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‘We’ll get on top of this, Gabi,’ Victor says. ‘I’m sorry it had to be this way.’
As I remake my coffee, I check Instagram. Big mistake. Huge. The photo iseverywhere. It’s weird to see candid photographs of yourself. Aside from the rage I feel at my privacy being violated like this, I’m awed at the way we lean into one another, how even as I kiss him, the corners of my mouth are turned up into a smile; how very . . . in love we look. As far as scandalous pictures go, this is one of the best.
‘It was the night receptionist,’ I say, noting the angle at which the photograph was taken as memories of last night come back to me in pieces. It dawns on me that some of this is, at least partly, my fault. I’d been careless last night, too lost in the magic of the night to worry about the risk.
Papa steps out of the room and everything goes quiet again. Victor is furiously typing into his laptop, even as I hear theding ding dingof emails hitting his inbox. I can’t stand hearing him work, so I take my coffee out onto the balcony and sit in the bright morning sun.
It’s done.
Everyone knows now.
I’d hoped that when it finally happened, I’d feel free. Vindicated, even. Celebrated.
But all I feel is sad. Betrayed. My relationship, my sexuality, everything I’ve struggled with for the past few years, all used just to get site traffic.
My phone’s blowing up. There are a dozen unread messages in my inbox; among them are messages from Phoebe and Lukas, but also Nathan Derbin and Alanzo Ruiz, and other players on the tour, even those I’m not necessarily close with, all reaching out to see if I’m okay and to offer their support.
I wish I could callMamanor Claudia, but it’s two in the morning in Paris. They might not have seen the article yet. I still might be able to tell them on my terms.
I don’t hear Noah enter the apartment, but around ten, the door to the balcony slides open and he steps into the bright morning light.
‘Gabi,’ he breathes. I get to my feet and pull him in for a hug. ‘Gabi, baby, I’m so sorry.’
‘Don’t be,’ I say into his shoulder. ‘I’m glad you’re here.’
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Victor standing by the door. ‘Now that the team’s here, we need to talk,’ he says.
27
Noah
The moment I saw the photo, I knew it wasn’t just going to go away. These kinds of things don’t just disappear. Not off the internet. Bernard places a coffee mug in front of me as we gather around the dining table. Victor’s face is grave as he types out a reply to yet another email. Beside me, Gabriel’s leg jiggles nervously and I suppress the impulse to reach across and take his hand. I’m not sure how well that would be received right now.
‘D’accord,les enfants, I have good news and bad news,’ begins Victor as he hits send on the email. ‘The major newspapers have agreed not to print the article. They’re not interested in a forced outing scandal. Apparently, the night receptionist was studying journalism and knew a good story when he saw one. Management assures me he’s been let go.’
Ethics class must be next semester, then.
‘What’s the part I’m not going to like?’ Gabriel replies evenly.
‘Two parts,’ Victor says. ‘One: social media’s already got their talons on the story. It will be impossible to kill it.’ Victor’s mouth presses into a long thin line. ‘And two, I want you to make a statement. To camera. Today.’
‘No,’ Bernard says without a moment’s hesitation. Suddenly, Victor and Bernard launch into a flurry of French. It sounds heated, passionate. Gabriel doesn’t say anything. He just stares into the dregs of his coffee, his brow furrowed, and in that moment, I’m aware of just how different our worlds are; how much this has affected every part of his being. Not just the personal side, but the professional—his very career is at risk. Not just how he plays, but the sponsorships, his fan base, everything.
‘Speak English,’ Gabriel says eventually. ‘Noah can’t understand what you’re saying.’
I reach across the table and take his hand. Fuck it. He gives me a half-hearted smile, one that doesn’t touch his eyes, and it kills me to see him so miserable.
‘Sorry,’ Bernard replies, switching back to English. ‘I think you should wait until the end of the tournament to make a statement.’
‘I can’t,’ Gabriel says. ‘It’s all anyone will want to talk about. I can’t continue without addressing it onmyterms.’
I guess Gabriel feels he needs to take his power back; to control this betrayal any way he can.
‘We’ll release a written statement,’ Victor says, trying to find middle ground. ‘No cameras. We’ll do it this morning, and then that’s it. We’ll focus on the match.’
‘Do you want to be named in the media release?’ Gabriel asks, turning to me. ‘Think of your father.’
My dad. My dad who’s spent most of my life weaponising fear to control me.
