Chapter 24 #3
He bounces the ball five times. He tosses it up. His body explodes upward as his arm comes around. He sends the ball speeding out wide.
“OUT,” the system shouts, cutting off the fans, who expected another ace and began to scream in celebration.
With some near-begging from the ump, the crowd settles again. The stadium is now the most silent it’s been today as Leo prepares to hit a second serve. He can’t hear anything but the blood pumping in his ears. He can’t double fault. He won’t.
He bounces the ball five times. He tosses it up. His body explodes upward as his arm comes around. He slices the ball down the T.
It lands in.
Sascha returns it.
Back and forth, they smack each other’s shots with power and precision.
Leo is in animal mode now, letting go of all thought, relying only on instinct.
He’s making it to every shot coming his way.
He’s pushing his body to its limits. Sascha sends a forehand careening down the line, and as Leo runs toward it, he’s not sure he’ll make it in time.
He slides into it, stretching out his racket at an angle that will pop the ball high into the air.
He’s there. The ball flies above Sascha’s head, who’s squinting to locate it in the sun.
He finds it, and smashes it back. The sun in his eyes, it’s not as powerful as it should be.
Leo lunges for the ball. Sascha’s coming toward the net, ready to smash or volley whatever is about to come his way.
But Leo sees an opening. He sprints up to the ball and whips his arm around, hitting a forehand that curves past Sascha, who sticks his racket out but can’t make contact in time.
The ball soars past him and Leo watches as it hangs in the air, spinning closer and closer toward the line.
He squints his eyes to see the ball. He stops breathing.
It drops in.
All at once, each part of his body relaxes, and he falls to the ground, splayed out like a starfish on the court. The stadium erupts louder than he’s ever heard it.
“Game, set, and match: Chambers,” the ump yells into the mic, barely audible over the crowd. “3–6, 6–4, 6–4, 3–6, 7–5.”
He’s done it.
Leo Chambers has won the US Open.
His body shakes as he begins to sob, putting his hands over his eyes.
This can’t be real. This can’t be real. This can’t be real.
But he can hear the stadium roaring, so it must be.
When he pulls his hands from his eyes and sits up, his eyes confirm it, too.
Across the stadium, people are applauding, jumping, yelling, hugging, taking photos of him.
The Pride flags and American flags are billowing. He’s still crying as he stands up.
He sees Sascha waiting at the net, a stern look on his face, and jogs up to him. Sascha puts his hand out and offers an emotionless, “Congratulations.”
Playing with the rainbow ribbon on his collar, Leo is sure to look him square in the eye as he grips his hand.
“Thank you,” he says. “You just lost the US Open to a fairy.” He then takes pride in gesturing for Sascha, as the runner-up, to shake the ump’s hand first. Sascha, for maybe the first time ever, is speechless.
And with that, the moment is all Leo’s.
He stumbles onto the court as if he’s drunk, his hands like windshield wipers for his tears.
He runs to the other side of the court, waving to the fans, and with security tailing him, he makes his way up the stairs and jogs down the landing, the crowd like a thousand-armed monster, limbs sticking out every which way to take photos and touch the champion.
Before he can even reach the next set of stairs and run down to his box, he meets his dad on the landing.
Johnny drops his cane and pulls Leo into a hug, his hand on the back of Leo’s head like he’s holding a baby.
Leo’s tears are now draining onto Johnny’s shoulder.
The noise of the crowd is still thundering, cameras clicking all around them, but he can hear his dad tell him, “I’m so proud of you. My boy.”
With Johnny guiding him down the landing, Leo finds his way to his box, where everyone is waiting for him. He hugs his mom, whose cheeks are stained with mascara, as she whispers, “You did it, you did it, you did it.”
The moment he pulls away from his mom, Tess and Ollie bombard him, shaking him and hugging him and taking a million selfies with him.
“All right, my turn,” Brian says, squeezing in to bump fists with Leo and, before giving him a hug, says, “I knew you’d do it, LC. Never a doubt in my mind.”
When Brian steps aside, there’s Gabe, standing in awe of Leo.
He steps up to him, and Gabe wraps his Pride flag around Leo’s shoulders.
Before Gabe can even say anything, Leo takes his face in his hands and pulls him into a kiss that’s deep and salty from the tears still streaming into his mouth.
There’s a chorus of WOOOOOs and AHHHHHs from the crowd.
“Congratulations, Leonardo,” Gabe whispers, tears in his eyes.
“Thank you,” Leo says. “Oh my God, you have a boot on. Is your ankle okay? Should you even be here? How are you here? Tell me about the signs! Please!”
“Jesse,” Gabe says. “He messaged me saying he wanted to make it up to you and asked if I had any ideas. I told him about ‘hold your own,’ he put out a call on Serving Looks for people to show up with signs, and, well, it kinda went viral. Considering you had your phone shut off, I knew you wouldn’t see. ” He raises an eyebrow.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” Leo says. “You have no idea how much it meant to me. And I’m sorry. About my phone. About going into my shell. I just—when I didn’t hear from you after the leak, I panicked. I thought you didn’t want to talk to me or needed space or—”
“Leo, I was in physical therapy all day for my ankle, and Esme hijacked my phone so I couldn’t do anything rash,” Gabe says.
“To her credit, I probably would have. By the time she gave it back to me, none of my messages would go through to you and my calls went straight to your voice mail. So, I booted up and hopped on a late flight to New York.”
There are no words that Leo can find to tell Gabe just how unbelievable he is, so he just kisses him again. The WOOOOOs and AHHHHHs return.
“So, what are you going to write on the camera screen this time?” Gabe asks.
“I think I’d rather tell you to your face this time,” Leo says. “I love you.”
Gabe’s eyes widen.
“You don’t have to say anything,” Leo says. “I just—”
“I love you, too,” Gabe says, a smile stretching across his cheeks.
“I can’t believe this is happening,” Leo says, shaking his head.
“It’s happening, Leonardo,” Gabe says. “Hey, before they honor you on court and shit, go talk to Jesse. He’s right there.” He nods to the section just above Leo’s player box.
Leo moves up a few rows, gesturing for Jesse to come forward, too.
“Hey,” Leo says. “Thank you.”
“Congratulations,” Jesse says, his eyes shining. “It’s literally the least I could do. I’m so happy for you, Leo.”
“Thank you,” Leo says. “I’m glad you could be here.”
“I wouldn’t have missed it,” Jesse says.
“I also wanted to tell you that I’m, um, starting my own podcast. No bullshit gossip.
Definitely no outings. Just real stories about all kinds of players, a real pulse on everything going on in the tennis world.
It’ll be called Serving Looks. Actually, I’m looking for a host. Any ideas? ” Jesse gives him a knowing look.
“Hmmm,” Leo says, feigning deep thought. “Have you met my friend Tess?”
Leo yells for Tess to come over.
“I’ll let you two talk,” Leo says, putting his hand on Tess’s shoulder. “I think they need me down there.”
“It is my honor to present to you,” the USTA president announces on the stage that’s just been built on the court, “your US Open champion, Leo Chambers!”
Leo shakes his hand and takes the mic, expecting that when he looks down, he’ll be naked, and this will all be a dream. But he’s clothed, and it’s not.
“Thank you so much,” Leo says as the crowd refuses to stop roaring. As the volume comes down, he continues, knowing he has to get the polite part over with, stomach it as best he can. “First, I … have to say congratulations to Sascha and his team.”
The fans applaud him, many still loyal to the twenty-time Slam champion. They keep the clapping going as Leo then thanks the people who make the US Open happen—the crew, the ball kids, the food workers, everybody.
“I’ll keep this short because I know you want to keep the party going, and so do I.
Everyone who cheered for me today, who held up a sign, you have no idea what you’ve done for me.
You’ve shown me and so many other people like me that they belong here.
That phrase, ‘hold your own,’ that’s something my dad used to tell me growing up.
He’d tell me to be strong, to be proud, to stand my ground, no matter what,” Leo says.
He tries to swallow the giant lump in his throat, but it’s no use.
“I guess I should address the gay elephant in the room. There have been a lot of people who’ve tried to derail me on my way here.
But look where we are,” he says, gazing up at the highest seats.
“We’re in Arthur Ashe Stadium, on the grounds of the Billie Jean King National Tennis Center.
History is on the side of people who dare to show that you can become a champion while remaining true to yourself.
I stand on the shoulders of giants, and that includes Gabe Montoya.
Gabe, you’ve changed my life this year, and even though it wasn’t anybody else’s news to share, I’m proud to stand here and say that I love you. ”
Their eyes meet, blurry with tears.
Leo has to wait a full minute for the stadium to get all the cheering out of their system. The rainbow flags are shaking faster and faster.
“My dad was a finalist here back in 1990. He taught me how to play tennis, but he also taught me so much more about perseverance, life, and love. Thank you, Dad. For showing me the way.”
The entire stadium is on their feet now, clapping for Johnny, whose face is awestruck and being recorded closely by a weepy Sheryl.
“Okay, so I didn’t keep it short. I’ll stop there, but just one more thing—I’m gay and I just won the US Open!” Leo shouts into the mic, and the crowd keeps the noise going.
The USTA president hands Leo his spectacular trophy—handcrafted by Tiffany’s, no less—and as Leo takes it from him, he sees his reflection in the shiny silver, and it starts to sink in.
He’s really done it. He kisses the trophy as dozens of cameras flash, and then hoists it into the sticky September air, confetti cannons going off behind him.
As Leo looks around Arthur Ashe Stadium, at all twenty-four thousand people whistling and applauding, he sees it out of the corner of his eye—a big piece of blue confetti that’s landed on his shoulder. He shuts his eyes, smiling to himself.
He knows that no matter what happens from here, no one can take this title, this achievement, this triumph from him. He will always have this moment.
After all, time never runs out in tennis.