Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
It’s impossible to overestimate how many matches Leo has watched in his twenty-nine years on this earth.
Tens of thousands, easily. Not much can shift his view of tennis and the way it’s played at this point.
But now, having had Gabe quite literally inside of him, the sport has been turned on its axis.
In the lead-up to Wimbledon, his body goes berserk every time he watches one of Gabe’s matches in the gym, in his hotel room, wherever.
For instance, it goes without saying that Leo knows what brand of racket Gabe uses. After all these years, how could he not? And yet, when he sees the word “HEAD” in giant white letters on the bag beside Gabe’s chair, he starts sweating on his bed.
“NEW BALLS, PLEASE,” the ump’s voice booms when it’s time to swap in a batch of fresh tennis balls, and Leo starts to tip to the right on an exercise bike, prompting the German player riding next to him to ask, “You okay, Chambers?”
“I like that play from Montoya. I’d like to see him go hard and deep down the middle more,” the commentator says after Gabe rockets a forehand through the court, and Leo feels his face flush in the cafeteria.
As Gabe starts hitting winner after winner: “The points are coming thick and fast now.”
“How do you respond to balls so hard and deep?” the commentator continues.
When Gabe hits a feather-soft drop shot: “Such good hands, Montoya. His touch. His feel. It’s sumptuous.”
“That was a gut-buster of a point.”
Will someone fetch Leo a fainting couch, please?
Fortunately, this newfound horniness hasn’t deterred his success.
If anything, it has energized him in a new way, leading him to move with more fluidity and attack his shots with less hesitation.
His grass season has been stellar so far, especially his run to the semifinals at the Queen’s Club Championships last week, a midlevel men’s tournament.
Founded in 1890, it’s one of the most historic and—given the stately brick architecture and pristine grass courts—poshest tournaments of the season.
More important than its beautiful grounds, though, is its reputation to predict who will make a deep run at Wimbledon, a real boost to Leo’s confidence as he heads into the third Slam of the year.
“Making the final here would’ve been amazing, but I’m still so excited to have given this performance right before Wimbledon,” Leo said during his press conference after his loss in the semis.
“I felt like I was more aggressive and showed more of an all-court presence, which I’ve been lacking for a while now. ”
“What brought about this new spark?” one of the reporters asked.
“Um,” Leo began, a smile sneaking out at the thought of the often-cute and sometimes-racy texts he and Gabe had exchanged throughout the month.
“I definitely feel more comfortable on grass than clay, for one thing, and adding Brian Wilkins to my team has been huge. But yeah, I guess something just, well, finally clicked for me.”
“I’m stoked for you, and so proud of you, LC,” Brian said afterward, “but I’m not mad your run here is over. This club has always given me the creeps, if I’m honest. It’s like the Sunken Place, you know? I gotta get outta here before another white person offers me tea.”
Even though Leo and Brian have celebrated his grass victories at the past few tournaments, Johnny has still had a somewhat sour attitude.
Yes, he’s applauded after Leo’s excellent points or match wins, but that familiar distance—the lack of communication in Australia, the argument after the podcast recording, the disappointment in his clay losses—hasn’t closed just yet.
He’s been quieter than usual and, when he has spoken up, he’s been overly critical of Leo’s choices.
Though Leo has built his career on being a baseliner, taking the racket out of his opponents’ hands by vaporizing his forehands and backhands, lately he’s felt the urge to approach his matches more creatively.
Instead of remaining glued to the baseline, his body has glided him around the court, bringing him into the net for a skillful volley or inside the baseline to find new angles he never studied in geometry class.
It’s certainly led to some mistakes, but he’s getting the wins and, what’s more, he’s having fun—something he hasn’t felt on a court in months.
Seeing this new approach, his dad has been shouting from his box to stick to his repertoire, to pull back on the drop shots, to minimize his risk.
Leo has simply brushed him off, turning to his box for advice less and less and stepping up to the line with nothing but his own instinct.
“You’re playing carelessly,” his dad told him after the quarters at the Queens Club.
“I’m winning,” Leo said, his face turning impatient.
“Leo, it’s getting messy,” Johnny said. “Way too many errors. You need to stick to plan A, your A game, what’s gotten you to this stage in your career. Stick to what you know, and you’ll get there.”
“A messy win is still a win,” Leo said. “I can’t always find my A game when I’m out there, and when I try to force it, I play even worse.
That’s why my ranking was slipping. I need to have other ways to get the win.
I’m expressing myself, too. I’m actually having fun.
Why can’t you just let me find what works for me? ”
“We know what works for you. It’s gotten you fifteen titles.”
“Well, it’s not working for me anymore. Brian sees it. I see it. I don’t know why you can’t.” Leo walked away then, and they haven’t returned to the conversation since.
He and his dad may be at odds more than ever, but the odds of him going far at Wimbledon have only increased.
His recent results have bumped him back into the top twenty, securing his spot as the number fifteen seed at Wimbledon.
It should set him up with an easier draw—in the opening rounds, at least.
In tennis, over the course of one season, one tournament, one match, even one point, a player can have a breakthrough.
Maybe they beat a certain opponent they’ve never been able to beat before, or they finally nail a certain shot that’s always given them trouble.
Whatever hurdle they’re clearing, it unlocks a fresh belief in their brain, a new level they didn’t even know they could reach in their game, and they’ll begin to climb the rankings.
These breakthroughs happen every season, and each time, it’s a marvel to witness a player fulfill their potential for greatness.
For Leo, he never imagined that he would have another breakthrough this far into his career—the first being his maiden title at the Delray Beach Open when he was nineteen—and he certainly never imagined Gabe would help unlock it.
At last year’s Wimbledon, he was furious to see Gabe blocking his path to the trophy and, like a self-fulfilling prophecy, he fell to him in the third round.
He could barely stand to hear Paul mention that match last summer at the podcast studio.
Now, one year later, he’s falling for Gabe at Wimbledon, in the wake of his best grass swing ever.
He’s ecstatic to see him later tonight, a couple days before the Slam begins, for the first time since their rendezvous in Paris.
Before he can reunite with Gabe, though, he has a full afternoon of practice, and while Johnny may find Leo’s new playing style messy, the backdrop for it is now quite the opposite.
Held at the All England Club Lawn Tennis Club, Wimbledon is the most immaculate of the Grand Slams, a neat and tidy grid of grass courts, each one like a traditional English garden trimmed and pruned to perfection.
The iconic, towering Centre Court has ivy climbing up its sides, and the grounds’ paths are lined with bushes, trees, and white-and-purple flowers.
The players must wear tennis whites at their matches, a rule enforced since the tournament’s founding in 1877, and while the fans don’t have a dress code, they still don their British best for the event of the summer: smart double-breasted suits, pastel dresses, brimmed hats, designer sunglasses.
They dip into boxes of strawberries and cream while sipping on Pimm’s cup.
The Grand Slam schedule is meant to chase the sun—hence the Australian summer kickoff—but it’s always a roll of the dice when it comes to Wimbledon in July, beholden to London’s unpredictable forecast. But today, the sun has decided to cooperate, which Leo is grateful for as his feet crunch on the scrupulously mown grass of this practice court, given that his team has had a dark cloud hovering over it as of late.
Each of the practice courts in the row is being used, all the players prepping for this tournament that has come to define tennis throughout history.
He can see Tess a few courts over, and he can hear Sascha at the court beyond hers.
“Stop being so soft, man!” he’s yelling at his hitting partner.
“Same drills today?” Leo asks his dad with a touch of strain, expecting the typical rounds of forehands, backhands, and second serves.
“Uh, actually no, I thought you could do a couple last practice sets this afternoon before the first round,” Johnny says.
“Oh, I thought Ollie wasn’t free today.”
“He’s not.”
“So, who am I—”
“Gabriel! It’s been so long,” Johnny says cheerily, slowly approaching him and then shaking his hand. “Or, no, you prefer Gabe, right?”
Leo rubs his eyes like a cartoon character, dumbfounded at this interaction. Did he miss something? How is this happening right now?
“Yeah, Gabe is great,” he says, smiling reverently. “My parents call me Gabriel, but everybody else calls me Gabe. Thank you so much for setting this up, Mr. Chambers.”