Chapter 18 #3
The room leading to Centre Court is a blend of grandeur and tradition, just like the esteemed tournament it serves.
The walls are adorned with photographs and memorabilia from Wimbledon’s storied history, capturing iconic moments and players frozen in time.
Grand wooden staircases and parquet floors lend an air of sophistication to the space.
Ahead of Leo and Sascha are the imposing doors leading to Centre Court, their polished surface reflecting the soft glow of the overhead lights.
Tall and majestic, they serve as a gateway to tennis greatness.
Ornate brass handles adorn each door, gleaming in the ambient light.
Though he’s been here before, as Leo approaches, he can’t help but feel a surge of anticipation building in his gut.
These doors symbolize the culmination of years of hard work—his own and that of his predecessors.
Above the doors is an inscription, a line from Rudyard Kipling’s poem “If—”: “If you can meet with triumph and disaster / And treat those two impostors just the same.”
Before he can fully center himself, he’s on the legendary Centre Court, fifteen thousand spectators in the sweeping yet intimate arena, the relentless sun blazing overhead as he faces off against the Russian.
Not a blade of grass is out of place, the path of the lawn mower’s meticulous work shown in perfect, wide stripes.
It’s a high-speed match from the beginning, but while Leo’s body is thrashing about the court, his mind is preoccupied with his dad.
It gnaws at him, distracting him from the match.
He wants to look to Brian in his box for encouragement or words of advice, but looking there is just a reminder of his dad.
He should be there with him, at the house.
Brian’s right that they’ve done this just the two of them for most of this season, but Johnny’s sudden absence feels different today.
They seemed to be getting back in a groove, seemed to be finding their way, and now his seat is there, empty.
And it’s one of the only seats that is. The stadium is packed, including those in the royal box—a slew of celebrities like Ariana Grande, Cynthia Erivo, Andrew Garfield, David and Victoria Beckham, Emma Watson.
The list goes on, and on goes Leo’s anxiety.
As the match progresses, he tries to focus, tries to think of Gabe, tries to remember that Sascha is just some guy on the other side of the net.
But Sascha’s impossibly precise play leaves him struggling to keep up.
Each serve, each volley, feels like a test of his resolve.
The tension builds with every point, but he can’t shake the feeling of unease.
Fatigue sets in, weighing down his limbs and clouding his mind.
He fights with everything he has, conjuring his past experience at this stage of Wimbledon, but Sascha’s relentless assault leaves him on the defensive.
Frustration bubbles up inside him with every missed shot, every lost point—each one punctuated by an obnoxious roar from Sascha to the crowd, his index finger tapping his ear, urging the fans to get even louder for him.
Though he manages to hold his own in the third set, at five–all, the Russian goes up a break, and victory seems to slip further and further from his grasp.
Sascha’s dominance is unwavering, his triumph seemingly inevitable.
And then, in an instant, it’s over. With his twenty-third ace of the match, Sascha takes Leo down, the stadium up on its feet.
With his opponent’s muttering in the locker room still worming around his brain, Leo can only muster a weak handshake at the net, Sascha smiling smugly.
As he walks off the court, waving farewell to the stadium (mostly to Ariana Grande), the defeat is heavy on his shoulders.
But he stops for the fans, especially the kids, reaching out to get his autograph on hats and balls and printed-out pictures.
He makes his way down the line, picking up each item and signing, but as his hand moves to the latest photo, he realizes it’s not a photo of him.
It’s his dad. At Wimbledon in the ’80s. Leo can tell by the white retro sweatband he’s wearing in the photo.
He looks up at the fortysomething man who handed it to him.
“I’m a big fan of your dad’s, too,” he says, grinning widely.
Leo wants to reach out and hug the strawberries and cream out of this guy. But he just smiles and says, “That means so much.” He signs the photo and returns it to him.
If Leo is hoping to downplay that he’s turning thirty, his friends and family have other ideas. When he walks outside to the lush backyard garden of his London rental, he sees his least favorite number spelled out with two huge, shiny, golden balloons floating above his most favorite people.
“There he is!” Tess yells, and the group—his mom, dad, Brian, Ollie, Liv, and Gabe—all turn toward him, clapping and cheering. She jogs up to him and wraps him in a black sash that says “Thirty, flirty, and thriving” in sparkly gold letters. “The birthday boy! Welcome to the thirties club, dude!”
Yeah, downplaying this dreaded milestone is not in the cards.
Leo agreed to stay upstairs while everyone finished decorating the backyard with balloons, streamers, confetti, and a spread with his favorites: sushi, tacos, and an assortment of chips and dips.
The sight of Gabe there with everyone—his guy, a part of his circle—settles warmly in his belly, a new sensation he wishes he could bottle.
If only he could find it in himself to tell Brian and his dad the whole truth.
He’ll still need to keep up appearances today.
He hopes being surrounded by his people will help ease the sting of reaching the age. The age that for him, and for so many other players, signals the beginning of the end of his career. The age when Andy Roddick announced his retirement—
“On his thirtieth birthday,” Gabe says in unison with Leo. “Yes, you’ve told me.”
“Hey! I’m sensitive about it, okay?” Leo says, snatching a chip out of Gabe’s hand. “I’ve had that in the back of my mind for a long time now.”
“I know, I’m sorry,” Gabe says, brushing his fingertips against Leo’s, a habit of his now. “I just think, look at Tess. She made the top ten and the finals of Wimbledon at thirty. Being in your thirties isn’t a dealbreaker anymore. Maybe the best is yet to come for you, too.”
That’s what’s kept Leo busy and distracted in the couple days following his quarters loss: Tess’s incredible run to the finals.
He went to each of her last three matches, holding his breath during every point, holding her mom’s hand, holding back tears as Tess made her runner-up speech after losing a nail-biter of a final—6–4, 7–6.
“I might not totally feel it in this moment, but I’m really proud to be a final girl,” she said tearfully to a packed Centre Court, referencing a classic horror movie trope: the last girl left alive, the one to confront the killer, the survivor.
“I hope every girl watching knows they have it inside them to be anything they want. Look at the two women competing today. Both women of color, both competing at the highest level of the game. This is what tennis looks like. I want us to keep uplifting each other. I also want to say that I couldn’t do any of this without my amazing friends and family.
I love you, Mom and Dad. So much. And Dad, maybe now you can finally stop telling me I could always come work at your law firm. ”
Leo and the entire stadium, including Tess’s mom, laughed along with her, grateful for the comic relief—though they were quickly moved to tears again when Kate Middleton presented Tess with her trophy.
Gabe’s mention of her run to the finals reminds Leo that he has something else to present her with now.
“It did take until twenty-nine for us to finally”—for a moment, Leo wants to say to Gabe, “start loving each other,” but he balks, and pivots—“stop hating each other, so, yeah, maybe you’re right.
Maybe the best is still yet to come.” He blushes at the sound of his own corny words, though he’s not sure he totally believes them.
“I’ll be right back. Ollie and I have something to give Tess. ”
From inside the house, they carry out a round white cake with thin, black birthday candles circling the edges and “CONGRATS, FINAL GIRL” written in blood-red icing, which is dripping dramatically down the sides, too.
“We’re supposed to give you the cake,” Tess says, her face a combination of gratitude for the gesture and annoyance that they’ve made her cry again.
She leans in, her tears twinkling in the candlelight, and whispers to them, “Thank you, guys. And please know, I’d go back for you if you tripped in a horror movie. ”
As Leo’s party draws to a close, he spots his dad off by himself, farther into the garden, admiring the landscaping and gravel work.
They haven’t talked much the past few days, wrapped up in the excitement of Tess’s success.
But this could finally be the right moment.
He takes a calming breath and, as he walks over, he laughs to himself, too, thinking back to Gabe’s romance novel and its secret gardens.
“Getting any ideas for the yard back home?” Leo asks, walking up behind Johnny as he takes a too-close photo of a patch of brilliant red and pink sweet peas.
“Leo, the only thing I have ever been able to grow back home is weeds,” he says with a chuckle. “So, did you enjoy your party?”
“I did,” Leo says. “Thanks for all this. It’s been great.”
“Good, good,” Johnny says. “That was nice of you guys to get a cake for Tess. She’s something, isn’t she? Your mom and I are so glad you’ve kept up with her and Ollie. And Gabe now, too. Who would’ve thought?”
“Yeah, right?” Leo asks, his heels digging into the gravel walkway. Okay. He can do this. It’s time. “Um, speaking of—”