Chapter 9 #3
Leo is up 4–3 in the fourth set, two sets to one in the match, and, frankly, he wants to end this one as fast as possible just so he can protect what’s left of his eardrums. He goes into lockdown mode, using every molecule in his body to block out the noise, and manages to break Rossi, going up 5–3 and giving himself the chance to serve out the match.
He shakes his racket while looking over to Brian, who’s squinting and pointing downward, which could be translated to, “Right here, right now, LC.”
Unfortunately, Rossi isn’t going away that easily.
He takes Leo to deuce in the next game, some tension creeping into Leo’s limbs as the finish line remains just out of reach.
The next point, which will either be match point for Leo or break point for Rossi, might not be the time for a risk, but Leo knows Rossi is expecting him to go for more heavy groundstrokes down the middle, so an idea pops into his head.
His dad probably wouldn’t advise this at a pressure point, but fuck it. His dad is ten thousand miles away.
After a few deep forehands to the corner, pushing Rossi farther and farther out wide, Leo gets the return shot he’s been hunting.
He pretends he’s going for another heavy forehand, but changes his stroke at the last second to a drop shot, softly chipping the ball over the net.
Rossi tries to get his feet in gear fast, but they scramble in place like a cartoon character for a second too long, and he can’t make it to the ball in time.
He turns away in a huff, gesturing angrily at his box with both hands, and the ump announces, “Advantage: Chambers.”
Leo’s wasting no time to celebrate. He wants to keep the energy of that last point pumping through him, so he nods for another ball and steps up to the line, the crowd still clapping and whistling at his drop shot.
With each bounce of the ball ahead of his next serve, the fans quiet down.
They know what time it is. His eyes focused intently on the ball, beads of sweat dripping down his face, he tosses it up with precision and sends it careening down the T at 132 mph.
Rossi manages to lob it back, his arm stretched at full length—UUUNNNHHH—and Leo rushes up to it.
He takes it out of the air with a forehand to the corner.
Rossi races over but can only send up a lob again.
It soars high as Leo jogs backward, searching for the ball in the sun.
He lets it drop, keeps his feet moving in small, quick steps forward, and smashes it as hard as he can.
It goes zooming past Rossi, who can’t react in time, and it hits the back wall with a triumphant thud.
With all the tension floating out of his body, Leo looks up to the sky with his eyes shut and pumps his fist in joy and relief.
“Game, set, and match: Chambers,” the ump says, reciting Leo’s favorite words.
“6–4, 6–3, 5–7, 6–3.” He’s bound for the third round.
After he shakes hands with his opponent, officially dismissing Matteo the Moaner, he waves to everyone on the bleachers and thanks them for their support, and then writes his message on the camera screen: “Not flying home yet!” He adds a small doodle of a plane heading toward “R3.”
“Impressive win,” Gabe says as Leo walks by. It appears Gabe is about to head into his round two match while Leo cools down from his. He’s dressed in a brand-new match kit—a lavender shirt with black shorts and, of course, a backward white hat. When will Leo know peace?
“Oh, thanks,” Leo says, half-dressed after a shower, drying his hair off with a towel.
At midafternoon, in the early rounds of the Slam, the locker room is bustling with guys heading to and from their assigned courts—dripping with sweat, dripping from the showers—guys who call everywhere from Argentina to New Zealand home.
“Grazie, ciao,” Leo hears as his head emerges from the towel. With a freshly done-up pompadour, Rossi is passing by and nodding to him politely as he leaves the locker room, suddenly meek and mouselike. The barn is closed for the day, apparently.
“Hey, great match,” Leo says, nodding back. “See you soon.”
“He’s a really sweet kid,” Gabe says after Rossi is out of the room. “But holy shit, who taught him to moo like that?”
Leo spits out a little of the Gatorade he just sipped, spraying his locker. He wants to choke down his laughter, but he can’t help it. He’s cracking up.
“Sorry, I’m such a dick,” Gabe continues, grinning. Christ, the way his skin creases around his eyes when he smiles should be illegal. “I played him at a challenger last year, and my ears only stopped ringing yesterday.”
Leo wants to tell Gabe a lot of things right now.
He wants to tell him that he thought of him while he pulled out that drop shot against Rossi.
He wants to tell him congratulations on winning his first match after coming out.
He wants to tell him good luck at his next one.
But old habits die hard. You have to kill them at least twice.
Shoot them in the head, just in case, like in one of Tess’s horror movies.
So, instead, all that comes out of Leo’s mouth is, “Aww, a challenger. That’s cute. ”
“Oh, I know,” Gabe responds, no longer grinning. “Chump change for a guy like you. Peasant money at that level, right?”
Aha! See! The spoiled daddy’s boy insinuations continue. Asshole alert.
But before Leo can spit out another quip, Gabe cuts him off.
“Actually,” he says, waving off his last comment, “let’s not do this.
” He shuts his locker and hoists his bag onto his shoulder, looking a bit flustered.
“I’ve got a match to win, anyway.” As he walks by on his way out of the locker room, Leo notices that he has a rainbow ribbon pinned to the side of his hat.
“Well,” Sascha says as he passes the opposite way, pointing his thumb back toward Gabe. “I hope everyone kept their towels on.”
Chuckles echo around the locker room.