Chapter 28
BEN
Six months later
Waking up at the frat house next to my boyfriend feels better than anything. But playing a doubles match with him runs a close second.
We face Stanford in the NCAA Finals after breezing through regionals.
They’re looking cocky after beating us at Indian Wells, but we’re a better team now.
Since our match in Palm Springs, we’ve become stronger.
Mine and Elias’ relationship has only helped our non-verbal communication on the court.
Elias only has to look at me and I know what he’s thinking.
It helps that he can come back to Connecticut with me to practice on my parents’ courts any time, too.
Seeing as it’s the finals, my parents are here today. I spotted them sitting in the stands when we walked out onto the court. My mom’s dressed in a classy wrap dress with her sunglasses on. My dad is in a blazer and aviators.
A bubble of nerves surfaces when I glance up at them before stepping onto the court with Elias to play our doubles match against Stanford’s strongest players.
Elias senses my nerves and gives my shoulder a squeeze.
If we were on the practice courts with no one but our teammates and coaches around to see, he’d squeeze my hand and maybe plant a kiss on top of my head.
“We’ve got this, my little sparrow.”
I have to hold in a snort. Hearing Elias’ terms of endearment translated into English always makes me laugh.
We win the coin toss and I serve first. Elias gives me a little nod before crouching into place to await the first point.
I don’t need to check out his butt since I can do that later.
Right now, we’re all business. Our enemy are across the net, and we have a score to settle with Stanford.
Those guys think they’re the bee’s knees at tennis.
Yeah, well, we’re ready to beat them. I know we are.
I’m focused as I lock in on my serve. The sounds of the court settle around me.
My heartbeat roars in my ears as I toss the ball.
Everything seems to move in slow motion as the ball comes back down and I bring my racket up to meet it.
I feel the connection all the way through my arm down to my shoulder.
It hits right where I want it, in the sweet spot of the racket, and then the ball is soaring over the net in a perfect arc.
It’s like we’ve practiced a million times before. Trying to hit targets over and over until our arms ache. All the hours of work and missed lie-ins are worth it for the moment my serve goes right down the T in an ace and the umpire calls the point.
My next serve isn’t quite an ace, but we still win the point and Elias comes barreling into me on the celebration.
The way he looks at me—I’m no longer constantly questioning what he sees in me.
I’ve stopped second-guessing and decided to just enjoy it.
He’s still here. So close to graduation and making plans for what we’re going to do after.
I hold onto that instead. Allow it to overtake any doubts I might have.
We win our service game in the best way—forty-love. Stanford wins their first service game, too. The score is tied, but we remain focused.
When it’s time for Elias to serve, it’s like poetry in motion.
Over the past few months, his nerves, the tightness he’d get in his game when he was piling the pressure on to do and be everything right this second, it all started to slip away.
I understand why he believes he will be a pro player.
Watching him serve two aces in a row, watching that impressively powerful body move with such grace and speed, I believe it, too.
He puts on a serving masterclass and puts us ahead in the score, 2-1.
We hold onto our lead when we break Stanford’s serve in the next game, causing our teammates to erupt into cheers. It’s hard to come back from a broken serve—we’re too on fire for Stanford to make a comeback. We win the first set, 6-4.
Elias is so impressive in the second set, all I need to do it clear the stray balls that wander into my part of the court. Elias could probably get to some of those if he wanted, but he knows how to stay on his side of the court now. He has learned how to trust me.
We win the match in straight sets. One point for Princeton. Zero to Stanford.
I look up into the stands to see my parents on their feet. Their expressions are neutral behind their sunglasses, but they’re applauding. That feels good, at least.
Elias catches me looking and squeezes my shoulder again. “You’re doing okay?”
I nod. I plan to introduce Elias to my parents as my boyfriend over dinner tonight.
I have no idea how they’ll take the news.
Probably with a stiff upper lip, as they take every piece of news in public.
It doesn’t matter. It’s not something I can change, and it’s certainly not something I’d want to change.
I actually like being me.
I block my parents out while I watch Elias play his singles match against one of Stanford’s star players. This guy could also make the pro tour next year and is a grad student at twenty-two. Stanford’s player has to squint up at him as they shake hands over the net.
Elias is playing so well today he makes the Stanford player look like an amateur. Elias has him running all over the court while appearing not to move himself.
I watch in awe. That’s my boyfriend out there. The guy who has cute nicknames for me and tells me I’m amazing.
He’s a force to be reckoned with and he sends the Stanford player home in a straight sets win.
Now it’s my turn to get out there and win another crucial point for the team.
I’ve always been good at cheering other people on.
Boosting team morale and reminding everyone how great they are.
But doing that for myself has taken a little time to perfect.
I hear my own voice in my head as I step out onto the court, assuring myself that I can do this. That I have what it takes.
The self-belief I’ve built up over the past few months bolsters me and gets me through my first service game, Stanford’s first service game, and the first set. Until I realize I’m a serve up in the second and about to win the match and bring another point home to the team.
My teammates flood the court when I serve an ace on match point, Archer calling me a savage as he ruffles my hair.
I look up into the stands again and spot my parents on their feet. My mom smiling behind her designer glasses.
They’re waiting for me outside the tennis center. After saying goodbye to Nate and the rest of the team, who are all going back to the hotel to eat dinner there, Elias and I make our way outside to see my parents.
Mom hugs me and tells me how great I was. I swell with pride. Dad shakes my hand and says, “Congratulations,” like we’re total strangers.
“I invited Elias to have dinner with us,” I say, my throat getting suddenly dry.
“Of course!” Mom beams. “It’s so good to see you again, Elias.”
“You, too.”
Dad made reservations at a quiet, dimly lit restaurant. The menu is all in French. I’m about to ask Elias if he wants me to translate when the waiter comes around and he orders his meal in perfectly accented French. Has he been holding out on me? The little polyglot.
He catches my eye and grins. “I only know how to order food. Don’t ask me anything else.”
I laugh. Usually, in a moment like this, I’d reach out and take his hand or kiss him, but this isn’t the frat house or the cafeteria at college. And I don’t think that’s the right way to tell my parents about this.
We exchange small talk while we wait for our food to arrive. I’m glad my mom ordered champagne to celebrate the win and sip some for Dutch courage.
Elias gives my knee a supportive squeeze under the table when he notices my hand shaking.
When the food arrives, I find it hard to eat but force myself to at least try a few bites. I know it’s probably delicious, but I can barely taste it.
I’ve spent my whole life learning how to behave in polite society. And I know enough to understand that potentially bad news should be saved until everyone has eaten most of their main meal.
“Mom, Dad,” I start, clearing my throat. I feel Elias pull his chair a fraction closer.
I speak loud enough so my dad can’t accuse me of mumbling, but not so loud that people on the next table will be able to clearly hear what I’m saying.
“I have to tell you something.”
Elias puts his hand back on my knee and keeps it there under the tablecloth.
My parents look at me with barely interested glances. Mom keeps cutting into her chicken.
“I’m gay.”
Mom stops cutting and looks at me. Dad gives an impatient huff. Then the silence spreads its tendrils over the table like some sea serpent and I can’t stand it anymore.
“Aren’t you going to say something?”
“This really isn’t necessary,” Dad says.
I frown. “What do you mean, it’s not ‘necessary?’”
“There’s no need to make a scene,” he says.
“I’m not making a scene.”
Elias takes his hand off my knee and covers my shaking one on the table. Mom stares at our clasped hands while Dad purposefully looks away.
“Perhaps we should get the check,” he says calmly, glancing around for the waiter.
I want to cry. It’s like every other time they pretended they didn’t hear me because the news was not what they wanted to hear.
“You don’t have to gaslight him,” Elias says. The sound of his voice snaps my parents out of their practiced routine. They’re not used to outsiders butting their noses into their business. Not used to being told what to do or being called out on their bullshit.
Dad glances at Elias before quickly dismissing him. He calls the waiter over and curtly asks for the check. He balls his napkin up and tosses it onto the table to signal the end to dinner. And the end to this conversation.
“Mom?”
Mom takes a deep breath and blinks hard at me. She looks at Elias, and then back at me. A small smile twitches at the corners of her lips.