Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
Leo is in Miami, sunken into his comfy king bed in his tasteful, mostly West Elm-filled condo.
Decorating credit should be given to his mom, who, as a successful realtor, has learned a thing or two about staging a home, and that’s essentially what his place is—a staged home—considering he’s only there for brief stints throughout the year.
It’s been two and a half weeks since he lost to Gabe at the US Open, and he’s still feeling his way out of the funk.
Gabe lost in the second round (a slight consolation) and, after knocking Ollie out in the semifinals, Sascha went on to win the whole thing.
Gross. Leo did win a few mixed doubles matches with Tess, but the pair decided to pull out so Tess could focus on singles—she couldn’t risk any distraction in the midst of what was becoming a deep run, one that ultimately ended in the semis, her best result at the Open yet.
Just as well, with mixed doubles off his plate, Leo was free and eager to head back to Miami, hole up at his place, and let all the articles and posts and chatter about his, uh, exchange of words with Gabe at the net die down.
GAME, SET, AWKWARD: MONTOYA CALLS CHAMBERS A DADDY’S BOY (WATCH)
We knew Montoya had a good slice, but OUCH he cut Chambers deep with that diss!
CHAMBERS GOT SERVED IN MONTOYA MATCH (VIDEO)
Yikes, Montoya hit hard in that match—and we’re talking about the dig at Chambers.
JUST THE TIP: CHAMBERS AND MONTOYA SPUR OVER TIPPED BALL
Scrolling through these takes, Leo mostly felt like he could’ve written better puns.
Actually, that last one was pretty funny.
At least the articles all agree that the footage does seem to show Gabe tipping the ball.
Still, he hates all this salt in his wound, all this attention surrounding their tiff, which he should’ve known the cameras would pick up, even over all the hooting and hollering from the fans in the stands.
What’s worse, everyone’s making it sound like Gabe is some master of sass, like he won their smackdown at the net.
But then again, maybe it’s good that people will see how brazen Gabe can be.
It’s time they knew this about him. Maybe they’ll start catching on to what Leo has known since he was fifteen years old: Gabe Montoya is an asshole.
On What a Racket, Paul brushed it off as two players letting their tempers get the best of them and, of course, used it as an opportunity to harken back to his own era, when he was playing against the likes of John McEnroe, the biggest hothead ever to grace a tennis court: “Leo and Gabe’s cat fight was nothing! ”
Could people stop saying “cat fight,” please?
The only post that seemed to get it somewhat right was Serving Looks, which shared a close-up shot of Leo and Gabe locking eyes at the net.
servinglooks Hooooo boy. This is a tough one, y’all. TBH, I think Gabe, whether he knew it or not, did tip the ball. Either way, did he go too far with that daddy’s boy comment?? Don’t bring *the* Johnny Chambers into this!
The next image in the post was the “Don’t talk to me or my son ever again” meme. It did make Leo chuckle and, against his better judgment, he then clicked into the comments, saw way too many instances of “NOW KISS,” and promptly closed Instagram. He hasn’t logged in since.
Leo has the day off from his usual four-hour practice session, so he’s stopping by Break Point for a visit today instead.
Patrick Norton, a retired pro and friend of Johnny’s, still runs the academy, and he invited one of his favorite former students and success stories—that would be Leo—to spend the day catching up and showing the current trainees some pointers.
Leo jumped at the chance. He’s always had a great relationship with Patrick and Break Point and younger players.
This is a perfect chance to snap out of his Gabe funk for good.
On the way out of his condo, suited up in more casual Nike gear, he grabs the Rack-O box from one of his bookshelves.
He plans to head to his parents’ house after Break Point since he’ll be up near Delray Beach anyway, and Rack-O, a strategic score card game, is his family’s favorite.
Leo has always been a fan of board games and cards.
They’re a fun and easy way to pass the time on tour and, a tennis player through and through, he’s a nerd for anything involving numbers and strategy.
He’s quick to talk about how “legendary” his game nights are during the Miami Open, when he’s able to stay at his own place during the tournament and invite Ollie and Tess and other friends over not just for Rack-O but also Monopoly and Catan and Rummikub.
His many board games help keep his condo from feeling entirely unlived in.
“You know, you didn’t play that poorly against Gabe,” Patrick says, glancing down at Leo, as he’s always done at six-foot-six.
Patrick is almost sixty years old now, and with a career spent under the South Florida sun, he’s much more wrinkled than when Leo first met him fifteen years ago, his perpetually tan skin crumpling on his rugged face.
“I don’t know about that,” Leo says. All around them are the sounds of tennis balls popping off rackets and sneakers squeaking on courts.
“You didn’t play the big points all that great. That double fault down set point? Ouch,” he says. “But for most of the match, you held your own against somebody whose game you’ve never quite grooved with.”
“His slice—”
“It still throws you off your rhythm. I could see it. Some things never change, I guess, especially with you two.”
“Please, Patrick, don’t bring up what happened,” Leo pleads.
“No, no, you know I don’t believe in rehashing that stuff. You brush it off and you move on,” Patrick says, waving away Leo’s request. “But I will say—”
“Here we go,” Leo says, eyes crossing.
“This isn’t how I thought you and Gabe would end up, picking on each other.”
“Wait, what do you mean?” Leo asks, suddenly more alert.
“When I brought both of you guys on at BP, I was confident you’d become each other’s supporters.
You still have that with Ollie, I know. But what you’ve been through with your dad, it’s always made you a gentler guy.
I saw that in you and I saw that in Gabe, too.
He was a little quieter, more sensitive, when he first got here, at least. I thought you’d click, that’s all. ”
Leo’s not sure how to respond.
“Anyway,” Patrick says, and he pivots both the conversation and his step to the next court on their right. “Here’s somebody I want you to meet, Leo.”
Patrick introduces him to a fifteen-year-old phenom from Atlanta, Chris Robinson, who’s already been winning some matches on the ATP Tour.
“Hey, I’m Leo, so great to meet you,” Leo says, extending his hand.
“I know,” he says, his eyes widening. “I’m Chris.”
“I know,” Leo says, smiling. And he does. How could he not? Chris has been making a name for himself on tour before he’s even gotten his driver’s license. Not to mention, he also has a stellar one-handed backhand, which Patrick wastes no time bringing up.
“It reminds me of somebody else who perfected their one-hander when they were at BP,” Patrick says.
Chris shoots him a look that says, Be cool, man!
“It’s a sick shot,” Leo tells Chris. He doesn’t usually say things like “sick shot,” but for God’s sake, the kid’s barely in high school. Leo feels ancient.
“Thanks,” Chris says. “It’s sort of, uh, because of yours? I watched your matches a lot when I was kid.”
“Oh wow,” Leo says. “Thank you so much.” He also thinks, You still are a kid.
“I tried it out when I was first playing, and it just felt right,” Chris says.
“That’s how I felt when I first started, too,” Leo says.
Right now, Leo feels like an idiot. He’s been so caught up in losing the match and his temper with Gabe that he was beginning to forget how much he loves this sport and the way it can inspire and unite people.
He spends the next half hour hitting with Chris, both of their backhands painting the air, and trying to hold onto this feeling he’s been missing.
It even starts to unearth a good memory with Gabe at Break Point that otherwise seemed lost to history.
There might have been the beginnings of a clicking between them, the clicking that Patrick apparently envisioned back then.
Leo, not one to be unfriendly to someone new, tried at first to push through the breath that caught in his throat whenever Gabe stood before him.
He tried to simply ignore this unfamiliar sensation and welcome Gabe to the academy anyway.
“Hey!” Leo practically screamed at Gabe on his second day, playing it cool, as always. “I’m, um, Leo. You’re new, right?”
“Nice to meet you, Um Leo,” Gabe said. It was the first time Leo witnessed that smirk he would grow to hate. “Yeah, I just started training here. I’m Gabe.”
The two of them shook hands—a perfect, if clammy, fit. Warm, soft, safe. Leo couldn’t help but notice it.
“You wanna hit?” Leo asked, pulling his hand away.
“Yeah, definitely,” Gabe said.
Over the next hour, Leo felt like he had never picked up a racket before.
His trusty forehand sent ball after ball into the net and his trademark swooping backhand looked more like a broken wing on a baby bird.
Meanwhile, Gabe was slicing the ball with ease, Leo’s first introduction to the shot that would become his downfall.
First the breath in his throat and now this?
No, thank you. Leo’s subtle resentment of Gabe began to take root.
“Amazing slice,” Leo said afterward, still trying to push through this new feeling spreading from his throat down into his stomach.
“Thanks!” Gabe said as he removed his backward cap and ran a hand through his damp but somehow elegantly disheveled hair. “I want to play like Alex Olmedo Rodríguez. He’s one of my favorite players. He was Peruvian, but he played for the United States.”