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Prologue
Gabriel
The ball whizzes past my face. There’s a breath, a moment of silence, before it hits Phoebe’s racquet with athumpand flies back to the Froebel siblings on the other side of the net.
Lukas Froebel runs forward, racquet extended, but his foot lands short and he needs to stretch to reach the ball. I know his forearm won’t have its usual kick so I step forward and meet the ball with a well-timed backhand, sending it crosscourt. It zips between Lukas and Freyja, landing by the baseline.
The scoreboard changes: 15–0.
Phoebe pats me on the shoulder. ‘Nice one.’
We reset. Phoebe’s serving. I hunch over, knees soft and head up, ready to launch. When I first turned pro, I hated playing doubles in charity matches. Too many players had more power than accuracy in their serve and the back of my head would cop it. Slapstick humour always earns a good laugh from a crowd, though.
Phoebe serves again. Freyja, the younger of the Froebel siblings, has a vicious backhand. Tonight, her swing is calmer, and I return it easily. Lukas hits a moonball, and it flies well above my head, but Phoebe runs backwards to meet it at the baseline. She grunts in frustration as she smashes the ball across the net. It bounces out of reach, even as Lukas strains his racquet upwards. 30–0.
‘I hate moonballs,’ Phoebe growls as we reset.
I nudge her shoulder. ‘Chill, it’s a charity match.’
She gives me a hard look. Phoebe’s always been wildly competitive. She can’t stand to lose, but she hides it graciously when it happens.
I hand her a spare ball and the crowd quietens as Phoebe prepares to serve. Just as she raises the ball, someone calls from the grandstand, ‘Marry me, Gabriel!’
The crowd vibrates with laughter. The hair on the back of my neck stands up at the attention. Across the net, Lukas grins at me.
‘Quiet, please,’ commands the umpire.
As the crowd’s tittering dies down, the umpire nods at Phoebe to continue. This time she serves without interruption.
Two months ago, a fan-run Instagram account held a vote on the hottest players currently on the professional tennis circuit. Objectifying? Sure. Were we all invested in where we ranked? Of course.
Lukas came second.
Mortifyingly, I took first place.
My measly hundred-thousand Instagram followers shot up to over half a million in less than two days and #Mad4Madani was trending on Twitter in eight different countries. Suddenly, people were trawling through my social media accounts to figure out where I was and who I was dating. When they found nothing, the internet decided I was single and ever since, my direct messages have been out of control.
Phoebe serves again. Freyja hits the ball back with the effortless grace only thousands of hours of practice can create.
I return the ball to Lukas with little urgency or power. When it’s easy like this, it feels like a dance. With my feet square and my knees slightly bent, I position myself at the net, ready to volley, trying to anticipate Lukas’s next move.
What I don’t expect, however, is to see Lukas’s left leg rise into the air as he swings the racquet behind him. A classic between-the-legs shot. The ball flies back over the net as the crowd erupts in laughter.
Lukas revels in the attention, waving to the fans and flashing a cheeky smile. He’s as much a showman as an athlete, and at six-foot-three with handsome Scandinavian features, he’s a crowd favourite.
Phoebe stumbles forward, scooping her racquet under the ball in a risky attempt to save the point, but it hits the net.
‘Take it easy,’ I say as she passes me. We’re a few days out from a major title; there’s no need to go hard. ‘You don’t want to overdo it.’
Her mouth tenses into a long, tight line. ‘I’m fine.’
I turn back to face the Froebels. Freyja watches Phoebe with a calculating gaze as my partner walks back to the baseline. Immediately, I regret commenting on Phoebe’s play, criticising her on the court. Phoebe’s one of Freyja’s biggest competitors and she’ll be looking for signs of weakness.
I glance at Lukas and wonder if he’s sized me up during the match. I’ve held back, and I’m sure he has too. As if reading my mind, he gives me a sly smile as he wipes the sweat off his brow with the hem of his shirt. Six glorious abs shine in the arena light. Behind me, I hear the click of a camera shutter.
Always the showman.
Brisbane is notoriously hot—everyone who attends tournaments in Australia struggles with the heat—but tonight the breeze is cool and smells like eucalyptus. It makes my skin prickle. Phoebe prepares to serve and the crowd dies down. I can hear the buzzing of the court lights overhead, the drone of cicadas, the beating of my heart. I’m hyper-aware of my breathing and take long, even breaths. It’s almost blissful. Seconds stretch as the moment slows down.
