Chapter 23 #2
“Then how the fuck is it all over the internet?” Leo asks sternly. He still hasn’t logged back into his social accounts, but he doesn’t need to. He knows it’s everywhere. He knows what everyone must be saying.
Told you so.
What a fag.
This is bad for tennis.
How can he win the final now?
I don’t want him to win the final now.
“I never deleted it,” Jesse says ashamedly, “so I accidentally uploaded it to the cloud on my work computer with the rest of my Roland-Garros photos. I always take some in case we want to use them on our Instagram. Paul was going through our Slam photos from the year with our social manager, you know, to post a bunch of photos of you ahead of the final tomorrow. He came across it and, well, he shared it on our account.”
All Leo can do is stare at the floor.
“The social manager is quitting. I am, too. I’m sure Paul’s going to get fired before he can even release an episode about this.
They’ve been talking about replacing him as it is.
I know that’s not any consolation,” Jesse says, and then sighs heavily.
“Look, Leo, I know you hate me for this. And you have every right to. But before you never speak to me again, I just have to tell you this. Ever since I started Serving Looks, the posts that have brought people together the most are the ones of you, and not just the thirst traps. The ones of you and your dad, you and your friends, you and Gabe. Your relationship with him has been so good for tennis. Gabe coming out and then you getting closer to him, it’s shown people that tennis can be a welcoming place.
You should see the amazing DMs I get. Even if they didn’t know the whole story, they’re drawn to what you have.
They can see it. I’m sure you’re worried about getting on court tomorrow. But people love you. They still do.”
Leo is still staring at the floor, unable to look at Jesse. “I hope you’re right,” he says. “God, I really wish you hadn’t taken that photo. Or you’d deleted it. Anything.”
“I know,” Jesse says somberly. “Me too.”
“Because your posts, they’ve actually been great,” Leo says, finally looking back up at him.
“You’ve actually been kind to me, to my dad, to my friends.
And to Gabe. It’s not always like that online.
I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I’ve really enjoyed following you.
So, if you do keep Serving Looks going, just please don’t invade people’s privacy.
We don’t need another fucking Perez Hilton. ”
“The thought of becoming him will keep me up at night, I can promise you that,” Jesse says. “And I can promise you I would never out anybody. Fuck Paul.”
“Pass,” Leo says. He stares at Jesse for a moment. He’s ready to get out of here now. “I’ll see you around.”
“Yeah,” Jesse says quietly. Before Leo turns to leave, he says, “Leo, I—I’m sorry. I hope you win tomorrow. I really hope you win.”
Where the hell is Gabe? Why isn’t he responding to Leo’s calls or texts?
Leo knows he was flying back to Miami this morning to rest and rehab from his ankle injury, but shouldn’t he be there by now?
Shouldn’t he be frantically trying to get in touch, too?
They FaceTimed last night after Leo got home from his semifinals win and Gabe was practically jumping through the screen to congratulate him.
Then he was practically jumping through the screen to apologize that he couldn’t stay for the final.
Gabe attempted all the convincing and persuading he could muster in order to stay and receive treatment in New York, but it was no use.
His team insisted he return to their home base in Miami if he’s going to recover from this injury as swiftly and smoothly as possible.
Plus, Gabe couldn’t exactly make the case that he had to stay in New York because he’s, well, sleeping with one of the finalists.
Leo continues to call him, but still nothing.
What if this post from Paul has scared Gabe off for good?
The thought jabs at Leo’s insides. Gabe has faced enough media scrutiny this year as it is, and now his secret relationship with Leo has thrust him into the spotlight yet again.
Surely, he’s done with Leo now. This is Leo’s worst fear realized.
Gabe would prefer to be with someone who’s already out and proud.
Why would he want to be with a closet case?
With a project like Leo? He could be with anyone he wants.
He should be with someone who’s openly queer, someone who doesn’t complicate his life further, someone who moves through the world exactly as they are.
Even Esme made it clear to them that tennis fans wouldn’t be ready for their relationship.
After all, they’ve never seen one like it before.
She urged them not to share this news, and now it’s dropped just days after they played each other in the quarters and the day before Leo plays the final.
Superb timing. Just excellent. Really. Beyoncé couldn’t have planned a better surprise release herself.
With exactly zero calls from Gabe and seventeen missed ones from his own agent, Leo decides to shut his phone off.
He knows this is probably not the wisest choice, but he’s desperate to settle his racing mind and eject himself from this hellish situation for a while, and it’s at least a better move than tossing his phone into the East River, which was his first thought.
“Do you mind just … driving around for a bit … before we go to the grounds?” he asks the man driving the black SUV that he’s basically called home for the last few weeks. He should be taking Leo to his practice session at this point, so Leo is relieved when he replies, “Of course.”
The driver ignores the exit he usually makes for the US Open and instead keeps driving through Queens, leaving Leo to ponder his countless thoughts in the backseat.
“Excuse me, you can’t go in th—oh, oh, um, sorry, can I, um, help you with anything?” a security guard at Arthur Ashe Stadium says upon realizing that the man trying to enter the stands isn’t some drunk spectator loitering after the women’s final, which ended a couple hours ago.
“Sorry, I know this is weird,” Leo says, rubbing the blisters on his fingers, “but would it be okay if I just … sat for a little while? I promise I won’t, like, vandalize the court or anything.”
“Oh, yeah, yeah, go for it,” the security guard says, visibly flustered. “No problem. Sit wherever you want. And, you know, good—good luck tomorrow.”
“Thanks,” Leo says, smiling gently.
He takes a seat in one of the last rows of the 100 level, not far, if he isn’t mistaken, from where he and his dad sat when they watched Andy Roddick win in 2003.
The stadium is almost perfectly clean again in preparation for the men’s final tomorrow, but there are still some lingering sticky spots from spilled Honey Deuces and some pieces of red, white, and blue confetti from the celebration stuck to them.
When he moves his legs under the seat, crossing his ankles, he hears something plastic knock over and bounce on the concrete.
He feels around and picks it up. It’s the souvenir cup that Honey Deuces come in, the names of each year’s champions printed on it in blue.
He aches to see his name there instead of Sascha’s, but right now it doesn’t seem possible.
As his eyes scan the stadium and its thousands of empty blue seats, it’s the quietest he’s ever heard it in here.
His mind, however, is thumping with noise.
This is far from how Leo imagined the weekend of his appearance in a US Open final would look.
From such a young age, he had daydreamed in striking color about how celebratory it would be, how joyous, how triumphant.
He pictured it just like Andy’s. But now, as it lay before him in sullen grayscale, the illusion of his daydreams has shattered.
Being outed has left him feeling stripped of his own agency.
There’s always an element of vulnerability when he takes to the court in front of such an enormous crowd and shows them his abilities.
Tennis can be a lonely sport, navigating the stress on your own, all eyes on your body, and whether the match is trending in your favor or slipping away from you, the tension is yours and yours alone to manage.
But this time, he thinks, that anxiety will be heightened.
It’s not just his abilities that will be on display tomorrow, but his sexuality, his character, his personhood.
The idea of what twenty-four thousand spectators will be thinking of him during the final sends him into a dizzy spell.
He’s spent his entire career ensuring that he flew under the radar, that he was a good kid, that he carried on his dad’s legacy with no room for criticism. Where did it get him?
“Thought I might find you here.”
Tucked away in the corners of his mind, Leo jumps when he hears a voice other than the one in his head. He whips around. Behind him, his dad is standing there, cane in one hand, a bottle of water in the other. He tosses Leo the bottle.
“Thanks,” Leo says.
A few drops of condensation splash from the bottle onto Leo’s gray Nike T-shirt.
He takes a much-needed sip. As he realizes that he can’t outrun this conversation with his dad any longer, he expects to be more panicked.
But to his surprise, the nerves don’t come.
Maybe they’re too fried after hours of activity.
No more, his nerves tell him. Just do it.
Or maybe that’s just what his T-shirt tells him.
“Well, this has been … quite the year,” Johnny says, and lets out a sigh as he takes the seat next to Leo.
“Why, what happened?” Leo says, deadpan, and waits a moment before turning to his dad. When they make eye contact, they burst out laughing, knocking their heads back, their cackles echoing in the stadium. Leo didn’t think laughter was possible today.