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When I get to the Rosewood, I realise Bella’s not joking. It’s as busy as I’ve ever seen it, absolutely teeming with semi-drunk and slightly sunburnt customers. One of the bouncers is trying to help a lady in a sundress into a taxi, but the taxi driver is straight-up refusing to take her. I slip past the argument, drop my bag into the office behind the bar, and swipe in.
‘Thankyouuuu,’ Bella says, the relief evident in her voice as she walks past with a tray full of empty glasses. ‘Totally not glamorous, babe, but I need you to run dishes in the kitchen.’
Stepping into the kitchen is what I imagine hospitality hell to look like; there are at least four trays of dirty glasses waiting to be washed, three trays on the drying rack that need to be taken back to the bars, and a bucket half-full of cracked and chipped pint and midi glasses that need to be recycled.
For at least an hour, I process tray after tray of dirty pint and cocktail glasses, running them through the dishwasher until my fingers go prune-like and my back hurts from lifting.
‘Noah, babe.’ Bella pokes her head into the kitchen. ‘Great work on the dishes. Michelle needs help in the beer garden—can you switch?’
I grab a fresh apron to meet Michelle in the beer garden, secretly thankful to be out of the steaming heat of the kitchen.
‘Don’t think I’m not looking at that clock,’ Bella says as I leave. ‘As soon as it hits five fifty-nine, you’re out of here.’
32
Gabriel
‘Is Noah here yet?’ I ask Victor as I grab my game bag.
‘Not yet.’ Victor hands me my racquet. ‘I’m sure he’s on his way. How do you feel?’
‘Fine,’ I say, even though I don’t. Cheers echo through the tunnels of Rod Laver Arena, and I swallow down my nausea. I wish I could have seen Noah before I went on the court; I wish I could have hugged him and found that blissful peace that comes when I’m in his arms.
‘Gabriel.’ Victor places his hands on my shoulders, grounding me. ‘You’ve got this. Say it to me.’
‘I’ve got this,’ I repeat.
‘You’re going to walk out on that court and play the best tennis you can,’ he says. ‘And if you win, it won’t be because the cards predicted it, or because you wore the right kind of underwear, or because Noah was there to see it. You’ll win because you played well.’
‘But if I—’
‘And if you lose, who cares?’
‘Icare. It’s the entire reason I’m here, Victor, I—’
‘Gabriel, look at me.’ I do. ‘We are so proud of you. You will not disappoint anyone today. Not yourself, not me, or your father, or Noah, or your country. Emmanuel Macron heart-eyes all your Instagram stories, and I’ve never told you that before because I don’t want you to get a big head, but we are all so proud of you.’
A laugh bubbles out of me before I can stop it. ‘Thank you.’ I shrug Victor’s hands off me so I can pull him into a hug.
‘I’ll call Noah, I’m sure he’ll be here any second,’ Victor says into my shoulder. ‘Go. You have a match to play. Remember that match point. Remember Arnie and the Championship Point.’
I don’t tell Victor that I’ll be lucky to even see a single match point, let alone convert one. The odds are clearly in my opponent’s favour. Pejo Auer is the reigning champ and most expect he’ll be able to win the title again, especially over me, a low-seeded player in his first grand slam final.
The only thing I can rely on is the feel of my body, and how ready it is to play. After a few days rest, my knee feels good enough to play while strapped, and I’ve taken a small cocktail of anti-inflammatories to keep the pain down.
I shield my eyes from the bright stadium lights as I step onto the court. There’s not an empty seat in the house. Rod Laver himself sits front and centre, attending the men’s final in the arena named in his honour, and the emotion of it all makes my throat catch.
This is it.
Pejo Auer is five-foot-five. For years he shaved his hair into a buzz cut and sported a very well-groomed beard. A fiery man, he famously argued with Wimbledon about his right to wear a cap during a night match.
I know everything about my opponent. I’ve watched him play for almost ten years, seen him reach his peak and never, ever back down from it. There’s no doubt Pejo Auer is one of the greats, and it’s a true honour to play against him. Right now, he’s on an eighteen-match winning streak; practically unbeatable.
And yet, I’ve just won the first set, 6–4.
As I walk back to my station, I glance up at my player’s box. Papa’s leaning over the railing, his face solemn and unreadable. Behind him, Victor sits beside Lukas. But no Noah.
Closing my eyes, I will my mind tostop thinking about him. Stop thinking and worrying and wondering. Focus on the match.Focus on the match.
