Chapter 39 #2
“He felt like he was. What’s the difference?” she asks, and touches my shoulder.
“And what feels just as shitty is that I don’t think I can ever be that good. This is my life forever, meeting him at tournaments, falling in love all over again, and then he murders me on court. It’s so much. It’s too much.”
“Well, he doesn’t have everything. His coach isn’t as good as yours.”
I smile. Maybe she has a point there.
“What’s the plan with Robbie?” she asks.
I sigh. “Well, I’ve got one week at home with Mom.
She’s saving Top Chef for us.” Charlotte’s eyebrows shoot up like that’s a very big deal—because it is.
Mom’s dedication to Top Chef is religious.
“And then I’m staying with Robbie in LA for a bit.
We’re doing ‘light training’—that’s what he called it—for the rest of the year, and I’m helping him at some volunteer-tennis-camp thing. ”
“And he’s open to starting again in January?”
“He was…hesitant. But he was happy to hear from me, and he didn’t say no. He told me he missed me.”
“He actually said those words out loud?”
“He did. I asked him to say it again, just for fun, but he wouldn’t do it.”
Charlotte laughs. “Oh, Robbie.”
“So yeah, back on the tour next year, if all goes well,” I say, tapping my head. Even if I can level up to beat Diego, who knows when anxiety will strike again. “I don’t know if I’ll ever get better, Char. I really fucking don’t.”
She looks at me with her big-sister eyes, and with all of the confidence in the world, she says, “I do.” No grand speech, no list of all the things I’ve done and tried, no reminder of how hard I’ve worked.
It’s just something she believes. And then she hugs me, squeezes, and spills a little Honey Deuce down my back. I don’t mention it.
Tennis is about belief. If you can see the game, the set, the match, you can get there. There are some things I can see, and a lot of things I can’t, but everyone around me has a pretty clear picture. I should probably trust them.
“Let’s get back in there,” Charlotte says. “Let’s go support your friend.” She hooks my arm and leads me back into the stadium.
A small group is gathered at our entrance. The third set has already started, so we have to wait for a changeover before we can get back in—there’s no moving around in the middle of play.
“Is he injured or something?” I hear someone say behind us, and I look up at the screen as Diego walks to the baseline.
His ankle brace is on again.
Shit.
When we get to our seats, Diego has lost the first two games. “It’s fine,” I tell Charlotte. “We’re already up two sets. Even if we lose this one, we’re still fine.”
In front of us, Emiliano and his team try to motivate Diego back to life, but his overall performance has dipped. He’s making more unforced errors, hitting drop shots that don’t make it over the net. He shouts up to his team between points. They shout back.
He loses the third set.
And the vibe in the box completely shifts when he loses the fourth.
I wish I had a fucking Honey Deuce, because the tension at the beginning of the final set is next-level. Diego crosses in front of us, trying to keep his head up, and without even thinking, I yell, “Take it! This is yours! Take it!”
He gives me a confident nod, but with no smile attached this time. He’s worried. We all are. He has to find a way.
Diego and Viki both hold serve, and the score inches up one game at a time.
After a serve, Diego rushes the net and hits an amazing volley that sends us all back to our feet, and there’s a glimmer—a glimmer of hope that he could take this whole thing.
I see it in his eyes when he celebrates with a fist pump in the air—straight at me.
It sends chills and heat through my body, opposites flowing at the same exact time.
I may remember that glimmer forever, as the perfect illustration of us.
I wish that momentum would last. But some things don’t.
As hard as Diego fights, defends, attacks, he falls behind again. And at the end of the final point of the match—one of their longest rallies—Viki collapses on the ground, exhausted. And Diego stands there on the court. Both of them in disbelief—for opposite reasons.
Diego played his heart out, but it wasn’t enough. I know it will be one day, but it wasn’t enough tonight.
I push my head into my hands, because I can’t take the image of him just standing there any longer.
Peeking through my fingers, I watch him limp toward Viki at the net.
They shake hands. It’s over. And when he turns back to his bench, I get a full look at the sadness gripping him.
I know the feeling—of being this close to everything you wanted, and having it all slip away—and now I know the face.
I’ve heard the thoughts that are swirling in his head right now, and I don’t wish that darkness on anyone.
I want to hug him. I want to tell him that this tournament will be his one day—he would tell me the same thing—but I’m stuck in this seat, and he’s stuck waiting for the trophy ceremony.
The camera holds tight on him as his bottom lip gives out.
He cries, sobs, into his towel, covering his face so the world can’t see.
Charlotte puts her hand on my leg as we watch him in silence.
Cut away. Cut away, please. I pray that the cameras move on to something else, but they’re locked on him.
This is part of the show, and it must be displayed on the largest screens possible.
And as I watch him, a small voice approaches the mic in the back of my mind.
You were a distraction. You took him out of it.
No, he asked me to be here.
You didn’t have to listen.
I take Charlotte’s hand and squeeze it hard, willing the thoughts away.
As the ceremony stage is assembled on the court, Diego prepares for his runner-up speech.
He changes out of his sweaty shirt and reaches into his bag to put on his watch.
On my wrist, I wear his other one. I never gave it back.
I wanted to—I’m desperate to get this walking bank account out of my possession—but there wasn’t a good time, and he didn’t ask for it.
So it sat in my suitcase, wrapped safely in a sock—a clean one—waiting to be returned, with his Nintendo Switch.
Wearing it felt appropriate today, though, so I put it on for good luck. I wish it had worked.
The tournament director takes the stage and begins her speech, thanking sponsors and the players, and bragging about record-breaking attendance.
“We made history in so many ways this year,” she says, stopping short of mentioning me by name.
But I feel the eyes of the stadium briefly turn.
I don’t want this moment to be about me, and I feel guilty enough being here and stealing Diego’s spotlight, but for some reason I don’t mind the subtle shout-out.
I’m trying to be proud of my performance here, of how far I made it in the draw, and how I kept my head on my shoulders as long as I could.
The director calls Diego to the stage with a truly generous introduction. She even gets a smile out of him when she says, “The future of tennis looks bright with you.”
He steps up to the mic holding his prize, a large silver plate reflecting the stadium lights like diamonds. He pauses, clears his throat, before he speaks.
“I’m not going to lie,” he says, in almost a whisper. “This is not the outcome I was hoping for today. This was a very tough loss, for many reasons, and it hurts. I’m not afraid to say that.” He pauses again, fighting tears. It’s so much harder when you fight them.
“I want to congratulate Viki. You were the better player today,” he says, frowning in acknowledgment. “I’m not afraid to say that either,” he says with a laugh. And I see a glimmer of him again. “I have a lot to learn from you.”
He thanks the crowd, the tournament. “And I of course want to thank my team.” The screens cut to Emiliano and the rest of them, Charlotte and me just out of frame.
“You keep me motivated, strong, well-fed”—I smile as he sneaks in another joke—“and at the top of my game. Thank you for everything. And I know that we will win this one day very soon. Thank you.”
The crowd cheers as he steps away from the mic. He got through the speech, and soon he can escape the ceremony and cry his eyes out in private.
But it’s not over. With an awkward shuffle, he steps back to the mic. “Sorry. One more thing,” he says, and pauses.
And it must be the longest fucking pause I’ve ever experienced. An entire set could be played during this excruciating quiet.
“I also want to thank Austin Hardy.”
My stomach somersaults.
“Thank you for being there for me. I hope everyone is lucky enough to have someone like you in their life.”
I’m too frozen to react.
“I know you don’t like the attention, Austin, but…tennis is lucky to have you too. History is lucky to have you. You’ve inspired so many people by just existing here and being unafraid to be you. And by being an incredible tennis player.”
My face fills the screens as everyone claps. I nod because I have to, trying not to cry—trying—as Diego lifts his head and lets out a long breath, preparing to say one last thing.
“I also want to acknowledge all of the queer athletes throughout history. You’d want me to do that…” he says. “Athletes who paved the way for people like you—and people like me—to be open about who we are.”
When the echo of his words settles into silence, so does the crowd. No one moves. No one speaks. My mouth falls open. A sharp jab at my side. Charlotte elbowing my ribs.
And then, all around us, everyone bursts back to life. Diego and I lock eyes.
This is not the end of our story. This is the warm-up.
Cheers and applause fill Arthur Ashe Stadium, rising up and out of the roof. But I don’t hear them. From all the way across the court, I only hear his heartbeat. I only hear mine.