Chapter 33
Peanut butter pancakes.
For the first time in two weeks, my breakfast order changes.
My winning streak is over, and so is my daily barrage of superstitious eggs.
The hotel doesn’t even list peanut butter pancakes on the menu.
I didn’t know this, because I didn’t bother to read the menu.
I just sat here at this table and stared at the cover, couldn’t bring myself to flip it open.
“Actually, let me ask Chef if we can do that,” our waiter tells me, and I’m shocked when she returns with good news. I wasn’t expecting to hear good news ever again.
Behind her, news headlines scroll across the TV at the bar.
The storm continued through the night, with relentless wind and rain.
The drive back to the hotel took almost two hours.
The highway was flooded in multiple places, and we considered turning back at one point.
Seven people died—they drowned in basement apartments, water quickly rushing in.
So much destruction, and now, outside the window, it’s a beautiful, sunny day, sixty degrees and not a cloud in the sky—like nothing even happened.
And I’m here, trying to eat peanut butter pancakes.
We thought Mom’s flight would be delayed, but she’s already gone.
“Promise me you’re okay. I won’t leave unless you’re okay,” she told me as we hugged goodbye.
“I don’t care if they fire me.” But I know that she does.
One day I’ll have enough money that she can retire and never worry about working again.
My phone lights up on the table—a notification from the ATP.
Shit, is it Monday?
Robbie looks up from our silent breakfast as I scan the updated rankings, which are released at the top of every week. I’m scrolling down and down—and then I land on my name.
I don’t think I have a reaction. I just sit there, staring at the screen, my tongue running over the sharpness of my teeth.
There are moments in my tennis career, in anyone’s career, benchmarks we fight for, evidence that all of our relentless work is paying off, a series of firsts and the euphoric feelings that follow.
Winning my first junior tournament in Ojai, the whole family there, and celebrating at that diner afterward.
My first match as a pro player. Qualifying for a Grand Slam.
Playing on Arthur Ashe. And now a new one arrives on the list.
“Did you see it?” I ask Robbie.
“I did,” he says, softly. “Congratulations, Austin.” My eyes travel back down to the rankings.
Today, I officially broke into the top one hundred—barely, but there I am. I’ve moved from 239 to world number ninety-nine.
The meaning of this washes over me as I let out a breath.
The top hundred players get direct entry into many tournaments on the tour, as well as automatic main draw entry in the Grand Slams. No more qualifiers.
I can play Australia and Roland-Garros and Wimbledon, and I can come back here again if I keep or improve my ranking.
I’ve officially leveled up. I’ve arrived.
“Austin.”
“What?”
Robbie hesitates. “I booked my flight back to LA,” he says. “It’s in a few hours.”
“What do you mean, your flight?”
“I…want you to stay here.”
“Stay here? We’re supposed to be getting ready for China.”
“I want you stay here for a few more days and keep working with Helen. You can sleep at Charlotte’s.”
“What are you talking about? We have shit to do.”
“Austin, did you—” He studies my face, confused. “Did you think we could continue after this?”
“I’ll keep working with Helen. I can call her, and we can keep up our sessions over the phone.”
He shakes his head. “No, no, that’s not going to work.”
“I’m telling you that it will. I’m the one who gets to decide here. I made it four rounds into the fucking US Open. I’m in the top hundred. I made it all the way here and you didn’t even think I could. I’m not stopping now. We can’t stop now—”
“I am. I’m stopping,” he says, interrupting. He glances around the room. It’s basically empty, though. “You can decide whatever you want, but I have to stop.”
I don’t understand him. I don’t understand what he’s trying to say. He sees it on my face. “I’m going back to LA, and I’m gonna stay there awhile.”
“How long is awhile?”
He looks at me, shaking his head. And after a moment, he rests his elbows on the table and covers his face with his hands. I watch him. Waiting. Slowly realizing what’s happening here.
“Rob—”
When he removes his hands, there are tears in his eyes.
“I see him, Austin.” His voice is soft, choked. “I see David when I look at you. Every time. I hear him in your…stupid jokes. It hurts, and I miss him, and it hurts. And I know I can never miss him as much as you, but it hurts, buddy. It does.”
Robbie fights to catch his breath, hand over his mouth. I stare at him, frozen, my eyes burning.
“I feel responsible. I let you do this—”
“I wanted to.”
“I let you skip college. I let you jump into this—”
“It was my choice—”
“I let you continue after that practice. I knew I shouldn’t.
I wanted to scream at you. Everything inside me told me to take you home and slow you down.
And it all led to this. I want to protect you.
I want to keep you safe. But I’m not doing that.
Clearly—” He laughs through his tears. “Clearly, I’m not doing that. ”
He reaches for his napkin. “God,” he says, wiping away snot. “And if you hate me for this, if you hate me for leaving, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. But I’m gonna have to live with that.”
“So, what? You’re breaking up with me?” It sounds like a joke, it sounds like something I’d say to clear the air, but I mean it. “I can’t do this without you, Rob.”
“I don’t…I don’t think I want you to do this, buddy. I think I have to tell you that. I don’t know if it’s worth it. I want you to be happy and healthy and…Your dad wanted that, and I told him I would do everything I could to help you.”
“He asked you to do that?”
“He didn’t have to, but yes, he did.”
I want to throw up. The thought of them talking about that…I’ve never been more nauseous. “I’m not your responsibility,” I say.
“I know, buddy, but I can’t turn off this fe—”
Feeling is the word he tries to say, but it barely comes out. He mouths it, but his voice catches in his throat.
“Okay, so we skip Chengdu. What do we have next?” Robbie lifts his napkin from his lap again, wipes his face.
“We’re done for the year,” he says.
“Are you high? I’ll drop back down in the rankings. It will erase everything, all of this. Are you serious?”
“We can figure out what next year looks like later.”
“Don’t do this to me. Please, please don’t do this.”
“We can figure it out. I promise I’ll help you figure this out.”
“I don’t want to give up.”
“You’re not giving up.”
“You’re making me.”
“You still don’t get it, buddy. You still don’t get it. All of this is hurting you. And until you get better, until we figure this out, this is not the place for you. We shouldn’t be here. I’m sorry.”
“You’re leaving after everything? That’s a pretty shitty fucking thing to do. Just pawn me off on Charlotte and Helen and have them figure me out. You don’t want to deal with me anymore?”
“I have a life, Austin.”
A breath escapes my lungs. “Then leave. Go live your life. Fuck you.”
He nods, takes it. And the next part, he says without looking at me, just stares down at his plate, at the toast he took the time to butter but never actually ate.
“Austin, since we started together, watching you play has been…thrilling. It’s been scary.
It’s been everything. It reminded me why I love tennis so much, and it reminded me why I can’t stand it.
” He shakes his head. “But I—I don’t want this to get lost: you are tremendous, with or without me. It’s you, buddy.”
He looks up to meet my eyes as more tears fall from his face.
My entire world is crashing down. I never thought he’d be the one to cause it.
“I’ll call you when I land,” he says.
“Don’t.”
He looks at me with the saddest eyes I’ve ever seen. “Okay.”
He stands, wipes his napkin against his nose one more time, places it on the table, and leaves.
Everyone always does.
I sit alone at the table. I don’t know for how long.
“How are the pancakes?”
“Oh—” I say, quickly glancing up at the waiter, and back down at my single bite. Every muscle in my neck flexes as I try to respond. “They’re…really good. Thanks.”
My phone buzzes on the table. Charlotte.
Coming over to get you, she says.
I’ve officially been passed off. I’m someone else’s problem now.