Chapter 14
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The next two months on tour are not kind to Leo.
Madrid, Monte Carlo, Rome—they’re all an absolute bust. A series of losses that do absolutely nothing for his ranking.
And a series of European pigeons that all seem to want to use his head for target practice.
Let it be known that getting shit on by a bird is, evidently, not good luck.
It’s not lost on Leo that he rejected Gabe in order to heed his dad’s advice and avoid distraction—and now that very rejection is keeping him deeply distracted the entirety of the clay swing.
It’s leaving both him and his dad disappointed, to say the least. More often than not, Leo’s awkward movement on the clay resembles a baby giraffe attempting its first steps.
He slides to the left, slides to the right, crisscrosses (everybody, clap your hands!), and then finds himself tripping over his own feet or sending his shots sailing far too long.
With each motion, he tries to zero in on the ball, but as it comes flying toward him, his mind flashes the image of Gabe leaning in to kiss him.
That glorious first kiss blurs his field of vision at every tournament.
Still playing a limited season, Gabe doesn’t enter most of these events, and when he does, he maintains a strict distance from Leo, avoiding his glances or half waves in the locker room.
Exiting tournaments in the early rounds, Leo is never in any location for a long stretch of time either, forced to fly to his next destination to immediately continue training.
Even though Gabe is mostly out of sight, he is most definitely not out of mind.
Leo thinks about him all day, every day.
He thinks about their kiss and what he would give to slip back into that moment.
But more than that, he thinks about Indian Wells and what Gabe said in his hotel room about their time at BP: “I thought you didn’t want …
me.” To make Gabe feel unwanted again is what makes Leo ache the most. He’s opened that old wound for Gabe, a payback he never intended.
Even if he can’t pick up where they left off in his kitchen, even if he’s lost his chance with Gabe, he knows he still needs to repair the damage as best he can. After everything they’ve shared with each other, he owes Gabe that much.
Fortunately, the ranking points Leo earned earlier this season, especially from those quarterfinals in Indian Wells and Miami, are keeping him at a healthy 27, which allows him to be seeded at Roland-Garros.
Playing at a Slam certainly pushes him to bring his best, but he isn’t quite sure how he manages to find his way into the third round of this one after that extremely mediocre clay season.
Maybe he feels comfortable with his section of the draw.
Maybe he’s fed up with all his lousy results as of late.
Maybe—and, okay, most likely—it’s that Gabe is still alive in the draw, too, and Leo doesn’t want to part ways with him yet.
He’s well aware that they might not have much more time during this Slam.
Either one of them could easily be knocked out in the next round, and then it’s au revoir, Paris.
The grass swing comes next, and Leo has no idea which tournaments Gabe will be playing.
He knows he has to seize this opportunity while they’re both still here.
“To be frank, I imagine this year’s clay swing didn’t go the way you hoped, did it?” one of the reporters at the press conference after Leo’s third-round win asks.
“No, it definitely didn’t,” Leo says, his shoulders rounded as he leans toward the mic on the table in front of him.
He wears an oversized heather-gray Nike crewneck and his hair is still a bit damp from his shower, a single light-brown lock falling onto his forehead.
“I’m certainly not a clay specialist, but I wasn’t happy with my string of losses.
I had some double faults creeping back in, too. ”
“You had a lot of momentum heading into the clay swing,” another reporter adds. “Back-to-back quarterfinals. But then you went on a losing streak. Was there something other than the change in surface that affected your game?”
“No, not really,” Leo says, his leg bouncing under the table. “It was an adjustment bringing my dad back onto the team, but we’re all really glad to have him with us again.”
“Well, you seem to be back on track now,” the reporter continues. “You’re into the round of sixteen here at Roland-Garros. What’s been different for you here?”
“I guess I don’t want to leave Paris yet,” Leo says with a slight smile, his posture straightening.
“But really, I always love playing the French Open. The city, the fans, the organizers. It’s just a blast. It always makes me want to rise to the occasion, so I’m glad I’ve finally been able to do that after the past couple months. ”
“How is your dad doing now that he’s back as head coach, Leo?” a reporter interjects.
“He’s doing fine, just fine, thanks. We’re so lucky that he’s had such a successful recovery. He’s really gotten back into the rhythm of things.”
Of course, by that he means Johnny has gotten back into coaching Leo to play the same, one-dimensional game on court and the same, one-dimensional schedule off court.
Johnny likes to stick with what he knows, what’s brought Leo success in the past, even if it’s clearer than ever that this strategy is weakening and Leo is desperate to evolve.
“You were practicing with Gabe Montoya earlier this year and even won some doubles matches together in Miami. But from what I can tell, you haven’t been teaming up much since. Can you tell us what happened there?”
“There isn’t much to tell,” Leo says, squirming in his seat. “We enjoyed playing together. Our games meshed well. Our schedules just haven’t, um, aligned this spring.”
Though many of the reporters at this press conference are French, the one asking about Gabe is American.
The thirtysomething man is white with a fade haircut and wears charcoal chinos and a white button-down with a navy-blue vest over it.
Leo knows they’re in Paris right now, but looking at this man’s outfit, he could swear he’s back in New York, in the Financial District.
And, now that he’s looking closer, he actually recognizes this guy.
“Wait, aren’t you from that blog, The Sportsman?
” Leo asks, leaning in, his elbows on the table now.
As the reporter nods, Leo continues, “Didn’t Sportsman publish something last month about how coming out might not have been the right move for Gabe because his game has suffered ever since? That was you, wasn’t it?”
The reporter is squirming in his own seat now. “Uh, yeah, that was me.”
“Maybe it’s not my place, but—” Leo begins.
“Actually, whatever. The article basically implied that coming out wasn’t good for his game and so maybe he shouldn’t have.
As if his game could ever possibly be more important than his mental health or just his life in general.
Don’t you think it’s natural that he’d be feeling more pressure now?
And that would affect his game for a little while?
And why not focus on the fact that even if his own game isn’t where it was before, his coming out is still amazing for him and for tennis overall? ”
“Well, uh,” the reporter starts, “I just think that—”
“I guess that wasn’t really a question. I just wanted to point that out, so you have that context for next time,” Leo says, his leg bouncing again. “Okay, thank you all for your time. I’ll see you again in a couple days.”
He gets up from the table and exits the conference room, exhaling slowly and shakily.
When Leo sees the reporters again a couple days later, it’s after a loss.
He took his fourth-round match to four sets, but he couldn’t quite pull it out in the end.
He was already distracted by the Gabe of it all, and then he found himself playing in front of Jonathan Bailey and Andrew Scott, both of whom watched from behind massive sunglasses in the front row.
Serving Looks posted an extensive carousel of photos.
servinglooks Leo, Andrew, AND Jonathan all in the building? A ménage à trois of the highest order. Pardon my literal French, but OUI OUI. Jonathan bringing the eleganza, per usual, in Loewe. Would love to see Leo collab with them next.
If Loewe could send Leo some clothes from their spring line, along with a detailed plan on how to win Gabe back before it’s too late, that would be excellent.
With his run at the French Open behind him, Leo finds himself free to peruse an art gallery tonight.
He can’t say he understands the Mark Rothko painting hung before him, but it does remind him of the sweeps and swirls his sneakers have made on the red clay courts this past week in Paris.
He’s sitting on a white metal bench, feeling pulled into Rothko’s No.
9 / No. 5 / No. 18—a blood-red block of color at the top, a muted-yellow stripe through the center, and a maroon block of color at the bottom.
The rectangular piece, one of the abstract artist’s famed color-field paintings of the 1950s, displays his signature broad, cloudy strokes across the canvas.
Its title also reminds Leo of the fluctuation of his ranking over the years.