Chapter 10 #4
Buzzed or not, it’s difficult for him to process everything he’s just heard. But he knows how much it must have taken for Gabe to admit that. He knows he owes Gabe as much. He also knows he likes the sound of Gabe’s voice even more when it’s vulnerable.
So, yes. “That counts as an answer,” he says.
They both offer each other a gentle smile. Their eye contact lingers.
“Truce?” Gabe asks, holding out his hand.
Leo stares at it for a moment.
He doesn’t see a trap.
“Truce,” he says, hoping that some water under the bridge might finally, actually do them both some good, might even help him loosen up while he plays.
So, he grasps Gabe’s hand and, unlike each of their handshakes after Leo’s eleven losses to Gabe, this one reminds him of their first, all those years ago at BP.
Though Johnny was at Delray, he and Leo didn’t talk about anything but tennis.
Mentioning their little parking lot blowout?
Not even close. They stuck to forehands, backhands, and second serves.
Once Leo’s run at the hometown tournament ended in the semifinals, Johnny simply told him, “I’m taking some more time off after this and will pick back up with you guys in Miami.
” And that was that. Well, actually, it was that and “I’ll still be watching your matches. ”
Was that a threat?
The Miami Open, which Johnny was referencing, isn’t until the end of March, so for about a month, Leo will continue to be fatherless on tour, which is pretty much the only reason he’s out right now with Ollie in Mexico.
They’re both here for the Mexican Open, a midlevel men’s tournament in Acapulco at the end of February that has a bit of a reputation as a place to party once the players have gotten knocked out of the tournament (or during the tournament, depending on your speed) and, again, want to get knocked out.
Not that Leo has ever really participated before tonight, typically tucked into his hotel bed, his dad down the hall.
He’s trying not to read into it too much, but he’s currently drinking an Aperol spritz, which he accidentally called an Orange Slice to the bartender.
He’s chalking up this order to feeling celebratory after he made it to the quarters.
Another good run in the books this season calls for some more bubbles.
“You know you’re supposed to make eye contact while you cheers,” Leo says, still holding his drink out as Ollie brings the first sip of his margarita, on the rocks, with salt, to his lips. “It’s bad luck otherwise. I heard that somewhere.”
“Tabarnak. We’re already out of the tournament. Drink your drink.” Ollie takes a big gulp of his marg, leaving Leo hanging.
“Fine,” he says, and takes a sip. “But at least hold out your glass so I can take a photo. Tess is always on me to share more on my stories. People want to hear from you! Just be yourself! I swear, she’s worse than my agent.”
On an expansive roof deck overlooking the Pacific, under a midnight-blue sky and zig-zagging strands of bistro lights, the two of them hold out their glasses for Leo’s photo.
Ollie’s humming along to the Charli xcx song that’s got the whole deck and its infinity pool, brimming with scantily clad vacationers, bumping along to the beat.
“Nice try,” Leo says, reviewing the photo and seeing that Ollie, holding his glass from underneath, has his middle finger pressed to the front. Ollie gives him an angelic smile.
Once they’ve successfully captured a more kid-friendly photo, he posts it to his Instagram story with Ollie tagged and a quick caption: “But where’s @tessa.soriano?”
Right now, Tess is back in Southern California, focusing on practice ahead of Indian Wells.
Known as the honorary fifth Grand Slam, Indian Wells is the most highly attended tournament after the four actual Slams. It’s a huge tournament with 128 men and 128 women, played on hard courts at the beginning of March in the desert, not far from Palm Springs.
The Miami Open follows a week later and, together, the two tournaments make the Sunshine Double.
Winning the Sunshine Double is something only a handful of players have achieved over the years, a tremendous feat given the events’ quick succession.
Like Tess, and with the Mexican Open out of the way, it’s what Leo and Ollie have their sights set on now.
But their own practice routines for Indian Wells don’t start for another thirty-six hours, so before they fly up to California, they’re allowing themselves to let loose a little tonight.
“Oh! This reminds me,” Ollie says after taking another sip of his marg. “It’s official. Pawsitive Futures is going to be one of the organizations for Miami Open Unites this year. They’ve seen our work so far and want to promote us.”
“Yes!” Leo shouts, pumping his fist like he just hit a forehand winner. “Wait, what reminded you of that?”
“Ah, one of the new puppies we just rescued is named Tequila,” Ollie says. “We think she’s a corgi-chihuahua mix.”
“And you’re not pulling out your phone to show me a photo right now because?”
“Okay, tabarnak, give me a second,” Ollie says.
He pulls up the Instagram account for Pawsitive Futures, the Miami-based animal rescue organization he helped found last year.
As Leo’s just learned, it will be one of the five local organizations selected to participate in the upcoming Miami Open Unites—an annual day of service ahead of the Miami Open when a group of men’s and women’s players take a break from their routines to volunteer at various nonprofits around the city.
“Oh my God,” Leo says, eyes in awe of the unbearably cute copper-and-white fluffball on the screen. “Look at her. Holy shit. An angel. I need her. Can I have her?”
“Hmm, let’s see. We need to go over some qualifications. What’s your work schedule like?” Ollie asks. “Do you travel often? Can you dedicate time to training her?”
“Yes, I’m a project manager who works from home and has years of experience in raising puppies into well-behaved dogs. I have no friends. Tequila would be my life.”
“Well, the no friends part I can certainly vouch for,” Ollie says, stroking his chin.
Leo stares at him blankly. “Look, I’ll even prove how serious an applicant I am.” He takes his phone out and pulls up Pawsitive Futures’ post about Tequila, on which he comments:
“Can I have her?”
Almost instantly, there are dozens of likes on the comment.
While he’s on Instagram, he pops back to his main feed and sees that he’s just gotten a new reply to his story.
“Careful not to spill too much. I’ve seen people get thrown out of that place,” the DM says, followed by a winking emoji. Guess the fuck who.
Okay. Okay. Okay! This is a moment to show he’s taking their truce seriously. He could just send a laughing emoji? He could just like the message? His thumbs are circling the keyboard like he’s about to start a thumb war. He decides to reply.
“Haven’t slumped over behind the bar yet,” he types. “So far, so good.” Holding his breath, he hits send. Immediately, he sees Gabe start typing.
“Nice work, Leonardo,” the message says.
For a second, Leo forgets where he is. It’s not a big deal, though.
Really. He looks up from his phone and briefly reenters the conversation Ollie has started with a few other players at the bar who overheard Leo basically squealing about Pawsitive Futures.
They’re all gathered around Ollie’s phone now, making him scroll through all the adoptable dogs and demanding a spot in the group that visits his organization during Miami Open Unites.
“Everybody back off Tequila,” Leo says. “She’s mine.”
“No, no, mate,” Eddie, a British player, tells Leo. “That is the bloody cutest dog I’ve ever fuckin’ seen. I’m adopting her. Corgis are a Brit thing anyway.”
“And chihuahuas are our thing,” Javier, a Mexican player who’s here playing his home tournament, chimes in. “I think she should come with me.”
“All right, all right, how about, whoever wins Indian Wells gets first dibs,” Ollie says.
The group looks intrigued.
“That’ll be me anyway,” Ollie continues.
The group groans.
“Tabarnak, I’m only kidding,” Ollie says. “Not about me winning—about letting any of you idiots have her!”
Leo groans again, but not at Ollie this time. Sascha is approaching them.
“Are we fighting over a girl or what?” he asks, gripping a Corona in one hand and putting the other on Eddie’s shoulder.
“A dog,” Eddie says.
“Ah, it’s always some bitch, isn’t it?” Sascha says, jabbing Eddie in the side, looking like he just told a joke that would get him an HBO standup special. Leo would like to walk straight off the roof deck and into the sea.
“Don’t talk about Tequila like that,” Ollie says sternly. “I should have never brought this up at all.”
“Did I hear your rescue is part of the volunteer thing this year?” Sascha says. “I need to be there, man. I love doggos.”
Cutting his hand across his neck, Leo attempts to signal to Ollie that there is no way in hell Sascha is joining them.
It seems that Ollie gets the hint, because he says it’s not confirmed yet before he pivots and asks if Javier is enjoying being the hometown hero, having made it to the semis at the Mexican Open for the first time.
Speaking of hometown heroes, for better or worse, Leo is reminded of his Delray bartending gig with Gabe every time he takes a sip of his Aperol spritz.
After the latest one, he decides to check his phone again, just in case Gabe has sent another message.
Not that he expects him to continue the conversation or anything.
Gabe is at a different tournament in Santiago, Chile, this week, anyway.
He’s definitely too busy to be on his phone, chatting with Leo about total nonsen—
Nice work at Acapulco too. Out celebrating?
Breath. Caught. In. Throat.
Trying … someone who thinks
Peru is an island is here
And thank you!
Pull the fire alarm
You know I’m too big a teacher’s pet for that
Mierda, not this again lol
Kidding, fire dept on its way
How’d you do in Santiago? Out celebrating?
Leo asks that question as if he doesn’t know full well that Gabe lost in the first round, 6–3, 6–2.
He happened to see it while checking scores online.
But, for what it’s worth, he’s actually not asking to rub that scoreline in Gabe’s face for once.
He just wants to … continue the conversation?
Ugh. Even though he also knows full well that Gabe is likely to be out partying, regardless of his first-round exit, always the first to be spotted at the hottest club in whatever city he’s visiting for a tournament, his signature smirk lighting up the darkest of VIP corners.
Leo is positive he’s out in Santiago, probably in said darkest corner with some gorgeous guy.
The one he was texting in Delray. Yeah. His new boyfriend.
It must be. They’ll be on magazine covers together soon.
And it won’t affect Leo. Not in the slightest.
Soothing my first-round loss with some smut
Leo would be positive, too, that this is a typo—surely Gabe meant “slut”—and that he is, as suspected, out at a club with a guy, if it weren’t for the accompanying selfie that caused him to lock his phone with the speed of someone who’s just accidentally scrolled by Twitter porn in public.
Did he see that right? Was that really a photo of Gabe, lying in bed, reading glasses on, a romance novel resting on his bare chest?
Did he seriously mean that he’s getting over losing in Santiago with some smut?
“Speaking of bitches,” Sascha says, jolting Leo back to the group, “somebody is sliding into Chambers’s DMs over there. Look at his face. Who is getting you all hot and bothered, man?”
Hearing Sascha say “hot and bothered” in his Russian accent sort of makes Leo want to burst out laughing, but he’s still speechless from the selfie he just witnessed and now he’s searching, hopelessly, for the words to respond to Sascha’s idiocy.
“Nobody,” he comes up with, a smooth operator.
Beside him, Eddie says playfully, “Pretty sure I saw Montoya’s name from over here.”
“Oh ho ho, so it’s not just any bitch, it’s a boyfriend!” Sascha says, and pulls another swig of Corona, clearing his throat for whatever homophobia is about to spew out next. “Tell me, Chambers, who serves and who receives?”
“Dave Chappelle, ladies and gentlemen,” Ollie says, and Leo has never been more grateful to call him a friend.
“Hey, I take that as a compliment,” Sascha says, shrugging and starting to slur his words, perhaps on the verge of an actual slur.
“I’m just saying what no one else will, like Chappelle!
He gives you the facts, and so do I. And the fact is, I’m glad I wasn’t the first one to lose to a fairy.
Imagine this. Losing at the Australian Open to the only gay guy in tennis. ”
Walk into the sea? Nah. Leo wants to throw Sascha into its furthest depths. Rather than get arrested in Mexico, though, he finishes his drink and storms off.
“Sorry, gotta go put these drinks on Sascha’s tab,” Ollie says, and turns from the bar to follow Leo.
Over the bass, Leo hears Sascha shout after them, “Aw man, I hope I don’t get canceled!”
Back in his hotel room, it’s mostly the typical scene: tucked under the covers, AC blasting, The Golden Girls playing on his laptop.
Only this time, Leo also has his DMs with Gabe open.
In a rage blackout after his run-in with Sascha, he had nearly forgotten that he never responded to The Selfie.
Curse his Nike sponsorship, because the only thing running through his head in this moment is: Just do it.
You want to practice again at Indian Wells?
I’ve got some questions about this “smut.”