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‘This way,’ Victor says, slipping past me to open another door that leads into what looks like a dressing-room. There’s exercise equipment strewn across the floor, and multiple sets of the same clothes—a deep red polo and black shorts—laid out on a lounge. This must be Gabriel’s playing gear.
There’s a man sitting at a small table hunched over a laptop. He’s got Gabriel’s deep bronze complexion and the same dark brown hair, but it’s flecked with grey and styled in locs, of which half are tied into a bun at the crown of his head. The rest flow around his shoulders and down his back.
This must be Gabriel’s dad. My hands feel sweaty, and I shove them into my pockets to wipe them. Gabriel’sdad.
‘Bernard, this is Noah, Gabriel’s friend,’ Victor says as we enter the room.
Gabriel’s dad stands, the chair scraping against the carpet as he pushes away from the table. He’s tall; taller than Gabriel but with the same broad shoulders and chest. He strides across the room in three paces, his large hand outstretched to shake mine.
‘Bernard,’ he replies in a thick French accent. ‘I’m Gabriel’s father.’
I shake his hand, hoping he doesn’t feel how clammy mine is. ‘Nice to meet you. Gabriel’s told me a lot about you.’
The corner of Bernard’s mouth quirks. ‘I can’t say the same.’
Victor gives Bernard an admonishing look. ‘Ignore him, Noah. We are always happy to meet Gabriel’s friends. There’s water and energy drinks in the mini-fridge, or you can go up to the arena and get alcohol from the vendors.’
‘Just water is fine, thank you.’
He hands me the bottle with a smile. ‘Let’s go up to the player’s box.’
I’d hoped coming up to the arena would be a breath of fresh air, but with the dumping of rain last night, it’s stiflingly humid. Victor shows me to Gabriel’s player’s box; two rows of seats on the edge of the court.
‘So,’ Victor says as he settles next to me. ‘What’s your deal?’
‘My deal?’ I echo.
He turns to me. ‘I’ve known Gabriel since he was a boy, and I’ve been on tour with him all his professional career. He’sneverinvited anyone from the outside into his player’s box.’
‘I’m not sure what you mean. We’re just friends,’ I reply, even as my traitorous little heart flutters with the thrill of being the only one Gabriel’s ever invited to watch him play.
Victor opens his mouth to say something, but then Bernard steps into the player’s box, taking a seat directly in front of us. I suck down a gulp of water as the music in the stadium dies down.
I’d estimate the stadium is about half full, and more are still finding their seats. Across the court, a group of guys wear red, white and blue morph suits with the French flag tied around their necks.
‘Welcome to our second-round men’s singles match at the Australian Open.’ The announcer’s voice booms through the arena. ‘Would you please make welcome our tenth seed, from Scotland, Matthew O’Lachlan.’
The crowd erupts into applause as Matthew O’Lachlan steps out onto the court. He’s tall, handsome, with a short crop of dark hair. He waves at the crowd as he makes his way over to his station.
‘And our fourteenth seed, from France, Gabriel Madani!’
I’d like to think Gabriel’s applause was louder than O’Lachlan’s, but that’s my bias showing. The wind blows as he steps out onto the court, tousling his loose, curly hair. He casts his gaze upwards and for a moment, barely a second, we lock eyes, and it’s electric. My body thrums. It sounds clichéd as shit, but when he looks at me, when he knows I’mherefor him, it’s like the rest of the stadium melts away. It’s just us.
The moment is brief, and then Gabriel turns away and prepares for the match.
I try not to let on how little I know about tennis, especially as the play starts. Gabriel is in front of us for the first set, receiving O’Lachlan’s serve. I recall the scoring system—he’d said love means nothing, then fifteen, thirty, forty. Gabriel’s legs flex, and he moves so precisely, so effortlessly, it’s like he’s dancing. Watching him play tennis is one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen.
Before I’ve quite got my head around what’s going on, Gabriel wins the first game. They switch sides, and Gabriel serves, but his first ball hits the net. I hear his father mutter something as Gabriel sets up to serve a second time.
It hits the net as well.
‘Damn,’ Victor says. On the screen above us, O’Lachlan wins fifteen points.
I take another sip of water, draining the bottle. It’s so hot out here; the sun streams through the gap in the roof and the heat practically turns the stadium into a terrarium. Even Gabriel reaches for his towel as O’Lachlan wins the second game. They’re one game apiece now.
To my relief, Gabriel wins the next game, and the fourth. They switch sides again, and Gabriel comes back to our end. He glances up at his player’s box, but he doesn’t meet my eyes.
Bernard turns and says something in French to Victor, who nods his agreement. I sit and fidget with my water bottle, feeling both awkward and overwhelmed at the same time.
