37
“Kieran Alexander Spotted at Luna Aldridge’s Madrid Final”
—The (Pro) Tennis Club
“DAY FOURTEEN OF the Madrid Open, and Luna Aldridge is one match away from winning her third consecutive trophy here. If I’m not wrong, this would bring her ranking to number eight.
Just to remind you, Greg, number six is her personal best, and that wouldn’t be hard to surpass if she keeps this up at the US Open next month. ”
“Watching her go from number seventy-four at the start of the season to back in the top ten has been a trajectory we’ll look back on for decades.”
The announcers’ voices traveled as Luna and her opponent got comfortable on their opposing sides of the court.
I had a rush of adrenaline watching her bounce from one foot to the other.
The first time I had seen her in person, rather than on a screen, since she was in Valencia.
I couldn’t look at her from afar without buzzing, the desire to touch her consuming me.
It had only worsened now that I’d slept beside her.
She was beautiful. Effervescent. I wanted to tell her. Lean over the barrier and shout it to her. Watch her light up with a smile. Assuming she’d have a good reaction to the fact that I’ve shown up to her final match. Unannounced. With a guest.
“No wonder you haven’t told the girl you love her—you’re intimidated by her! Look at her, she’s much cooler than you.”
“Abuela. Maybe wait until we’re not surrounded by thousands of people to make fun of my love life.”
“You’re the one who didn’t tell her we were coming!” She hit my leg.
“Fully aware.”
The photographers were going to love this.
“Kieran Alexander Blushes like Schoolchild Beside His Grandmother at Girlfriend’s Match.
” It would be worth it, though. Abuela was ecstatic when I told her I was leaving for Madrid this morning to watch Luna’s final match.
It took her thirty seconds to formulate ten reasons why she should come.
I wasn’t going to argue with her. I valued my life.
She beamed getting ready to leave, putting on her best silver earrings as the rest of the household moped over not being invited. Now, her cheeks were rosy as she watched Luna on the court preparing to serve. She wanted to yell to her too.
Below, Luna bounced the ball against the red clay.
Terracotta-colored powder flew up as the ball landed back in her hand.
I held my breath as she threw it high and leaped, shooting it across the court.
Her opponent immediately reacted, but not without a jolt in her step, desperately reaching for the ball.
The arena was silent except for the sound of the thump between their rackets and the ground. Breathing became an afterthought while watching Luna. She lunged, jumped, skidded. The softness and symmetry of the red clay was quickly ruined, scuffed up by her swift movements.
My fists tightened as she rushed forward to the ball before it could bounce again. Come on, come on, come on—
“Yes, Luna!” I shot to my feet as the rest of the arena hollered and cheered for her. The first point of the match. All hers.
She simply smiled and pumped her fist. It was small and contained, getting right back to business.
In the first hour, she only let two games go to her opponent, winning the first set.
But by the middle of the second set, she was falling behind.
Her opponent sent her running back and forth until Luna had lost one, two, three games, surrendering the second set.
Sending them into a third and final set.
I was sweating watching her, not from the heat but from the tension of the match. My foot bounced, my jaw clenched, my fingers curled. Beside me, Abuela’s face was a quintessential example of concentration, staring at the court with her mouth in a straight line.
We were close enough to see the lines of moisture running down the sides of Luna’s face and the back of her arms as she served the ball. Her opponent jumped forward with newfound energy, sending it past Luna’s side of the court.
“That was out of bounds!” I hollered. “There was no way that was in.”
“Complete bullshit,” Abuela muttered.
I took my hat off, clearing the sweat from my forehead. “Come on, Luna,” I whispered—prayed.
Two minutes later, another point went to the opposing player. Shit, shit, shit.
Her cheeks were flushed, and her steps were slowing. She had more in her, I knew she had more in her, she was just doubting herself.
She bounced the ball, preparing to serve again, her—“Woohoo!”
I jumped, watching my grandmother stand from her seat and yell. “You can’t—”
“You’re brilliant, Luna!” she shouted anyway.
Several people turned, including… Luna. Her gaze swept the crowd for a moment before finding the voice.
Abuela stood for a moment, her cheeks rising like puff pastries as Luna looked back at her.
I couldn’t determine her expression. Then her eyes skipped to me.
My heart pummeled the bones in my chest.
Thank you, she mouthed, before turning back around. A deep breath, and she sent the ball with a burst of energy right out of her opponent’s reach.
The rhythm of the arena shifted to euphoric excitement, as if warm rain had come down on them during a summer-long drought.
Luna let her feet leave the ground with excitement.
The last time I had seen such a pure reaction from her was when we had played tennis.
For the rest of the match, she took back every point she needed.
The crowd’s excitement chased after her until she was lying on the ground with exhaustion and satisfaction.
She had won.