Chapter 17 #2
“Please, call me Johnny. Mr. Chambers is my son,” he says, nodding over to Leo, who would roll his eyes at this dad joke if they weren’t glued to the sight of Gabe in his all-white practice clothes, shining like a freshly carved marble statue in the hot summer sun.
Leo hasn’t had to worry about randomly popping a boner on court since he was a teenager, but Jesus Christ, this man. He wants to drag him down onto the grass and ravish him. He wants to get grass stains on his knees. He—
He is at Wimbledon. Ahem. Right. Manners and decorum and whatnot.
“Hey,” Leo says, smiling stupidly as he walks up to him. “What are you doing here? I thought you were practicing in Mallorca till tomorrow.”
“I wanted to get used to the conditions here sooner. Plus, your dad reached out to Diego about getting a match in with you, so here I am.”
“Here you are,” Leo says, stifling the urge to kiss him. To cut the tension, he says hello and shakes hands with Diego and the rest of Gabe’s team.
“You know, Mr. Ch—Johnny, you have a couple fans in my parents,” Gabe says as they all make their way to the benches to drop off their gear. “I told them I’d be seeing you today, and my dad said they’ll never forget watching you in that US Open final.”
“No! Really?” Johnny says, eyes widening. “That’s too kind. Tell them I say hello. Give them my best, will you? They’re not here, are they?”
“No, not this year. But I’ll tell them,” Gabe says.
“Good, good. That’s so kind of them. So kind,” Johnny says. “How were they? You know, with your coming out and all.”
“Dad—” Leo interrupts.
“No, no, Leo, it’s fine,” Gabe says, setting his Head bag down.
“It honestly went better than I thought it would. I told them before I made the official announcement. My mom definitely needed a second, but she gave me a big hug. My dad looked me in the eye and said, ‘If anybody gives you shit, they answer to me.’ And you know what, I think about that every day now,” Gabe says, chuckling.
“Mostly because my dad is, like, five and a half feet tall, so it makes me laugh. But, hey, he’s in my corner. And not everybody is.”
Leo can barely keep himself from throwing his arms around Gabe. He loves hearing how supportive his parents are, but the thought of anyone hurting him? He just wants to hold Gabe close, protect him from the world.
“Well, I think what you did took guts,” Johnny says.
“Thank you. It means a lot to hear that from you,” Gabe says with a tone of deference.
“It’s good to see you winning again, too,” Johnny says. “I saw you had some nice results in Halle and Mallorca.”
“Yeah, thank you,” Gabe says, still smiling humbly.
“All right, well, let’s keep it going,” Johnny says, and he claps a few times as Leo and Gabe jog onto the grass, their hands brushing before they part ways.
Leo jogs back to his dad briefly. Johnny must have finally heard him during their argument at the Queens tournament. “Dad. Thanks for setting this up. I know that … Well, I know that we … I—”
“Have a good time,” Johnny says, nodding for him to take the court.
“Thanks,” Leo says, offering a conciliatory smile.
Encouraged by this sudden reprieve in their feud, Leo does enjoy practicing for the first time in a while, flirty looks flying back and forth between him and Gabe as frequently as their forehands and backhands.
It’s easy to slip when playing on grass, but Leo’s legs feel even wobblier today, turning to jelly whenever Gabe lifts his shirt to wipe his face.
But the thrill of it, the secret between them, keeps him on his toes.
“Yes, LC!” Brian says from the back of the court after Leo runs along the baseline and slides into a forehand, smacking it for a crosscourt winner.
“The ball’s making some weird-ass bounces in this heat.
Keep your eye on that, okay? Take those extra little steps as you set up. They’ll make all the difference.”
“My thoughts exactly,” Johnny adds.
While Johnny and Brian typically work in tandem during practices, Brian seems to take the reins in coaching Leo throughout this one, Johnny remaining in his shadow more than usual.
It’s the only shadow to be found on court, the sun at its highest point becoming more and more oppressive.
Out of the corner of his eye, one of the many reflexes he’s developed while playing, Leo starts to notice his dad feeling sluggish in the heat, his walking unstable as he moves around Leo’s side of the court.
Leo’s eyes dart between his dad’s movements and Gabe’s, his focus split, and it begins to show.
He’s sending routine forehands long and flinging his favorite shot, his backhand down the line, into the net a little more often.
He pauses between points, takes deep breaths. Just play tennis.
After their first practice set, as Johnny comes to meet Leo on the court and share some notes, Leo sees his right knee buckle. Before his body drops to the grass, Leo lunges forward and grabs him, keeping him on his feet and helping him find his balance again.
“Dad, are you all right?” His eyes then glance over at Gabe and his team.
“Yeah, yeah, all good,” Johnny says, attempting to laugh it off. “Don’t worry. This damn grass can be so slippery.”
“It’s really hot right now. Do you want to head back to the gym?
Get some AC? We’ll also be done soon if you just want to hang at the house.
” Leo can hear it this time. How it sounds like he’s trying to get rid of him.
But he knows if he doesn’t push, encourage, hint, his dad will be too stubborn.
He will always stay on court, even at his own risk.
“No, no, really, I’m good. I’ll just take a break in the shade for the next set.”
“Okay. If you’re sure.”
As Leo helps his dad over to take a seat, he glances at Gabe again and sees him looking on with concern. For a moment, Leo expects to feel the dread sink in his gut, the dread that always comes whenever he can feel eyes on him and his dad. But instead, he feels comfort.
“Gotcha this time,” Gabe says, teasing Leo over his first-set victory as he approaches him by the benches. But when he steps closer, his eyes turn concerned again, his voice drops lower. “Is everything okay? Can I do anything?”
“Yeah, it’s just the heat,” Leo says, fighting the urge to embrace him. “I think he’ll stay in the shade for a bit, cool off. Thanks for checking.”
“We can skip the next set if you need to.”
“No, no, let’s do it. I need to get my revenge,” Leo says halfheartedly.
“Okay,” Gabe says, giving him an encouraging look before returning to his side.
With Johnny resting in the shade, Leo’s anxiety recedes slightly, and this is enough to allow him to refocus and clinch a tight second set against Gabe. It’s still such a new feat for him that it never ceases to brighten his mood.
“Revenge complete,” he says as they meet at the net afterward, shaking hands and letting them linger.
“Yeah, yeah,” Gabe says, and he shoves Leo’s shoulder gently.
Even having slept with Gabe, little gestures of affection like this still, apparently, send his head spinning.
They pack up their things and begin their walk to the locker rooms, waving to Wimbledon social media managers who are pointing their phones at them, trying to capture the players about the grounds.
“Your serve really was firing today,” Gabe says, adjusting the bag slung over his shoulder. “Puta. It comes out of nowhere sometimes. I’ve always wondered how you get so much power behind it.”
“Hold on,” Leo says, wiping the sweat from his forehead and turning his gaze to his … boyfriend? Lover? Fuck buddy? He’ll figure out that game plan later. “Gabe Montoya is asking me about my game? He doesn’t have all the secrets on how to dismantle me?”
“Well, I wouldn’t go that far,” Gabe says, smirking. Leo’s head is about to fly off now. “Really, though, your serve is wild.”
“I got some tips from Andy, actually,” Leo says. “Way back when. He helped me shorten my motion to make it more consistent. Other than that, it’s all in the wrist.”
“I know that’s right,” Gabe says.
“Please stop,” Leo says, shooting him a wry look. Then, voice quieter, he adds, “This limp wrist has won me a lot of points.”
Gabe rolls his eyes, smiling. “Wait, but back up. Andy? Andy Roddick?”
Leo nods. “Yeah, he wanted to help me a little when I first went pro.”
“Okay, damn. I guess they don’t call you Baby Rod for nothing.”
“Now I insist you stop,” Leo says, and he realizes that he’s reached his destination. “Oh, actually, good timing. This is where I leave you.”
They’ve arrived not just at the locker room but at the “Gentlemen Members’ Dressing Room,” the changing room and adjoining physiotherapy room reserved during the fortnight, as it were, for the top sixteen seeds and former Wimbledon champions.
Other than its hallowed reputation, Leo has never found it to be an especially remarkable space, just a collection of pine lockers and golden hooks.
“Ah, right, back on top,” Gabe says. “Well, you know, in tennis anyway.”
“You’re out of control,” Leo says, grinning.
“Guess I’ll see you later, then. I’m off to clean up with the other peasants, m’lord. ’Twas a hard day’s work,” Gabe says in a horrendous British accent, releasing an unexpected yelp of laughter from Leo.
With the tournament just beginning, players and coaches and members of the All England Club shuffle by in masses, not to mention security guards posted outside the Gentlemen Members’ Dressing Room, so in lieu of a kiss, Gabe merely brushes his fingertips against Leo’s before walking off to the main locker room upstairs.
Leo can feel his ears burning as Gabe turns back briefly with a devilish flicker in his eye, feeling as if they’re in one of Gabe’s Regency Era forbidden romances.