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‘He won’t,’ Victor assures me, and then gestures for me to sit on the flimsy outdoor furniture. He takes a seat beside me. ‘A long time ago, the night after his spectacular loss at the US Open, your father and I were at a foam party in the Village. He introduced me to Elias—a friend he knew back in Paris—who had moved to New York to work in publishing. We had a fantastic night hopping around all these wonderful bars and clubs. A year later, Elias wrote to your father to say he was moving back to Paris and asked if he had a spare room—Bernard didn’t, but I happened to, so Elias moved in with me. We dated for five years; saw the turn of the millennium, but then we broke up. Later, I met Louise—and, well, it was magic.’ He folds one long leg over the other. ‘What I’m trying to say, Gabriel, is that I know your father, but I’vebeenyou, and you deserve to live a life the way you want to live it. Your father only wants you to be happy, and part of his frustration today was realising you aren’t. That’s why I didn’t get involved. It was important for him to realise that.’
‘I had no idea,’ I say, and it’s the truth. I had no idea Victor dated a man before he met his current partner; I had no idea Papa had been the one to set them up; and perhaps most shockingly, I had no idea Papa had attended afoamparty during a tournament—something he’s expressed I’mneverto do.
Maybe that’s half the problem. We’ve spent so long on the circuit, so long surrounded by work, that we don’t know each other outside of tennis. We’ve never really had the chance to just be father and son.
‘It’s up to you when or if you tell him,’ Victor replies. ‘But thank you for telling me.’
My shoulders slump and I sink back further into the chair. ‘What about my sponsorships, the fans—the . . .’ I struggle to find the wordsbut what I want to say is, what about the places I might not be allowed to play, the comments people will leave online, the way I’ll be treated on the tour moving forward? ‘. . . Everything.’
‘Fuck them,’ Victor replies. ‘Let me handle it, Gabi. That’s my job as your media manager. We’ll manage your socials, and you can keep your personal account secret; we’ll renegotiate sponsorships with companies that align better with your personal brand, if need be.’ He leans across and takes my hand. ‘You just focus on being you.’
Just focus on being you. That feels weirdly relieving. ‘Okay.’
Victor picks up his cigarette. ‘You best go find your father and ensure he hasn’t worked himself into a cardiac arrest downstairs,’ he says between puffs. ‘Should I draft up an NDA for Noah?’
‘No. Noah’s reasonable; he’ll be fine.’ Signing an NDA makes things feel . . . official between us. When I’m with Noah, I feel gloriously normal, and I want to keep it that way.
Victor looks like he wants to say something, but settles on, ‘As long as you’re being safe.’
Leaving Victor on the balcony, I head downstairs to the gym and sauna. Papa loves saunas. He’s had one built in our Paris home. I find them stifling and not at all relaxing—especially since I’m pretty sure I lost sixty per cent of my body’s water playing tennis today, among other activities.
Papa sits on the far side of the wooden room, near the stove. He glances up when I step in but doesn’t say anything. It’s close to 8 pm. Briefly, I wonder how long he’s been sitting in the steam.
‘Hey.’ I take a seat on the bench opposite him. ‘Victor was worried you’d passed out in here.’
‘I’m fine,’ he replies curtly. His tone shocks me. I’d come in here to make amends, but I hadn’t considered that Papa would still be sour.
‘I can go if you want me to,’ I say, trying not to let anger creep into my voice. Maybe it’s too soon. Maybe we still need space.
‘No, don’t go,’ Papa says as I move to get up. ‘Sit, Gabriel.’
I sit.
And wait.
And sweat.
‘I think we should skip Brazil,’ Papa says after a long while.
‘What?’ I ask reflexively, my brain still processing his words.
‘I think you need a break. Let’s skip Brazil.’
‘And what would we do instead?’ I ask.
‘Go on a holiday. Spend time at home. Prepare for the clay season.’ He shrugs. ‘It’s your choice, Gabriel.’
My choice. There’s so much I want to do—I want to see the Grand Canyon; I want to go skiing in the French Alps until the tip of my nose is numb, and then spend the night eating junk food in front of an open fire; I want to stay at home and read through mymaman’s extensive library and go to Disneyland.
‘I shouldn’t have yelled at you,’ I admit. ‘I’m sorry I raised my voice.’
The electric stove pushes out more steam as Papa sweeps his long locs over his shoulder. ‘You don’t need to apologise, Gabriel. It is clear you have felt this way for a long time. It was my fault for not realising it.’ He stares into the distance, not exactly looking me in the eye. ‘We have been pursuing tennis for so long because I thought it was our dream; I didn’t notice when it stopped being yours and was only mine.’
‘I still want to play,’ I reaffirm. ‘I just wantmore. More time at home instead of jetting around the world chasing minor titles. More time to just have you as my papa, and not my coach.’
‘When I retired from playing, it wasn’t my choice,’ Papa says. ‘I’d have done anything to keep going. I see so much of my talent in you, Gabriel, but I see how unfair I have become in my ambitions for you.’
A trickle of sweat runs down the ridge of my spine. I’m about done with saunas and emotionally draining conversations for the day, but I can see that Papa is really trying. I take a breath. ‘First off, I want you to be nicer to Noah. He’s my friend. I’d like you to get to know him.’
