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The thought makes me take a long drink. Didn’t I just say to Phoebe that I have a grand slam to win? I’d pushed away her concerns about romance, convincing myself nothing would disrupt my focus. Now here I am, sitting at a bar, struggling to comprehend all the ways Iwantthis.
If Phoebe finds out, she’ll never let me live it down.
But she doesn’t have to find out.
Besides, it’s not like Noah’sinterestedin me. Australians are notoriously friendly. This is standard friendly Australian hospitality. As long as I don’t catch feelings for him, I’m safe.
‘I’ll be free tomorrow night,’ I say. ‘Seven o’clock?’
‘Works for me.’ Noah pulls out his phone. ‘Can I add you on Insta?’
I hesitate. He notices.
‘Or are you one of those guys who is too cool to have social media?’ He eases off. If only he knew about my hair’s Instagram page. ‘It’s okay. We can go old-school. Phone numbers. Texting.’
‘No, it’s fine,’ I say as I pull out my phone. ‘My Instagram is . . . um, hungrygabriel73.’
Noah laughs. ‘A food account?’
It’s my finsta. I have 112 followers. Mostly, they’re people on the circuit and a few friends from school and home. ‘It’s just me and my friends documenting what we eat. Other stupid stuff,’ I explain.
Noah types my handle into his phone, and it must appear because my own phone buzzes a moment later. ‘I love stupid stuff. I’m NoAgenda.’
‘Funny.’ I accept him. There’s nothing in my bio to suggest I’m anything but the person Noah thinks I am: a French guy working in International Relations who travels a lot. I click on his profile. His picture is a crude drawing of a cat, and his first and only photograph is of a dog. I click on it. The caption reads,Always wanted to come home to a cute girl.
‘Wow, were you in Tokyo recently?’ Noah asks. I realise he’s doing the same thing. ‘And New York too?’
‘Yeah, I travel a lot but it’s always just a couple of days here and there. I never stay very long.’
His mouth twitches as he puts down the phone. I follow his lead, glad to be done with the social media deep dive. ‘Well, I better make my tour memorable. I’m gonna show you such a good time you’re never gonna want to leave.’
My face goes hot at his words. I down the rest of my drink as my thoughts begin to spiral. What if Noah knows who I am, and he’s playing a game of gay fish, throwing out lines like that just to see if I bite? The last thing I need on this tour is to wake up to rumours of my sexuality on gossip sites.
All because I couldn’t resist a flirty bartender.
I need to get a grip.
I have a tournament to win.
Noah smiles at me across the table, eyes sparkling in the dying sun.
Just don’t catch feelings, I remind myself as Noah drains the last of his beer.You can do this.
My first opponent is Nathan Derbin. He’s number fifty-three in the world, and beat Marcus Allman in a gruelling five-set match during the qualifiers. In his spare time, he loves playing Dungeons & Dragons. I know because he’s invited me to several games while on tour. One day, I tell myself, I’ll take him up on his offer.
It’s forty-two degrees on the first day of the Australian Open. The crowds are heavy, and play starts at exactly 11 am. We’re on Show Court Nine, an open-air court on the left side of Melbourne Park, which means no air conditioners, no fans and no shade. It’s us against each other, and both of us against the sun. This match needs to be quick if either of us has any chance of recovering to play well in the second round.
I make my way onto the cerulean astroturf, adjusting my clay-red Nike shirt as I meet Derbin by the net. One of the ball boys tosses a coin. I call heads and decide to serve. Papa’s gaze follows me from the side of the court, his expression unreadable behind his dark glasses. I can’t lose this match. I can’t face boarding a plane and having to sit beside him, feeling the disappointment rolling off him in waves.
Derbin must lose.
I serve. The ball flies over the net and Derbin moves quickly to return it. We’re off. Adrenaline races through my veins as I lunge forward to scoop the ball with my forearm. Nothing beats the thrill of the first point of the game, or the first match of a big tournament. There are eight matches that stand between me and the trophy: two weeks of sweat, blood and tears. But it all starts with this point.
Derbin miscalculates his backhand, and the ball lands out.
‘Out,’ calls the linesman.
‘Fifteen–love,’ the umpire says.
