Chapter 1 #2
Square-faced Gabe, who must’ve come out of the womb with that perfectly coiffed black hair, was doing some stretches before starting his practice session a couple courts over.
It’s not that things of a sexual nature hadn’t ever crossed Leo’s mind before.
He was a hormonal fifteen-year-old with dial-up internet access, after all.
But he had developed such narrow tennis tunnel vision that he never thought too critically about his own sexuality.
Not to mention, it was the early aughts, in Florida.
“Your swing is so gay” and “Don’t be such a fag” and “You’re playing like a pussy” weren’t exactly uncommon remarks he’d hear other guys toss around at school or BP, sometimes directed at Leo himself.
Whenever he would notice another guy was cute, he would pretend it was nothing—just a blip, a glitch—and continue thinking about his next match.
He was usually able to push it aside. But he had never felt his breath catch in his throat like this before.
He had never felt his mind fixate on a person like this before.
Not until Gabe showed up and cracked his concentration right down the middle.
But, hey, it was probably just the humidity. Right?
“Did you hear me?” his dad asked. “His name is Gabe. He’s the same year as you.”
Leo continued to bounce the ball—and stare.
“Go ahead and serve!” his dad shouted. “Leo?”
Bounce. Bounce. Bounce. Bounce. Stare. Stare. Stare. Stare.
“Hello? Leo?” Gabe says, rising from the couch in the studio lounge.
“Oh. Didn’t notice you there,” Leo says curtly, snapping out of it. His breath? Definitely not caught in his throat. “The doctor will see you now.” He gestures toward the recording booth, immediately regretting this joke.
“What did you and Paul talk about this time?” Gabe asks. “How I’m going to kick your ass at the Open like I did at Wimbledon?”
The tension is building in Leo’s body, and he can see Gabe feeding off it.
“That makes it, hmm, let’s see … a 10–0 record against the Leo Chambers? The number nine player in the world? Damn, I’m good.” Gabe winks.
“That’s some big talk for somebody who won’t even be seeded at the Open. You’re what, number forty-seven now? Too busy partying, perhaps?”
“Quit talking about your seed,” Gabe says. “It’s gross.” He winks again.
“Hilarious,” Leo says. “And stop wink—”
He doesn’t quite get this sentence out before Gabe closes the door in his face, tilting his head as it shuts, flashing him a smirk.
Leo stands there for a second. The air still holds a little of Gabe’s scent. Fresh, crisp, like cedar … Wait, what? No. This trip to What a Racket needs to end.
Sufficiently rattled from his awkward morning, Leo is relieved when he finally steps onto one of the practice courts at the Open.
Jogging onto the court, in the shadow of the hulking Arthur Ashe Stadium—the largest tennis stadium in the world, named for the first Black US Open champion—he spins his racket in his hand (still cherry-red, still Wilson), ready to lose himself and the sound of Paul’s voice and the smell of Gabe’s body in the rhythm of his routine.
The Open starts in just a few days, and while Paul called his season “solid” on the podcast, Leo knows all too well that he’s been feeling tight on the court this year.
Uninspired, even. He can’t seem to get out of his own way.
And if he doesn’t make another deep run at the Open, he’ll lose the ranking points from his semifinal appearance last year—and watch his spot in the top ten disappear.
So, it’s time to compartmentalize the bullshit and focus on his game.
Leo smacks a forehand crosscourt.
“Footwork, Leo,” Johnny says.
He rockets a backhand down the line.
“Swing through.”
Another forehand.
“Take that earlier!”
Shuffling side to side, Leo returns each shot from his assistant coach, Brian Wilkins, with power and precision.
Backhand, forehand, backhand, forehand. One of the best players in the world and the number one American player right now, Leo is powerful in his shot-making and swift on his feet.
You’d be forgiven for thinking you’re at a shooting range upon hearing the forceful pops of his groundstrokes.
Groups of fans looking to glimpse their favorite players ahead of the tournament press up against the court’s fence and pack into the elevated stands behind him, their eyes glued to Leo’s every move.
His forehand, flat and fast like a bullet, is a sight to behold.
And it helps that he’s shirtless. Is one of the fans sending a photo of him to Instagram sensation Serving Looks as we speak?
Most likely. Leo wipes his wristband across his sweaty, scruffy face.
Leo’s dad, who’s been observing from the wall behind him during practice, makes his way onto the court, his right leg taking a moment longer to lift off the ground than his left.
Johnny was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis in 1991, just a year after he was the runner-up at the US Open.
Even though his symptoms are manageable, they impact his mobility and energy, and they ended his career as a pro player before he got another chance to go for the US Open title.
So, Leo’s dream of winning it? It’s as much for himself as it is for his dad.
“Looking pretty good,” Johnny says. “But remember to keep that—”
“Elbow up on the backhand, I know, I know.”
Leo has an elegant one-handed backhand modeled after his dad’s that, like any player with a somewhat uncommon one-handed backhand, is a major point of pride for him.
“Everything okay?” Johnny asks.
“Oh, yeah, just a weird morning,” Leo says.
“Don’t tell me Davis, Paul Davis, didn’t treat you right,” Johnny says.
Paul and Johnny go way back.
“Don’t make me bring up our doubles run at Wimbledon ’87,” Johnny always says.
“I never would,” Leo likes to say in response.
“No, no, he was fine,” Leo says now. “I mean, I wasn’t the ideal guest but—wait, yeah, why does he talk like James Bond at the end?”
“Leo, I have never understood that man,” Johnny says, deadpan.
Leo knocks his head back with a laugh.
Click click click. The fans immediately take photos. Perfect content.
“But I appreciate you going on there again,” Johnny says. “Between you and me, I think he’s been scrambling to get the best players on that show of his.”
“Well, that can’t be true. Gabe Montoya went in after me.”
“Gabriel! Ah, what a good guy. I don’t know what you have against that kid, Leo. Other than your losing streak against him, I guess.” He grins.
Leo ignores his dad’s quip. He’s all too aware he’s never won a match against Gabe, starting with their very first one, when Gabe stole the winning point from him.
Leo’s game is all about overpowering his opponent.
It’s a straightforward approach, a classic strategy.
The problem is that Gabe’s game absolutely dismantles it.
He has a wicked slice and a mean drop shot that Leo never sees coming.
Gabe also comes into the net to volley. A lot.
The tempo and finesse of Gabe’s game throws Leo out of his rhythm every time they meet, causing him to make errors left and right.
It doesn’t help that the mere sight of Gabe’s face doesn’t just dismantle Leo’s game but his entire existence.
For Leo, in every sense, Gabe hits different.
“Hey! Speaking of good guys,” Johnny says, holding out his hand to shake Ollie’s, who has just arrived for their practice session. A Canadian player, Olivier Tremblay—Ollie—grew up in Montreal but moved to Florida to pursue tennis as a teen and remains Leo’s best friend to this day.
“Don’t go easy on him, okay?” Johnny says to Ollie with a knowing smile. “Remember your footwork, Leo. Your footwork.” Johnny turns and begins to walk toward the back of the court again, more slowly now, his breathing a little heavier.
“Dad, you can just watch from here,” Leo says, quickly moving his stuff from one of the benches, which is positioned in the shade of a big white umbrella.
“No, I’m good,” he says, his right foot dragging a bit.
Leo looks at him concernedly. “Please?”
“All right, all right, I’ll sit with Brian,” he says, and takes a seat with a quiet groan and his clipboard. “I do need to make some notes for us to go over later, Leo.”
“Sure,” Leo says.
“I thought we were practicing on Ashe,” Ollie says, pulling a neon-yellow racket from his giant black Babolat bag.
“Didn’t you see the schedule?” Leo says. “Sascha already has it booked all afternoon.”
“Of course he does,” Ollie says, his subtle French accent coming out more, as it always does whenever he raises his voice. As does his favorite Quebecois swear: “Tabarnak!”
Over the course of another two-hour session, Leo rockets the ball back and forth with Ollie, Johnny looking up from his clipboard occasionally to yell to Leo about his elbow or his pronation or his topspin.
Leo has always loved hitting with Ollie.
Lanky, loyal Ollie, whose blond hair has been in a buzzcut for as long as Leo can remember.
He’s probably the most disciplined guy on tour—consistently a top twenty player for years now—but he also makes Leo laugh more than anyone else, a delightful curmudgeon.
“Did you hear him on What a Racket the other day?” Ollie says. The two of them are chatting at the net now, drenched in sweat.
“Who?”
“Sascha,” Ollie says. “His advice to kids who want to make it in tennis? ‘A little less focus on pronouns and a little more focus on practice.’ ”
“I saw that on Instagram! What the fuck?” Leo says, his brow furrowing.
“So, let’s see. Sascha Volkov, he/him/his,” Ollie says. “I wonder if he will break his racket when I beat him again this year.”
“I can’t with you,” Leo says, chuckling, and heads for the benches to start packing up. “Ah, I forgot—”
“How to hit a second serve?”
“Hilarious! Everyone’s hilarious today!” Leo says, looking up from his phone. “No, I forgot that I’m meeting up with Tess tomorrow after practice with my team, so I won’t be able to hit with you. Sorry. Tess and I are playing mixed doubles again this year, so we need to figure out our game plan.”
“Ah, okay, I see who the favorite is,” Ollie says, inserting his rackets back into his bag. “You two better win it this year.”
“I mean, I’d prefer to win singles, but—”
Ollie gasps. “No! Leo Chambers wants to win the US Open? Mon dieu, I had no idea.”
Leo stares at him, straight-faced.
“Okay, but I’m glad you’re playing mixed again, dude. Tess always helps you loosen up. She helps you play more fearlessly, more like you used to,” Ollie says.
“Well, thanks. I think.”
“Anytime!” Ollie says, and starts heading for the exit. He’s walking backward, facing Leo. “Let’s just hope you don’t draw Gabe!”
The draw—the tournament’s bracket—for men’s singles will be released tonight, and Leo will most likely pass away if he’s forced to play Gabe in the first round.
“If you wink right now, I swear to God,” Leo says.
“Why would I wink at you?” Ollie asks.
“Never mind,” Leo says. “I’ll text you once the draw is out!”
Ollie throws up a peace sign to Leo as he turns to greet a group of fans outside the court who rushed over when they saw him leaving.
“I gotta make a call, LC,” Brian says, and tosses Leo a banana to keep his strength up.
A forty-three-year-old bald and built Black man, Brian joined Leo’s team at the start of this season.
A former pro himself, Brian has a collection of nine titles and a career-high ranking of number five.
After struggling to come back from a serious ankle injury, he retired at thirty-three, and has since coached some of the best players in the world.
His crowning achievement, however, as he’s told Leo on many occasions, was earning the Arthur Ashe Humanitarian Award for his work supporting the Crown Heights Junior Tennis Program in Brooklyn.
It’s always a good idea for players to have additional voices on their team to offer perspective beyond the head coach’s, especially when that head coach is the player’s dad.
Leo knew that bringing Brian on board would improve the team dynamic exponentially, and it was an anticipatory move, too, to provide support as his dad pushes sixty and MS pushes his limits, even if Johnny won’t admit that.
“We’ll hit the gym in a few?” Brian asks, pointing to Leo.
Even when practice is over, practice isn’t really over. Leo will hit the gym for an extensive fitness session, followed by an appointment with his physiotherapist, where he’ll work out any pain or knots in his body.
“Yeah, see you in a bit,” Leo says.
“Wait up,” Johnny says to Brian, trailing behind him. “Let’s walk and talk.”
For now, Leo is by himself, catching his breath before heading to the gym.
Beads of sweat cover his forehead and stomach as he performs his instinctive scan of the fans still gathered by the court, monitoring whether they’re watching or judging his dad’s careful steps.
He knows he should be relaxing during these free minutes before diving back into his packed schedule, but the knot that always forms in his stomach while looking out for his dad is one that can’t be worked out.
Leo’s hotel room in Midtown Manhattan is enormous and sterile.
His match clothes from his Nike kit and extra Wilson rackets in plastic wrapping are scattered across the California king bed and the concrete floor.
With his full team—Johnny, Brian, his physio, his agent—in a half-circle behind him, he’s hunched over his laptop at the desk, watching a livestream of the US Open draw announcement.
Leg bouncing up and down like the tennis ball before his serve, he’s waiting excitedly to see what his route to the final will look like this year.
Who will his first-round opponent be? Will Gabe fall in his path?
Who else will be in his quarter of the draw?
Unseeded players, like Gabe, are randomly positioned within the draw.
Will Gabe fall in his path? Will there be any potential blockbuster matches along the way?
Will Gabe fall in his path? These questions ricochet off the walls of his brain ahead of every tournament, but especially ahead of the Grand Slams, and especially the US Open.
Just after seven PM, it’s out. The draw is finally released for the field of 128 hopefuls, all the men in the midst of this exact same ritual in their hotel rooms across the city.
Hunching even closer to the screen now, Leo scans down the bracket carefully, eyes squinted as he hunts for his name among the list of players.
When he reaches the third quarter of the draw, he finds this:
1st Round
Leo Chambers 9
Gabriel Montoya