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‘Do you speak French?’ Victor asks.
I shake my head. ‘No.’
‘He doesn’t speak French,’ he relays to Bernard. I’m not sure if that means they’ll stop talking in French in front of me, or if they’ll continue now that they know I can’t understand them.
Gabriel wins the next game, which makes Bernard happy. He claps for the first time in the entire match, despite Gabriel winning some impressive back-and-forth shots.Volleys, I think they’re called.
‘Madani leads four games to one,’ the umpire says as they break again.
I feel my phone buzz in my pocket, so I pull it out. An unknown number flashes up on the screen. I don’t want to be rude so I let it go to voicemail and the voice-to-text translation comes in a minute later.
Hey Noah, it’s Bella from the Rosewood. I’ve emailed the shift schedule for the week. Look forward to meeting you officially!
The Rosewood.
Shit.
Mark.
After everything that happened yesterday, I completely forgot about Mark and the bar. God, I hope he’s okay and just nursing a really fucking awful hangover in hospital.
I bring up Mark’s number and shoot him a message.
Hey man, Ijust wanted to check that you’re ok.
It feels kinda weird but what else can I do—we’re not close by any means, but I still want him to know I care.
Beside me, Bernard rises to his feet to clap as I put my phone back in my pocket. I crane my neck to glance at the scoreboard, wondering what I’ve missed. Gabriel’s won the fifth game. Now he’s leading five to one. One more and he’ll win the set.
Gabriel wipes his face on his towel and then calls for a fresh one. Across the court, O’Lachlan pants by his station, clearly overwhelmed by the humidity.
‘This is what Gabi trains for,’ Victor says, turning to me. ‘We spend months in Dubai, Algeria, Morocco and Spain training in the sun, in the harsh conditions, in the humidity.’
‘Japan is worse than this,’ Bernard agrees. ‘But the sooner he wins, the better.’
Gabriel wins the next game easily, closing out the first set. Only two more to go.
We break for a few minutes. Bernard goes back down to the dressing-room to fetch more water. Gabriel sits at his station and demolishes a banana. I wonder what he’s thinking. What’s he telling himself right now to get through the next two sets?
‘Time,’ the umpire calls and Gabriel gets to his feet, grabbing his racquet. He glances up at the player’s box and I give him a little smile. I’m not even sure if he can see it across the court, but I swear I see him smile back.
O’Lachlan serves. Five minutes later, he wins the first game.
They break and switch ends. Gabriel’s closer to us now. Sweat soaks his clothes and quite literally drips off him. God, I’m miserable just sitting in the heat. I can’t imagine how he must feel playing in it.
Suddenly, Gabriel’s down two games to love. Bernard drums his fingers against the railing in front of him. His shoulders are tense and every so often, he mutters something in French. Victor’s silent beside me.
O’Lachlan wins the third game.
‘Do you think O’Lachlan threw the first set?’ Victor asks quietly. Do people do that? I suppose if you’re so far down in a set, it makes sense to throw it and start fresh. Maybe Gabi’s not as far ahead as I think.
‘Maybe,’ Bernard replies. ‘Arrange fresh clothes.’
Victor nods and hurries away, and suddenly, I’m alone with Bernard.
I try to focus on Gabriel. He serves beautifully, and both players rally back and forth for a short while until Gabriel finally hits the ball across the court and O’Lachlan can’t return it. The crowd cheers, and even Bernard seems happy with that performance.
Gabriel wins the next game, but then O’Lachlan comes back and wins two games in a row. I check my watch; it’s close to midday and the sun is directly above us, beaming down into the stadium. How much longer can he play like this?
