Chapter 2 #2
“The numbers don’t lie, friend,” Gabe says. He’s still standing there in his briefs, sliding on some deodorant now.
“If you want to talk numbers, I’ve seen your win–loss record this season and it’s, uh, not looking so good,” Leo says, flashing a grimace at Gabe, while still picking up his sunscreen and putting it down.
“Whatever you need to tell yourself,” Gabe says.
“Chambers!” A new, booming voice echoes through the locker room as the man approaches. Sascha Volkov.
“Hey, Sascha,” Leo says, trying to keep his voice steady, as always, even though he despises this man even more than Gabe. But Leo’s learned throughout his career that you do not mess with him.
A thirty-five-year-old Russian legend, Sascha has held the number one ranking on and off for two decades and has twenty Grand Slam titles to his name.
That number has awarded him GOAT status among the fans.
It’s also awarded him the ability to do anything he fucking wants and still have those fans’ adoration.
Over the years, his temper has often spiraled out of control on the court.
He once smashed his racket over and over against an ump’s chair when he disagreed with a call.
Another time, he pummeled a ball at the wall behind him and accidentally hit a ball boy in the stomach.
He even threw his racket at his player’s bench and when it bounced off the court, it crashed into a spectator in the front row.
But his violent outbursts have only ever led to an occasional fine or a default from a tournament.
They have hardly tarnished his reputation.
When you have twenty Slam titles and conservative “family values” (read: bigotry) behind you, you can get away with anything.
His fellow players fall in line, the commentators fawn over his game, and the fans swarm him for autographs and selfies everywhere he goes.
Everyone is too distracted by the shine of twenty Slam trophies to see this man for who he really is: a bully.
“How’s it hanging, man? A little to the left for you, I see, Gabriel,” Sascha says, glancing down at Gabe’s crotch as he passes by, heading for his locker in the next row. “Have you always had that tattoo?”
Gabe touches his ribs, brushing his fingers over the intricate crest on the right side of his body. “Nope, got it this summer,” he says, monotone.
“What’s that from? The, uh, Mexican flag?” Sascha asks, scrunching his slim, sharp face, terrifying but refined.
“Peruvian,” Gabe says, shutting his eyes.
“Ah, right, Peru,” Sascha says. “That’s the island you’re from.”
Leo tries to choke down his anger but shoots Sascha a frustrated glance.
“What?” Sascha asks sternly, blue-gray eyes as icy as ever.
“Nothing,” Leo says, suddenly making himself smaller, like he’s back at his locker in middle school, afraid of bringing too much attention to himself.
Sascha looks at them, amused, confident. “I’ll leave you two to get ready for your cat fight on Monday,” he says, and takes his shirt off. He’s still ghostly pale despite it being the end of summer. He then walks toward the shower with a towel thrown over his shoulder.
“Fuck that guy,” Gabe says into his locker once Sascha is out of earshot.
“Pass,” Leo says.
Gabe huffs out a laugh, and Leo catches himself smiling at him.
“Okay, well, see you on Monday for the cat fight,” Leo says, shutting his locker door. He passes by Gabe, mustering all his energy to stare straight ahead. “Better bring your A game.”
“Never needed to before,” Gabe says confidently as Leo turns the corner into the showers. “By the way, you’ve got some white stuff on your shorts.”
Leo looks down so fast his neck almost snaps clean off. He didn’t realize he was squeezing the bottle while glaring at Sascha. There’s sunscreen all over his lap.
“Miss! Top!! Ten!!!” Leo says through cupped hands as Tess opens the door to her hotel room.
She takes a royal bow before pretending to catch some roses.
“Cincinnati champion!” Leo shouts, walking into her room, floor-to-ceiling windows letting in some waning sun and the lights of Midtown beginning to shine. “And cracking the top ten right before the Open? You’re living the dream.”
“Thank you, sweet angel,” she says, wrapping her arms around him. “God, but have you seen some of the articles? All everyone can talk about is how astounding it is that I made the top ten for the first time at—I’m not sure you’re ready for this, Leo—thirty years old.”
Leo fakes a gasp as he falls onto the king bed.
“The headlines are like, CORPSE brIDE MAKES TOP TEN DEBUT,” she says. “Sascha Volkov could still be playing at eighty-five and people wouldn’t blink. I make moves after I turn thirty and they want to study my body for science.”
“Just wait until they see you win the Open this year,” Leo says.
“Oh my God,” Tess says, redoing her messy bun, her cropped white Nike tee lifting a little. “Can you imagine if I somehow pulled that off? The front page of the Times: GERIATRIC WOMAN WINS US OPEN.”
“GRANDMOTHER OF TWELVE TAKES US OPEN BY STORM,” Leo says, swiping his palm across the air. Tess cackles.
“And, you know, the real news is that I’m the first Filipino American woman to be ranked in the top ten. Ever. But that’s just a footnote, I guess.”
“That fucking sucks. I’m sorry,” Leo says. “I did see some amazing posts about it on Instagram, at least.”
“Yes, oh my God! Did you see the one from Serving Looks? They were so sweet,” she says, placing her hands on the sides of her heart-shaped face. “You should’ve seen me straight-up sobbing at some of the DMs I got from all these Filipino kids, too.”
“That’s incredible!” Leo says.
“I kinda feel like I should be doing more for them,” Tess says, fidgeting with the thin gold ring on her right hand. “I just want them to know they really do belong in tennis. I want to find a way to get my voice out there more, show them that a Filipino player can really rep this sport.”
“Tess, at the risk of sounding cheesy as hell, you do so much every time you step onto the court,” Leo says. “But I’m sure you’ll think of something. I’m always here if you ever want to brainstorm.”
“Thank you, angel,” she says, her face scrunching bashfully. “Okay, let’s order food before I start crying about those messages again.”
They order poké bowls before getting down to business. After a half hour of mixed doubles strategizing, they switch to the topic they—and all players—really want to talk about: winning. Mixed doubles doesn’t start for another few days, anyway.
“You know, you could win the whole thing,” Leo says. He’s sitting cross-legged on the fluffy white duvet. “You’ve got a pretty good path to the finals. Just saying.”
“You sound like my coach!” Tess says, getting up from the bed. She answers the knock at the door and thanks the delivery man profusely. “I just don’t want to think that far ahead right now. I’m taking it one round at a time.”
She pulls their bowls out of the brown paper bag and sets them down on the desk—bright, beautiful palettes of salmon, tuna, edamame, avocado, radish, and sriracha.
“Sure, sure,” Leo says, drizzling a little extra sriracha onto the sushi rice in his bowl. “Well, I’ve got my money on you.”
“And what about you? You could go all the way, too,” she says, taking her first bite, brow furrowing. “Huh, this is actually pretty good for a place called Hokey Poké.”
“Yeah, maybe, if I can even—”
“Do not start with the Gabe stuff,” Tess groans, driving her chopsticks into the rice. “I can’t handle it, Leo. I know he’s been, like, your kryptonite since birth, but you and I both know you could beat him.”
“You sound like you’re describing my superhero origin story,” Leo says. He takes a big bite and then wipes some sriracha off his mouth with a napkin.
“Well, I’m serious, Clark Kent,” she says, and takes another bite. “I don’t even get what you’re so hung up on.”
“Oh, come on, you must see it, too,” Leo says.
“He thinks he’s this golden boy. It’s so smarmy.
Always smirking, always running a hand through his hair.
The Calvin Klein ads, the Head ads, the Head and Shoulders ads.
You know, the one where he’s literally smirking and running a hand through his hair in the shower?
I mean, at least we know he has dandruff. ”
Tess is searching for her next bite with her chopsticks and shaking her head. “I don’t think the people in those ads actually have dandruff.”
“Whatever! It’s the way he talks about our matches at the press conferences after, too, like he didn’t even break a sweat,” Leo says, and begins mimicking Gabe’s slightly deeper voice, bobbing his head back and forth.
“I know Leo’s game well, so I just went out there and gave him all the shots I know he hates.
And then he smirks, of course. He’s an asshole. ”
“Well, all that may be true, but if you’re going to win, you better find a way to put it out of your mind come Monday.
If it were me, I would try and beat him at his own game.
I know you have a killer drop shot in there somewhere,” she says, tapping his forehead with a freshly manicured blush-pink nail.
“Yeah, I think my coach would disagree.”
“Oh my God, I miss your dad,” she says, putting a hand over her heart. “I need to see him while we’re in New York. How is the sweetest man on Earth?”
“Hmm, right, you mean the stubbornest?” he asks.
“Most stubborn? I don’t know. He’s good.
But we haven’t been seeing eye-to-eye on my game for a while now.
He has one idea of how I should play and that’s it.
No discussion.” He scarfs down another bite before continuing.
“He just pushes me so hard. He pushes himself too hard, too. It can be a lot.”
“Do you think you’ll ever say something to him?”