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He’s won. I’ve lost.
Pejo Auer falls onto his back as the crowd roars around him.
I collapse on the baseline. Whatever strings have kept me up for so long have been cut, and I’m like a wobbly puppet as people rush onto the court, TV cameras celebrating Auer’s win. Beside me, a medic leans down to offer me an electrolyte drink and a towel.
Sitting up, I glance towards the crowd to see Pride flags intermingle with French and Peruvian flags, posters that sayALLEZ GABI!andVAMOS!!!. I sit and take it all in. Mostly because I can’t walk, but also because it’s such a beautiful sight.
A hand touches my back and I turn, expecting to see Papa. But it’s Pejo.
He kneels beside me, sweat shining off his bald head. ‘Are you okay?’ he asks.
‘I’m fine,’ I assure him. ‘I’ll be okay.’
He takes my hand and helps me to stand. ‘You played like a lion out there. It was incredible. We gave them a match they willneverforget.’
And that’s still something, isn’t it?
We thank the umpire, and all the spectacle turns back to Pejo and his victory. I return to my station, place my tennis racquet back in its cover, and drink another mouthful of water. I need to get off this court before I pass out, but as I grab my bag, my hand spasms.
‘Let me,’ Papa says as his hand covers mine. I choke back a sob, too overwhelmed with emotion.
‘I lost, Papa.’
But Papa mustn’t hear me because he says, ‘You played so well.’
We find a seat inside the hallways of Rod Laver Arena, where it’s private and mostly quiet. Papa kneels beside me and unlaces my shoe. As soon as the cool air hits my foot, Papa makes a small, concerned noise in the back of his throat.
‘How bad is it?’ I ask.
‘Good thing we are not going to Brazil,’ he mutters and then calls over the medic. They unwrap the bandages on my fingers and hands, fussing over them.
‘They’re just blisters,’ I say as officials begin to prepare for the awards ceremony out on court. ‘They don’t even hurt anymore.’
‘We’ll have to take you downstairs,’ the medic tells me—as if what I just said doesn’t matter. ‘Don’t put any pressure on your foot.’
Suddenly, I’m hauled up. The medic is under one shoulder and Papa’s under the other and I’m being dragged—literally dragged—down the hallway.
‘You tennis players can play through anything, can’t you?’ laughs the medic as I’m seated in a sterile-smelling first-aid room.
‘You should have called for a medical timeout, Gabriel,’ Papa berates me.
‘Where’s Noah?’ I ask.
Papa’s expression darkens. ‘He couldn’t make it. He contacted Victor. We’ll talk after the presentation.’
‘Did he tell you why?’ My phone’s still in my bag which I think is still on the court but I need to know now. ‘Did I do something?’
Papa takes my head between his hands. ‘You didn’t do anything, Gabriel. You played so well. He will be very proud of you.’
‘I need to talk to him.’
‘You can call him once we’re back at the hotel,’ Papa says firmly. There’s no arguing with him. ‘Focus, Gabriel. You’re not finished here. You’ve still got to do the presentation. Have you thought about what you’re going to say?’
36
Noah
There’s one flickering fluorescent light in the corner of the hospital waiting room and it’s fucking annoying. I close my eyes, take a deep breath through my nose and think about what’s around me. I can hear the gentle chatter of nurses at the ward desk, footsteps on linoleum, a cleaning cart rattling its way down the hallway, the tinny voices of commentators as they chat about why Gabriel Madani had to be helped down to the medic’s room after his nail-biting loss to Peru’s Pejo Auer—and if he’ll be well enough to accept his trophy at the presentation ceremony.
