
I raise my hand to him in the air—an apology. I didn’t mean to hit him. I don’t think I did.
He meets my eyes with an icy glare. And as his anger builds, so does the rain. Dots sprinkle the court as it starts to drizzle. The umpire calls us over.
“We’re going to close the roof,” he says. “We’ll need to pause play.”
“Right now? Are you serious?” Diego shouts up to him. “I’m two points away from winning the set!”
“I’m sorry, Diego. We have to close it before it gets too wet.”
“Why wasn’t it closed in the first place?”
“Diego—”
“I want to finish the game!”
The umpire climbs down from his chair and slides his foot against the court, gauging the safety. He squats and does the same thing with his hand.
“Let us finish. I’ll be quick,” Diego says.
I laugh. I don’t even mean to, but his arrogance is a-fucking-stounding. He flicks his eyes to me. “Austin is fine with it too,” he says.
The umpire turns to me. I shake my head like I’m not sure. I’m perfectly fine with playing through the rain, but I want to fuck with Diego. “I don’t know. It feels a little slippery. Don’t want to injure an ankle.”
Diego’s glare hardens. “We’re playing. He’s good with it,” he says, already walking back to the baseline. “Give us one minute,” he shouts back to the umpire.
“Diego, this is my call,” the umpire says.
“I know it is. So give us one more minute!” I’ve never seen him like this.
The umpire turns to me. I throw my hands in the air. Fine. Let’s just do it.
As I walk back, Robbie calls out, “Further back!” reminding me of our strategy. “Give yourself more time.” It obviously hasn’t been working, but I do it anyway.
Diego serves, and wins the point after a quick rally.
“Advantage, Cruz.”
His next serve hits the net, and I move up for the second one. This one will be slower, and I’ll take it early.
Bounce, bounce, bounce. Diego tosses the ball high into the air. Fuck, it’s gonna be fast.
I miss it completely.
“Game and first set, Cruz, six games to three.”
Diego takes the set with an ace, and I just stand there. I can’t believe I let it get away.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we will close the roof. Players will briefly leave the court,” the umpire announces, and climbs down from his chair. “It’s going to be a bit,” he tells me, shaking his head. “The court is too wet now.”
Good. More time to stew in this misery.
I pass Robbie again on my way out. He’s already up from his seat, his bag slung over his shoulder. “I’ll meet you in the locker room,” he shouts.
Mom says something I can’t hear. I don’t even turn back.