Chapter 24
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Tennis is one of the most physically demanding sports in the world.
It requires an endless amount of strength and speed and endurance and control.
By the time a player reaches the final of a Grand Slam, six long matches behind them, their body is aching and covered in blisters.
And yet, if you were to ask any player what makes a champion, they would tell you it’s mentality.
Any player can have an amazing forehand, backhand, or serve.
But only the greats have the mental power to succeed at the highest level.
So, yes, Leo is rubbing the blisters on his hands and feet in the locker room as he prepares for the finals of the US Open, but the discomfort of those is nothing compared to the discomfort of the anxiety rattling around his mind.
He’s trying to breathe through it, relax his shoulders, unclench his jaw, listen to the words Brian is speaking to him.
“This isn’t how you pictured this moment, LC,” Brian says, standing over Leo, who’s lacing up his sneakers. “I know that. What happened yesterday was fucked up.”
“Yeah, remind me to deck Paul,” Johnny says from behind Brian, taking a step forward as he continues. “You know, he’s the reason we didn’t win doubles at Wimbledon in ’87, because he never really—”
“But,” Brian says, remaining focused, drowning out Johnny, “that’s life, my friend.
No matter how hard you try to have everything go your way, you can’t control it all.
Life laughs at your best-laid plans. What you can control is how you react, what kind of person you’re going to be in the face of it. ”
“Thanks, Brian,” Leo says. He stands, looking him in the eye. “For helping me get here.”
“It’s been a privilege, LC. I’m not going anywhere. I’ll be in your box whenever you need me,” Brian says. “Play without fear.”
He bumps fists with Leo and steps out of the locker room and into the hall, leaving father and son to talk.
“I think you’ve heard enough from me,” Johnny says with a wink. “You’ve got this.”
“Thanks,” Leo says, managing only a whisper, desperate not to cry anymore. “For everything.”
Johnny gives Leo a last look of confidence before turning to find Brian in the hall. It’s time for them to take their places in Leo’s player box for the match.
With that, Leo is on his own. But only for a moment.
As Sascha passes by, he gives Leo a wry, judgmental glance and a few murmured words in Russian, then huffs out a laugh and says, “What a joke.” He leaves the locker room before Leo can even search for a response.
It shouldn’t matter. Leo has all the support in the world from his team, his family, and his friends.
That’s what he thought about as he struggled to fall asleep last night.
He hopes he still has Gabe in his corner, too.
Tess and Ollie showed up at his hotel room last night to comfort and encourage him after what was truly one of the strangest days of his life.
But with Gabe in Miami and Leo’s phone off, they still haven’t connected.
Maybe that’s a mistake. Maybe Leo’s hiding, putting a wall up, tucking into his shell to protect himself.
Either way, his compartmentalization has taken over.
He’s approaching the Gabe situation the same way his agent, who also appeared at his door last night, told him they’ll approach the whole you’re-now-an-openly-gay-player situation: Win the final, then they’ll figure out the rest.
Still, it does matter to him. He can’t help but wonder if more scrutiny is waiting for him out in the stadium.
An entire arena full of rejection could be outside the tunnel he now finds himself walking down.
He takes his place in front of Sascha, who’s stretching out his hips and doing some last minute lunges.
Leo puts on his headphones and turns up the volume on “Don’t Stop Me Now” even higher than usual to drown out the sounds of the packed stadium.
Whatever is waiting for him out there, he can lose himself in the music.
He can stay calm and ready. But his palms are sweaty.
Knees weak, arms heavy. He wants to vomit the spaghetti he ate last—wait.
Okay. This is it. The announcer is waving him forward, signaling that it’s almost time for his walkout.
What will you be thinking about as you head onto the court?
Paul’s question from the podcast last year pops into Leo’s head.
He wishes it hadn’t, but it has. And he is, of course, thinking about that big blue piece of confetti that landed on his shoulder after Roddick won the final.
The moment that made him want to win the goddamn US Open in the first place.
He holds the image in his mind—the confetti, his dad by his side, the fans around him applauding and high fiving.
Only faintly, over Freddie Mercury’s voice, he hears the announcer call his name.
He walks through the final portion of the tunnel, and his hand is shaking as he lifts it to touch the large bronze plaque hung there, engraved with the words of gay tennis legend Billie Jean King: “Pressure is a privilege.”
As he stares at the quote, he knows it to be true.
It’s a privilege to play this match, and to play it as his full self, like Billie.
Like Gabe. He wasn’t sure he would, but before he walks out, he takes the rainbow ribbon that he stuffed into his bag just in case, and he pins it to his shirt collar.
Stepping into the electrified air of Arthur Ashe Stadium, he keeps his headphones on and his eyes fixed on his player bench.
But something grabs his attention out of the corner of his eye. Many somethings, in fact. Don’t look around. No distractions. He tries to keep to his tunnel vision, but he breaks it. He allows his eyes to look up into the great vortex that is Arthur Ashe Stadium, and there they are.
Signs. Hundreds of them. Cardboard signs, white poster-board signs, pink signs, yellow signs, blue signs, green signs. A mosaic of them around the stadium. And as he looks across the sea of fans, he realizes that they all say the same thing.
HOLD YOUR OWN
HOLD YOUR OWN
Hold your own!
hold your own
HOLD your OWN
Hold. Your. Own.
HOLD YOUR OWN!
How is this happening? How could everyone have these?
How could they know what his dad has always told him when he’s feeling down and out?
The jumbotron is showing the signs, at least when it’s not zooming in on the celebrities in attendance: Taylor Swift, the Obamas, Laura Dern, Nicole Kidman, Zendaya, Andy Roddick.
The stars are out in New York. Leo whips his head around to look at his box, and standing next to Brian, his dad, his mom, his agent, his physio—the whole team—is Gabe, holding a large Pride flag above his head that has “HOLD YOUR OWN” painted across it in white.
One of his cardboard cutouts is standing next to him.
Leo’s mouth hangs open. The joy of seeing Gabe surges through his body.
Leo takes off his headphones, which are still blasting “Don’t Stop Me Now” on repeat, and what he hears then is somehow even louder than his music—a thundering roar of applause, whistles, and cheering.
He sees fans holding Pride flags and American flags.
If anyone in the crowd is booing or sneering, he can’t hear or see them.
He’s too overwhelmed by the standing ovation.
He’s too overwhelmed by the sight of Gabe.
There are goosebumps forming down his body, each little blondish hair rising on his limbs.
He doesn’t know how they pulled this off, but he will use every ounce of the love on display to get through this final match, the most important one of his career.
“Ready?” the ump says into the mic after their warm-up, during which Sascha appeared stone cold, unmoved by the crowd, a sinister look fixed in his eyes.
As the fans and sideline camera shutters finally fall silent now, Leo takes a deep breath and bounces the ball five times.
With nowhere to hide now, with everything on the line, he hears the ump say, “Play.”
Let it be known that Leo really is sinking his teeth into this match.
He’s hitting some stellar shots, landing some impressive aces.
The stadium loses its collective mind every time he wins even the simplest of points.
They’re desperate for him to win today. The scoreline, though, doesn’t quite show his quality.
Sascha settled into the match immediately, while Leo was still getting his sea legs, and he broke Leo’s serve in the opening game.
Ever since, Leo has been playing catch-up.
He feels like he’s running in deep white sand, moving forward without much distance to show for it.
He’s held his serve each time after, but Sascha is still up that single break, which has put him in position to serve for the first set at 5–3.
Leo wins the first point of the game, a fourteen-shot rally that gets him and the crowd pumped up. He clenches a fist. Maybe he can break back, get back on serve, still claim this first set.
But his brief glimmer of hope is wiped out by two consecutive aces.
“30–15,” the ump says.
Sascha hits another massive serve, but Leo’s able to chip it back. Sascha pummels it to the opposite corner, leaving Leo scrambling to it. He doesn’t reach it in time.
“40–15.”
Set point. The crowd is cheering louder now, urging Leo on, hoping their voices and hands will lift him to stay in it.
They get into another clash, smacking forehand after forehand at each other.
Leo sees the next one coming toward him, and in the split second he has to make a choice, he decides he’s ready to go for the winner.
He pulls the trigger, hits the ball even harder this time, groaning as he makes contact. It flies down the line. It just misses.
“OUT,” the system calls.
“Game and first set: Volkov,” the ump announces.