Chapter 17 #3
Up in his room in the chic Georgian townhouse he’s renting near Wimbledon for the next couple weeks, Leo isn’t exactly hiding from his parents, but considering they’re downstairs marathoning This Is Us episodes for the eight thousandth time, he’s happy to be holed up by himself—with his own comfort show.
“You can’t come in here. This house has been quarantined,” Blanche yells, back against the front door, dead set on avoiding the man who’s knocking. “We all have, uh … quick, Rose, give me a deadly disease.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Blanche. I don’t have a deadly disease,” Rose says, always confused, from across the room.
Blanche glares at her. “Well, get one.”
Leo snorts as he scrolls on Instagram, full from dinner.
A few posts down, he comes across Serving Looks’ latest entry, photos of players practicing and palling around ahead of Wimbledon, pulled from wires and other social accounts.
All clad in white, there’s Tess throwing up a peace sign to the camera, Ollie and Liv chatting as they sit beside each other on the grass, and the final photo: Leo and Gabe grinning at each other as they walk by the ivy-covered walls of Centre Court.
servinglooks It’s giving University of Oxford brochure and I’m living for it—especially for my fave breakout duo of the season, Leo and Gabe.
Doesn’t look like they’re in the doubles draw (rude), but I’m so excited to see them back to their bestie ways at practice.
Seeing everyone at Wimby always does my lil’ heart good.
I want to hear your predictions for this year—who ya got?
Leo does see it now, staring at the photo of him and Gabe.
The happiness on his face that everyone’s been telling him has been missing for a while?
It’s there. You can’t miss it. At once, he feels an overwhelming rush of gratitude for the joy Gabe has freed in him this year and a knot in his chest from the guilt that he still hasn’t told his dad.
He trusts that his mom hasn’t said anything.
She must know he would want that moment for himself, how important it would be to their relationship.
But is tonight really the night to come out to him?
Leo doesn’t think so. His round one match is scheduled for tomorrow at one PM, so tonight is just about kicking back, staying centered, and, like he does the night before any match, eating lots of sushi.
Check, check, and check. This brick townhouse—three stories, high ceilings, big windows, orb chandeliers—is part of his routine during Wimbledon, too.
His team rents this place every year, not far from the All England Club, as a reprieve from the endless, often-soulless hotel stays throughout the year.
Ruining the stability of this familiar place by dropping the gay bomb—when his dad is already emotional over Mandy Moore’s performance in his favorite network TV drama—doesn’t seem like the best idea.
Besides, Leo has something else planned for tonight that he’s much more excited to see through.
Can you meet me at the GMDR at 9?
After waiting eons for a response (two minutes), wiggling his toes nervously under the covers, Gabe finally messages him back.
The hell is the GMDR?
Gentlemen Members’ Dressing Room
Ah sorry, your highness. But yes—what for?
It’s a secret
You gonna get me in trouble, Leonardo?
I make no promises
The air cooler tonight, Leo pulls on a pair of light jeans and the white cable-knit sweater Wilson gifted him for Wimbledon this year.
It looks old-school, a little saggy with two green stripes outlining the V-neck, like the one he’s seen his dad wearing in pictures from his own Wimbledon days back in the ’80s.
He smooths out his hair as he jogs downstairs and, before he can even get a word out to his parents, his dad asks, “Where are you off to?”
“I just forgot something in the GMDR. I’ll be back in a bit.”
“You can’t grab it tomorrow?” his dad asks, sitting with his arm around Sheryl on the curved ivory sofa. Milo Ventimiglia is delivering a line in a tight white T-shirt on the flatscreen mounted opposite them (maybe Leo should get into this show?) above the marble fireplace.
“No, it’s, um, a good luck thing. A pre-match superstition, that’s all,” Leo says with a grin, knowing his dad of all people will understand.
“Okay, but don’t be out too late. There and back. You need your rest. Great practice today, bud. He looked great,” Johnny says, turning to Sheryl now. “Even in that heat, with the ball jumping up real high, he looked great.”
“Thanks, Dad,” Leo says quickly, antsy to get going. “Anyway, I’ll be right back.”
Before his parents can keep him any longer, he slips out the door.
“Okay, I knew you had a surprise for me, but I didn’t think it would be a third,” Gabe says, approaching Leo outside Centre Court.
“Too soon?” Leo says, walking up to him and using every muscle in his body to keep himself from pulling Gabe into a kiss.
There aren’t many people around the grounds at nine PM, but Leo does have another guy with him: a short and stout Englishman with wispy white hair, a thick white beard, and a belly that’s apparently kept score of how many pints he’s had down at the pub.
“Gabe, this is Arthur. He keeps the whole club afloat, pretty much. He’s been working here since my dad was playing Wimbledon.”
“Nice to meetcha, mate,” Arthur says in a heavy accent, gruffer than the usual posh ones you hear at the All England Club. His eyes are green and friendly. “Call me Archie. I’m the facilities manager here, and a big fan of this kid.” He shakes Leo with his rough hands.
“Nice to meet you, too,” Gabe says. “You’re a friend of Mr. Chambers, er, Johnny?”
“Johnny boy, yeah. My dad worked in facilities at this club way back when. He used to bring me ’round, hoping I’d get into tennis.
I did fall in love with it, but I don’t know if you noticed, I’m a bit height-challenged.
So, it wasn’t meant to be,” Archie says with a chuckle.
“Dad eventually got me a job on the grounds instead. I was starting out when Johnny was starting out, playing his first Wimbledon. We got to talking one day in the locker room. Johnny’s dad was a plumber, too.
We both came from nothing, but Johnny had the height and the talent for this game.
So, he got scouted, and I got stuck with a plunger,” Archie says, and laughs, raspy and guttural.
Leo and Gabe both laugh. The summertime bugs are laughing into the night, too, chirping and buzzing in the hundreds of bushes and trees across the club’s forty-two acres.
“But I love this place. Know it like the back of these calloused hands,” he says, looking down at them. “And I’m glad I do. I was able to help out when Leo came asking questions about his locker.”
“Yeah, Leo, what’s up?” Gabe asks, confused. “What are we doing?”
“You’ll see,” Leo says, bursting with excitement. “I want to show you something.”
“I’ve never had this locker before,” Leo says, unlocking it. “But when I was reaching for a wristband that got shoved to the back earlier today, I saw something small carved into the wood.”
He lifts up the door to the locker and moves his stuff aside, exposing the back left corner.
“I couldn’t be sure, but I had a hunch, so I found Archie and asked him.”
“What am I looking at?” Gabe asks. “Besides your sweaty gear.”
“It’s not sweaty! Whatever. Get closer,” Leo says, moving so Gabe can step up to the locker. “Put your head in if you have to. Look in the corner.”
After a few seconds, Gabe pulls his head out, almost smacking it on the locker door, and gazes at Leo, eyes like a child’s on Christmas morning, beholding the gifts under the tree.
“AOR,” Gabe says, repeating the initials carved into the back of the locker. “AOR. Do not tell me that’s who I think it is.”
“Archie, tell him,” Leo says, grinning.
“Alex Olmedo Rodríguez,” Archie states proudly. “Wimbledon champion, 1959. My dad was working here then, used to show me all the ways former champs would leave their mark at the club, sometimes literally, like this. Wouldn’t forget it. He had this locker during that run.”
“No fucking way,” Gabe says, astounded.
“Better fuckin’ believe it,” Archie says with a cheeky smile. “Leo told me his mate idolizes Olmedo. Glad I could help out. You’ve been making your own mark on the tour this season, from what I can tell. Good on ya.”
“Thank you,” Gabe says, and he shakes Archie’s hand, looking speechless. “Thank you so much for this.”
“Seriously, thank you, Archie,” Leo adds. “I think you just made this guy’s life.”
“Anytime, buddy,” Archie says, patting Leo on the shoulder. “Tell Johnny boy he better get his arse over to my office to say hello.”
“Don’t worry, I will.”
“This facility is closing soon, so don’t hang ’round too long,” Archie says. “I gotta get back. Final prep before everything starts tomorrow, y’know? Showtime. Good seein’ you boys. Go get ’em this week.”
“Thanks, Archie,” they say in unison.
Once Archie is gone, Gabe turns to Leo. “And you’re positive that wasn’t Santa Claus?”
Leo knocks his head back with a laugh.
“Or, like, the ghost of Wimbledon past?” Gabe asks.
“Actually, yes. That man has been dead for twenty years,” Leo says.
Gabe moves him against the lockers without a word and kisses him slowly and softly.
“So, you liked your surprise, then?” Leo asks.
“I can’t believe you,” Gabe says, staring at him in disbelief.
“As soon as I saw it, I had a feeling it was Olmedo,” Leo says, speaking excitedly.
“AOR. I mean, I went through a list of players who would’ve been top-seeded at Wimbledon over the years in my head, and then I went through an actual list on Wikipedia, and he was the only real option that would’ve had access to this locker room with those exact initials—”