Chapter 5 #2
“Oh, yeah, he was big back in the fifties, right?”
“Uh, yeah, he was,” Gabe said, looking a bit confused.
“What?” Leo asked, praying he didn’t say something wrong on top of flubbing their entire practice session.
“No, just, not many people usually know who he is,” Gabe said.
“He won Wimbledon, didn’t he?” Leo asked, relieved.
“And AO, both in ’59,” Gabe said, his brown eyes sparkling. “I’m Peruvian, too. That’s also why I like him so much.”
“That’s awesome,” Leo said.
They held each other’s gaze for a moment—a moment too long for Leo, evidently, who turned away, saw that his dad had arrived and was talking with Patrick, and said, “All right, well, my dad’s here, gotta go,” and darted off.
See? It wasn’t all bad with Gabe. They even had a few other conversations and sessions like this first one. But Leo could only push through the fluttering in his stomach and the flubbing at practice for so long.
For his entire young life, he had learned to be focused and steady and determined.
And he was good at it. He was committed to tennis and to his routine, and he was clearly progressing.
Until Gabe. Gabe threw him off his game, both literally and figuratively.
He made Leo look clumsy on and off the court.
Worst of all, he made Leo really question his sexuality for the first time.
For a type-A teenager with a vision of his US Open victory, this wasn’t okay.
At best, it was confusing. At worst, it was maddening.
His resentment of Gabe grew and grew, so he pushed him away more and more, refusing to acknowledge his obvious attraction to him.
He couldn’t risk anything derailing his road to success.
Then, on an especially hot day later that fall, Leo was practicing with his dad, who, back then, could act as his hitting partner more often.
But Johnny had been hitting for too long on such a sweltering day—the heat only worsens his symptoms—and he lost his balance.
He fell onto the court, dropping his racket before hitting the ground in order to avoid injury, like a pro knows to do.
Leo and the other coach working with them ran over to Johnny, as did Patrick, who must have been observing nearby.
“Dad, you okay?” Leo asked, getting down on one knee to check on him.
“Oh, I’m all right, I’m all right,” Johnny said, trying to pick himself back up. “Don’t worry. I just tripped going for that backhand of yours.”
Leo scanned the courts to see if anyone was staring, gawking. Gabe was far enough away that he didn’t notice. But Ollie caught Leo’s eye and mouthed, “Is he okay?”
Leo nodded quickly to Ollie and then continued helping his dad up, who had scraped his knee and was bleeding a little.
“I can’t have you bleeding on my courts, Chambers,” Patrick joked, and then turned to the other coach with them. “Can you bring Johnny over to the first aid kit and help him get cleaned up? I can hit with you for a bit, Leo, if that’s okay.”
“Uh, yeah, sure,” Leo said, trying his best to seem unfazed by the incident.
He and Patrick rallied for a while longer, which, after the initial anxiety about his dad had passed, Leo was actually pretty excited about.
He was still getting to know Patrick at that point, but he was already well aware that Patrick was a former top ten player and, as the owner and operator of Break Point, didn’t always have this much time to dedicate to one player among the many who needed attention at the academy.
Leo felt lucky to have this opportunity to hit with the head honcho himself.
But his mood turned sour when he heard Gabe and another junior player behind him, walking by the court and talking not quite softly enough.
“Figures. Little Leo gets whatever he wants,” Gabe said. “Daddy makes sure he gets special attention.”
Leo whipped his head over his shoulder, his heart pounding now, but Gabe was already continuing down the path. When Leo turned back to Patrick, he saw the ball coming toward him and rocketed a forehand over the net—a clean winner into the corner.
“Nice hit, Leo!” Patrick yelled.
Normally, he would’ve leaped at this compliment.
But not now. Not after what he just heard.
Leo had certainly felt Gabe acting more coldly toward him lately, a natural response to Leo snubbing him over and over.
But how could he talk about Leo like that?
He hadn’t seen Johnny’s fall, but didn’t Gabe know that Johnny had MS?
Who in tennis didn’t know? Leo wasn’t just some spoiled daddy’s boy.
It was more complicated than that. Gabe should’ve known.
That comment gave Leo a reason to continue resenting Gabe. It gave him something to latch onto, an excuse for why he didn’t like Gabe—one that could bury the truth. The truth that he was into Gabe. The truth that he was gay.
Things only escalated from there. Picture it: the Junior Boys’ Delray Beach Open, 2010.
Leo and Gabe faced off against each other in the final—for all the glory of their hometown juniors’ tournament.
Back then, they were the two young players already causing buzz around their futures in American tennis.
This was the first time they met in a final, and for Leo, it felt like this would propel one of them to the forefront of that conversation. He needed to win.
The thing about juniors, though, is that the players have to call their own lines. There aren’t any umps or electronic line-calling systems to determine if a ball lands in or out. It’s an honor system, upheld by teenage boys who call each other “faggot” in the locker room. So.
Leo fought his way through his anxiety during the final, doing his best to compartmentalize his resentment of Gabe, steady his breathing, and focus on his game.
But, as would happen time and time again in the years to come, Leo couldn’t find his footing.
He felt like they were playing on an ice-skating rink, with him falling all over himself to keep up with Gabe’s slices.
With his family, friends, and fellow Break Point players watching, Leo was humiliated.
By the time they reached match point—Gabe serving at 6–2, 5–3—he was actually relieved it would all be over soon and he could go home and soothe his embarrassment with an episode of The Golden Girls.
Still, not one to give up until it’s officially over, he gave it his all during that final point, firing back shots as hard as he could, hoping that somehow he might do enough to get back on serve at 5–4.
When he drove one particular ball crosscourt into the corner, he knew it was a winner the moment it came off his strings.
As he saw the ball clip the line, he knew this could be his opportunity to shift the momentum in his direction.
But the next thing he knew, Gabe’s arms were flying up into the air as he yelled, “OUT!” and turned excitedly to his parents and older brother, who were rising to their feet.
“You’ve got to be kidding!” Leo shouted as he jogged over to meet Gabe at the net for their handshake.
“Better believe it!” Gabe shouted back, smirking and running a hand through his hair.
“No! No! That ball was in! I saw it clip the line!” Leo felt his heart rate climbing.
“Oh, gimme a break,” Gabe said, rolling his eyes. “It was long by a mile.”
Gabe put out his hand, but Leo wasn’t having it. He rushed over to see if the ball had left a mark, and there it was: a faint scuff just barely overlapping the line.
“Patrick!” Leo yelled incredulously toward the bleachers, calling for reinforcement as he pointed down to the scuff, circling it with his finger.
“Mierda. Here we go,” Gabe said. “Want to call Daddy over, too?”
Before Leo could even make his case, Patrick put his hands up—refusing to take sides—and then gestured for Leo to shake Gabe’s hand.
With the heaviest sigh in human history, Leo took Gabe’s hand in his, trying desperately to ignore the perfect fit, and muttered, “Congratulations.”
“Thank you, Leo,” Gabe said, smiling widely like the fucking Grinch, and scurried away to celebrate with his family and friends.
So, yes. Gabe Montoya was an asshole. An asshole and a cheat. Leo sensed it from the beginning—so much so that his breath caught in his throat whenever he was near him. Yes, that was it. Screw this guy and screw his slice. Leo wasn’t going to let Gabe get to him.
“Go cry to Daddy about it,” Leo mutters now in a mocking voice, hands at ten and two on the steering wheel, driving to his parents’ house.
He was in a great mood at Break Point. He really was!
He loved rallying with Chris. But thinking about good memories with Gabe only led him to think about the bad ones.
And now, of course, he’s back to ruminating on their argument from a couple weeks ago on the court.
It wasn’t just any argument—it immediately opened that wound right back up, and it was taking its sweet time closing.
How could Gabe still think of Leo that way? How, fourteen years later, could he still take that type of swipe at him? How could he cheat at the end of a match again? Leo will beat Gabe next time if it’s the last thing he does. He’ll make him look like a junior. He’ll wipe the court with him. He’ll—
“Leonardo!” Sheryl calls out her nickname for Leo as he walks through the arched front door of his Mediterranean-style childhood home.
He removes his sunglasses and sees her standing at the foot of the staircase, squinting at her phone, which is held about two feet away from her face.
Her wavy hair is pulled back into a loose ponytail.
“Ready to lose at Rack-O?” Leo says, pulling her into a hug. “Which might happen more quickly than usual, it looks like. Where are your glasses?”
“Oh, upstairs somewhere, I’ll find them before we start,” she says. “I’m just trying to look at this post from Linda. You remember Linda, from my realtors’ book club.”
Leo does not.