Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Leo expected his first-round match to be a bit more challenging, considering his opponent, an eighteen-year-old Dutchman, has been making a splash this season: Johan de Vries, the youngest player to crack the top one hundred, behind Chris Robinson, of course, the American teen Leo met back at BP in September.
But the crowd at the side court he’s playing on this afternoon—an intimate gathering of fans applauding politely in their sun hats—haven’t been treated to a long tussle.
After just an hour and forty-five minutes, during which Johan has been nervously flinging most of his shots long, Leo has reached match point.
He pulls at the shoulder of his white polo, readjusting the sleeve so his arm feels looser.
He glances at his box for encouragement, where both Brian and Johnny have looked more than pleased with his performance today, as has his mom, who hasn’t needed to bite her nails or cover her eyes at all.
In the back of his mind, he’s also glad this match has been short so his dad doesn’t have to sit in the sun for too long.
He steps up to the painted white line and bounces the ball.
He blocks out the sounds of the action on the adjacent courts. He tosses it up.
Johan manages a weak return.
Leo sends a forehand screaming into the corner.
Johan lunges over and whacks his own forehand back.
Johan has barely returned to ready position after his last shot when Leo finds an even sharper angle for his next forehand, the ball leaving small blades of grass in its wake as it zips off the court for a winner.
“Game, set, and match: Chambers,” the ump calls. “6–4, 6–3, 6–1.”
The crowd rise to their feet, applauding more loudly now with some whistles mixed in, and Leo clenches a fist with a smile as he looks to his box, where he’s met with even bigger smiles.
When he turns back to meet Johan at the net, though, there’s no smile to be found.
Leo can see the utter dejection in his eyes.
This was Johan’s first main draw match at Wimbledon, a moment that would overwhelm anyone.
With the success he’s been having this season over some of the top players, he likely hoped to come out here and continue to wow the fans, taking out a seeded player like Leo, or at least making him work hard for the win.
But instead, he couldn’t meet the moment, and Leo trampled him in under two hours.
Any seasoned player remembers that feeling well, when you’re an up-and-comer and you believe you’re invincible, and then you get your ass handed to you while the world watches. It’s humiliating.
Before Johan can sink too deeply into his own head, Leo clasps his hand over the net and leans in and says in a low voice, “You’re an amazing player. Wimbledon hasn’t seen the last of you. You have so much time.”
“Thank you,” Johan whispers back, and pats Leo on the chest. “Thank you.”
They each shake the ump’s hand, and Leo walks back onto the court, applauding with his racket and waving to the spectators in thanks. One down.
The stars over Britain seem to have aligned for Leo, because over the next several days, he’s able to continue his dominant performance.
Not only is he managing to strike a balance between creativity and reliability on the court that keeps both Brian and Johnny happy—his dad is always a bit happier when Sheryl is there, too—he’s also playing matches later in the afternoon, as the sun descends from its peak, so his dad is able to enjoy some relief from the July heat.
He cruises through his second- and third-round matches, wrapping up the former in three sets and the latter in four.
He’s on an opposite schedule from Gabe, Tess, and Ollie, so on his off-days throughout the week, he’s able to watch their matches from the gym and his townhouse.
They, too, are finding their rhythm, confidently securing their spots in the round of sixteen.
Leo expected as much from Tess and Ollie, but making the fourth round at Wimbledon is a first for Gabe, and when he wins his third-round match, Leo is glued to the TV, watching as Gabe drops his racket and thrusts his fists in the air, staring up into the heavens.
Leo wants to immediately unstrap his feet from the rowing machine he’s using in the gym and race over to Court 2, shove his way past security, and pull Gabe into the biggest, wettest, gayest kiss in UK history since King James and George Villiers.
But, instead, he settles for increasing his stroke rate on the rowing machine from twenty-four to twenty-five.
When Gabe approaches the camera after his win—his big brown eyes a bit watery, a few sweaty curls matted to his forehead—he takes the Sharpie from the cameraman, and on the screen he writes “For Olmedo” and a heart.
Leo’s rate on the machine jumps from twenty-five to twenty-six.
Experience, more than anything, is often what determines how a player performs during the second week of a Slam, including Wimbledon.
In those stages of such a high-profile event, when the player field grows smaller, the stakes, the arenas, and the audiences grow much larger.
A player who has made it to the final rounds of Wimbledon knows that added weight well, and it can become like muscle memory.
They know what’s ahead of them: how to manage the volume of the crowd, how to play every point like it’s their last, how to control their breath when it washes over them that they’re among the last players standing at the most prestigious tournament in tennis.
Their body remembers how to perform under such pressurized conditions.
It has never felt particularly natural to Leo, but it does feel familiar, having been to the quarterfinals of Wimbledon before.
And it’s this experience that carries him there again, lifting him to victory in his fourth-round match on Court 1: 7–6, 6–7, 6–2, 6–4.
“You looked so good at your match today,” Gabe says before kissing Leo on the cheek.
Leo has just arrived at Gabe’s hotel room a little after ten PM after sneaking by his parents, who were both asleep on the couch while, again, marathoning This Is Us.
He then snuck past the paparazzi buzzing outside the hotel.
Unlike with the men he’s met with in the past, he didn’t need to rely on any Grindr ambiguity or a question about an affinity for sports in order to make this hookup happen—just a good ol’ fashioned disguise comprised of a baggy sweatshirt, a baseball cap, sunglasses, and a KN95 mask.
“Thanks,” Leo says, blushing, and kisses him back. He removes his sunglasses.
“You know those probably made you look more suspicious, right?”
“That’s what you think. The paps would recognize these blue eyes anywhere,” he teases.
“Uh huh,” Gabe says, kissing him again. “Well, I’m glad your sensitive blue eyes weren’t too affected by the sun out there today. Quarterfinals. That’s huge, Leo.” Gabe’s beaming.
“We don’t have to talk about it,” Leo says, cozying up against the mahogany headboard of Gabe’s bed.
“Why?”
Leo shrugs, gesturing vaguely toward Gabe, knowing he can infer the answer.
“I’m not upset I didn’t make it to the quarters, if that’s what you’re worried about. I didn’t even expect to make it to the third round with the draw I had, let alone the last sixteen. I was playing with house money as it was. I’m still riding that high. Promise.”
“I’m really glad to hear that,” Leo says. “You should be so proud. I know I am. I still can’t get over your camera message.”
“I know. You texted me about it, like, every hour on the hour that day. Esme thought my number was leaked on Reddit or something,” Gabe says, laughing as he leans back on the headboard. “After seeing those initials, though, I do think keeping Olmedo in mind helped me. Thank you for that. Again.”
Leo kisses him. “You’re welcome. Again.”
“Okay, so, how are you feeling about your next match?” Gabe repositions, lying on his side, propping his head up with his left hand.
He knows it’s corny, but he loves seeing Gabe like this, totally at ease, including his hair, which isn’t perfectly coiffed for once.
“Well, I’m sure you know, but I’m playing Sascha.”
“Fuck that guy,” Gabe says.
“Again, pass,” Leo says, giving him a cheeky smile.
“No, seriously,” Gabe says, nudging Leo’s leg with his foot. “Everybody acts like he’s superhuman because he’s won a ton of Slams, but he’s not. He’s … regular-human. Liv said as much, about how she saw pain in him, too. Try to remember he’s just another guy on the other side of the net.”
“I know you’re right,” Leo says, leaning his head on the headboard. “But that’s way easier said than done.”
“I know,” Gabe says. “And I know you lost to him in Australia, but you’ve been playing so well on grass this season. You can take him.”
Leo squirms as he tries to digest Gabe’s compliment. “Who knew you were so sweet?”
“And a little spicy,” Gabe says as he stretches over to his nightstand, picking up the worn romance novel laid there, spine up, pages flayed out. “Reading these bookshelps distract me from my nerves the night before a match. They’re so fucking good—and steamy.”
Leo grabs the paperback in Gabe’s hand, Love in Bloom.
The title is written in elegant, swirling script, adorned with delicate floral accents.
Below it, two muscular men gaze into each other’s eyes, surrounded by a ring of rose petals.
Behind them is a picturesque little town nestled in the English countryside.
“Ahem,” Leo says, and begins to read aloud from the back cover.
“In the quaint town of Meadowbrook, where gossip blooms faster than spring flowers, Colin, a reserved botanist, finds solace in his greenhouse amid the chaos of his family’s bustling floral shop.
But when his childhood crush, Dexter, returns to town, Colin’s carefully cultivated peace is uprooted. ”