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Because if I don’t win tomorrow, I’ll have to leave—and that feeling, the feeling of being someone I’ve never allowed myself to explore—will go away, too.
By the time we find our seats again, Lukas has won the first game and Phoebe’s in deep discussion with the bartender over the menu.
‘So, Noah,’ Phoebe says once we’ve settled in again. ‘How did you meet our dear Gabi?’
‘Well, he walked into my bar a few days ago,’ Noah replies. All I can think of is the conversation Phoebe and I had in her hospital room the other day, and how I’d said I had no time to date. I catch her eyes over Noah’s head and I know she’s enjoying this far too much. ‘I guess we just hit it off.’
He makes our story sound so simple and well practised, like he’s said it a million times—to strangers, and people at weddings, and my extended family.
And then I remember that nothing has actually been said or done; in fact, I have just spent the last two days lying to Noah’s face—and the fantasy crumbles. It’s not a meet-cute . . . it’s just ameet.
‘You’re a bartender?’ Phoebe continues.
Noah nods. ‘Yes. Well, for now.’
‘For now?’ Phoebe echoes. ‘Do you want to do something else?’
‘I’d like to play music. Professionally.’
‘Anything specific?’
‘The piano.’
‘Do you sing too?’
Noah laughs. ‘Not well.’
I listen to the conversation with interest. I had no idea Noah played the piano, or that he wanted to do it professionally, but then I recall our conversation at the rooftop bar—how Noah said his dream was to open a bar with live music. I’m determined to hear him play before I leave. Not sure how to do that. Maybe get him drunk.
The bartender reappears with a platter of various canapés. My gaze slides back to Lukas down on the court. Without a doubt, the odds are in his favour. Douglas Rhodes is a nineteen-year-old from New York who had outstanding success as a local wildcard at last year’s US Open, but now he faces the player who took out the championship.
When Lukas wins the first set, Noah leans over to me. ‘When I said I knew nothing about tennis, I meant it. How long do they play for?’
‘Up to five sets,’ I reply. ‘You win a set by winning six games, but the player must win a set by two games at least. Each game consists of four or more points, depending on how close it is. The points go love, which means nothing, fifteen, thirty, and then forty. Lukas just won the first set; six games to three. He needs to win two more sets to win the match.’
‘Makes sense,’ Noah replies in a tone that tells me it doesn’t make sense at all.
‘It will make sense the more you watch it,’ Phoebe assures him. ‘Just remember: game, set, match. Games make up sets, and sets make up a match. Depending on how close the match is, there are tie breakers at the end of sets, and at the end of games. This won’t be a close game, though.’
‘Douglas is very young,’ I explain, just in case Phoebe’s comment sounds callous. ‘He hasn’t been on the circuit long.’
The second set is about to start. Noah orders another drink from the bar and settles in. I feel the outside of his thigh touch mine as he relaxes back, the heat almost searing, even through our clothes. If Phoebe wasn’t here, I’d put my arm around him. Or at least, I think I’d be brave enough to.
When Lukas wins the second set, Phoebe grabs her wheelchair from where it’s folded against her seat. ‘I’m going to head off and beat the crowd. Don’t think there’s much life in this game.’ She looks at Noah, her smile saccharine sweet. ‘It was nice to meet you, Noah.’
‘You too,’ he says. ‘Thanks for explaining tennis to me.’
‘You’re welcome. I’m sure I’ll see you at a match soon.’ She gives me a knowing look. God, she is infuriating. ‘Good luck tomorrow, Gabi.’
‘Thanks, Pheebs.’ I get up to hug her, and feel her squeeze my shoulders.
‘He’s lovely,’ she says against my ear, quiet enough for only me to hear, and my stomach turns to mush. Warm, lovely, mush.
Phoebe leaves and Lukas wins the third set twenty minutes later. Douglas Rhodes loses gracefully, and the pair share a hug and a smile on the court. It was bad luck he had to play Lukas in the first round, but he still goes home with a hefty pay cheque.
‘That was fun,’ Noah says as we leave. ‘I think I even understood some of it.’
‘Let me drive you home,’ I say as we wait for the elevator. ‘There’s a carpool for players and guests downstairs. It’ll be faster than catching a train.’
