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She smiles and rubs her thumb over my knuckles. I can feel her calluses, a testament to how hard she’s worked. The sun moves out from behind a cloud and the light graces Phoebe’s face, makes her dark eyes shine with warmth. Something inside of me aches. I’m going to miss this woman so much it physically hurts.
‘It’s time to give the other girls a chance.’ Emotion crackles through her voice. She squeezes my hand. ‘It’s time.’
‘I don’t want to do this without you,’ I admit.
‘I’ll still be cheering you on. Just from the sidelines.’
‘But you won’t be there. Not like you normally are.’ There’ll be no more drunken rendezvous after we both crash out of a tournament; no more award ceremony red carpets; no more late-night practice sessions; no more rushing through tournament crowds to watch each other’s matches. I know she’ll still support me, but it won’t be like it was before.
What is wrong with me?She’s going through so much, and I’ve sat here for the last five minutes wondering what it means forme.
‘You’re going to do amazing things, Gabriel, with or without me there,’ she says. ‘I need a break from the game. The tour. The lifestyle. I’d appreciate it if you kept this to yourself for now.’
‘I will,’ I promise. ‘I’m pro at keeping things out of the media.’
Phoebe perks up at the change of conversation. ‘Oh, can we talk about Andre now?’
‘Andre is the last person I want to talk about,’ I say, even though Phoebe’s vibrating with excitement to talk about mylove life. The story with Andre is rather pathetic: after being thoroughly humiliated by Lukas at Wimbledon, I’d drunkenly texted one of the security guards who’d given me his number forpurely professional reasons. We’d met up at a bar and shared a few drunken kisses before going home—he had an early shift, I had a flight to Paris.
‘It ended as fast as it started, and I haven’t heard from him since.’
That’s not the whole story, but I can’t bear to tell Phoebe what really happened—that I overestimated my ability to do ‘no-strings attached’ and found myself thinking about him more than I cared to admit. I’d put my feelings on the line and told him I wanted to see him again—I’d be in London by September, maybe we could get drinks again?
I’d been immediately rejected.
Mortified, I deleted his number, and for weeks I was anxious my messages would appear on online gossip sites and Victor would find them. He’d tell Papa, and I’d never get to come out to them on my terms.
I’d been careless with my heart and my career, and it couldn’t happen again. And as much as I may wantsomethingwithsomeone, between the tour schedule and prep for the clay season, I don’t have time for romance.
Phoebe, however, has the most annoying habit of seeing straight through me. ‘There’s nothing wrong with having a bit of fun.’ She pauses. ‘Have you told your father about, you know, liking guys yet?’
‘No, I’m a—’ I can’t find the right word, thoughcowardseems to surge up my throat, and I barely manage to catch it. I’ve tried to tell Papa I’m gay four times in the last two years, and each time I’ve baulked at the last minute. It is hard not being out to my family, or to the public. My paternal grandparents are conservative and while I think my father would understand and support me, there’s a vicious little voice inside me that says,But what if he doesn’t?
‘Being gay doesn’t affect how I play tennis, so why does it matter if I’m out or not?’
‘You’re right, it doesn’t,’ Phoebe says. ‘But we weren’t talking about tennis. We were talking about your life, Gabi.’
‘It’s one and the same.’
Phoebe makes a face and I know she doesn’t believe me. I can’t help but think back to yesterday; how a heated look from Noah had made my chest feel tight, had made a zip of adrenaline run through me when I’d thought he was flirting.
Phoebe continues, ‘I know we aren’t talking about tennis but . . . you coming out could do a lot for the sport, you know. And the kids who look up to you.’
Unlike me, Phoebe’s always weaved social justice into her tennis. She’s spent years representing plus-sized women in sport, and she was a spokesperson for the #StopAsianHate movement that swept the French Open last year. Her Instagram is a powerful force for good. Phoebe knows what words to say. She knows how to convince people of her point of view. She’s brave and outspoken.
‘I’m not like that,’ I say, and sometimes I wonder if saying that makes me a bad gay.
‘I just want you to be happy, Gabi. I want you to be free to explore connections without fear of being outed, and to find someone who realises how special and wonderful you are.’ She caresses my hair affectionately, but I shrug her off, embarrassed. ‘What you do is your choice, but I see how much you’re hurting right now and I—’ She swallows down her emotion. ‘Well, it’s just hard to watch.’
Of course, Phoebe would see what I’m desperately trying to hide; how much I’m struggling with thewantbuilding up inside me—for the championship, for a life I can’t allow myself to believe could be mine, and, worst of all, for a quiet bartender I met barely twenty-four hours ago. Why can’t I stop thinking about him? Why can’t I ignore the pull of that dingy little bar?
‘Stop being mushy.’ I’m finally at my limit for all this emotional nonsense. ‘Besides, I’ll never find someone special on the tour. I have grand slams to win.’
The tour pace is relentless, and hardly conducive to dating.
Phoebe threads her fingers through mine and brings my hand up to her mouth, kissing the knuckles. ‘When you find the right man, you suddenly have all the time in the world. Trust me.’
I shush her loudly as a nurse passes the doorway. ‘If anyone sends an anonymous tip, we’re in trouble.’
