Thirty Love

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

Time never runs out in tennis. It’s one of the few sports in which the clock ticks up instead of down. As long as the match is still in action, it’s never too late to win. And yet, Leo Chambers, tennis’s top-ranked American man, has an innate fear of time running out.

“What will you be thinking about or, you know, reminding yourself of, as you hit the court at the US Open next week?” That’s the question Paul has just asked Leo, no doubt hoping that he’ll talk about being aggressive on court, playing first-strike tennis, the typical stuff.

Leo wants to scream, “I’ll be thinking about that big blue piece of confetti!

The moment that made me want to win the goddamn US Open in the first place! ”

“I’ll be thinking about how I need to stay aggressive out there,” Leo says, his voice polite and measured, “and how I’ll have to play first-strike tennis if I want to get the win.”

“I hear you, Leo, I hear you,” Paul says. “And I know your dad has been working you hard to get that second serve percentage up, right? Johnny had a pretty good one himself back in the day. Tripped this guy up a few times, in fact!”

Lost in his own nostalgia, Paul doesn’t wait for Leo’s response before pressing on: “How’s your dad doing, Leo, with the MS? He still hanging in there?” He adjusts his round wireframe glasses that, alongside his graying mustache, look like they were teleported from 1985.

“Yeah, he’s been feeling fine, just fine, thanks for asking,” Leo says, providing his boilerplate response to this question—one that people often ask him with a certain tone of pity or because they can’t ask what they really want to: Should he still be coaching you?

“He’s got me working hard on my second serve, like you said.

It’s been failing me a little too often this season.

But I wish he would take a break sometimes.

I’ve barely gotten to go out and enjoy New York this year!

” He forces a smile, rumpling his face, freckled from the summer sun.

“Well, we’re just days away from the start of the action, so the Statue of Liberty will have to wait, my friend,” Paul says.

“I’m glad to hear you’re gearing up. As always, you’re a home favorite to lift the trophy.

You’ve been having a solid season. But it’s been an elusive thing for you, hasn’t it?

Securing your first Grand Slam title, that is. ”

It sure has, Paul!!!

“It sure has, Paul,” Leo says. “But I’ve had my heart set on winning the US Open since I was a kid, so I’m going to take what I learned during my semifinal run last year and hopefully use that to go all the way this time. It was really tough to get that close and not clinch it.”

Leo, who turned twenty-nine last month, has been on the ATP Tour (Association of Tennis Professionals) since he was eighteen and has fifteen singles titles to his name.

He’s had a stellar career, no doubt about it.

But for Leo, and for all tennis players, the year revolves around the four Grand Slams, the most esteemed titles of the season: the Australian Open, Roland-Garros (a.k.a.

the French Open), Wimbledon, and the US Open.

To win a Grand Slam is to cement yourself in tennis history, to announce yourself as one of the greatest athletes on the planet.

And Leo wants that more than anything. Like most players, he spends at least forty weeks a year traveling and competing on the ATP Tour, chasing his dream of winning the US Open.

So, while he’s managed to rack up those fifteen singles titles at other tournaments, he still can’t call himself a Grand Slam champion, and he still can’t sleep at night when he thinks about that fact.

“I have to be honest, it reminded me of when your dad came close to winning the US Open in ’90!

Boy, was that final a heartbreaker,” Paul says, shaking his head.

“Okay, now, I know you’re probably tired of being asked this, but it’s been twenty years since Andy Roddick won the US Open in ’03, and no American man has done it since.

You’ve been compared to Andy a lot throughout your career.

Do you feel pressure coming in as the American favorite? ”

It’s true. From the moment Leo started winning matches on tour, the press started likening the two, from their serves to their smiles, nicknaming Leo “Baby Rod” and printing headlines like “LEO CHAMBERS: AMERICA’S ANDY RODDICK 2.0.”

“I’d be lying if I said it doesn’t add more pressure,” Leo says. “I think all the American men want to be the next one to win it. It pushes us to bring our best out there.”

“Well, you’ve got a lot of fans cheering for you, lots of admirers,” Paul says.

“You frequently pop up on, um, well … to be honest, my producer insisted I bring this up … an Instagram account called Serving Looks.” Paul practically chokes on those two words as they come out of his mouth.

“Can’t say I understand the name, but it’s essentially a tennis gossip page, isn’t it? ”

“Oh God,” Leo says, flustered while thinking of how to explain that people on the internet think he’s hot.

“I mean, sort of. It’s, like, news and pictures of players, especially ones they think are, uh, attractive.

They talk about who players are dating, which ones are having the best season, that type of thing.

But yeah, I get tagged once in a while.”

“And, so, I guess I should ask: Are you dating anyone, Leo? Some of my listeners might want to know if you’ll have a special lady rooting for you in your player’s box at the Open.”

Jesus Christ, Paul.

“Jesus Christ, Paul,” Leo says, then realizes he just said that out loud. “Oh. Oh my God. Sorry. That just slipped out. Sorry. I think I’m just really tired from pract—”

Through muffled laughter, the podcast’s producer, cute and curly-haired Jesse, interjects over the speaker: “Don’t worry, Leo, we can cut that in post.”

“Okay. Okay, thanks, Jesse. Sorry again,” Leo says. “Um, no, no, I’m not seeing anyone at the moment. Just focusing on my game.” His other boilerplate response.

“Good man,” Paul says, looking only slightly agitated. “I look forward to watching you play, as always. It’s going to be a thrilling two weeks of tennis.”

Leo forces a smile and shifts in his swivel chair.

“I’m sure I’ll be seeing you around the grounds, Leo.

And I’m sure I’ll be seeing many of you, my listeners, around the grounds too!

” Paul’s face is back to looking bright and confident.

“You can always feel free to stop me and say hello or talk match picks. Well, folks, I’m Davis, Paul Davis, and this has been another episode of What a Racket. ”

Why does Paul always state his name like James Bond during sign-off? Who can say.

“Sorry about that,” Leo says, lifting off his headphones, further ruffling his already messy hair. “My brain is just—”

“Focused on the Open! I get it,” Paul says. “It’s really no problem, Leo. It’s really no problem. Right, Jesse?”

“No problem!” Jesse says, waving from the sound booth, smiling at Leo.

“Okay, well, thanks, guys, and yeah, I’ll see you around the grounds next week,” Leo says, reaching for the doorknob.

“Tell your dad I say hey, and send in the next guy, will you? Gabriel’s out there,” Paul says, shuffling through some papers.

“Gabriel? You mean Gabe? Montoya?” Leo asks, turning around, brow furrowed.

“No, Leo. Peter Gabriel, from Genesis.”

Leo blinks. “Who?”

“Yes, Gabriel Montoya! You know, the guy who knocked you out of Wimbledon this year?” Paul says with a smirk. “Send him in. He’s recording a clip for an episode, too.”

Leo steps into the next room and there he is.

Gabriel. Gabe. Gabe fucking Montoya. Sitting on the fucking sofa in the fucking lounge.

Is there anybody worse Leo could bump into while trying to keep himself centered ahead of the Open?

Look at this guy! Look at his loose, black curls, perfectly coiffed!

Look at his tight gray T-shirt, barely stretching over his broad shoulders!

Look at his jawline, likely able to saw wood!

Oh, ha ha, no, just kidding, Leo doesn’t notice any of that.

Hold on, is Gabe reading a book while he waits?

Leo can’t quite make out the cover, but he’s probably reading up on Bitcoin or Brooklyn sex clubs or something. This man is the living worst.

Leo and Gabe first met as teenagers, back when they were junior players at Break Point Tennis, a premier tennis academy in Boca Raton, Florida.

It should be noted that, for tennis players at least, Florida is heaven.

It’s an elite hub for the sport, offering gorgeous weather year-round and an endless supply of world-renowned coaches and facilities.

The expansive grounds of Break Point are lush—lined with palm trees and flowered shrubbery, all hugging a Tetris-like grid of thirty tennis courts as cerulean as the South Florida sky or Leo’s own eyes.

Those eyes caught sight of Gabe a year after Leo first started training at Break Point.

Playing there every day after school for months at a time, he considered the academy a second home.

Growing up a short drive away in the small, tennis-obsessed town of Delray Beach, he spent as much time at Break Point as he could, making sure he could “become one with the court,” as his dad told him all pros must. But the familiarity of his life at Break Point shifted seismically when Gabe arrived one sticky August afternoon.

Leo was really cool about it from the beginning.

“Who is that? Do you know who that kid is? I haven’t seen him at BP before. Who is that over there? On court three,” he asked his dad during their practice session, oblivious to how rapidly he was now bouncing the ball with his cherry-red Wilson racket.