AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Hungrygabriel73:I’ll try not to. x
The truth is, I’m petrified of losing, of going home, of ending things with Noah. What had started as a fling—adistraction—is now . . . not that anymore. I don’t know what we are. Our relationship is a complex gelatinous mass with no clear edges, but the fear of losing him eats at me. What if we don’t get to see each other again for another year? What if things change between us in that time?
I can’t do this. I turn off my phone and stuff it into my tennis bag, desperate to put distance between us. If I’m going to win this match, I have to focus.
It’s the last round before the finals. I’ve gone further on harder draws, but Alanzo Ruiz is a real hurdle to overcome.
‘Gabi!’ Papa appears in the doorway. ‘You’re on.’
As I make my way through the hallways of Rod Laver Arena, Helen Taylor rushes past me, tears spilling down her cheeks.
‘You played well!’ I call after her, my voice echoing off the concrete. I’ve felt like that so many times—fallen short after giving my all, crying in the narrow halls of the arena, trying to figure out how I’d face my team.
Alanzo Ruiz stands by the entrance to the court, waiting to be called on. I tap him on the shoulder, and he turns, smiling. His big, toothy grin has been a staple on the circuit for five years.
Hey, I sign.Nice to see you.
Nice to see you too. It’s wonderful weather, he signs.Not too hot. Not humid.
I like the sun, I reply, because my ASL isn’t the best. Ruiz smiles and claps me on the back, acknowledging my effort.
Ruiz leans down to tighten his shoelaces, and I watch the subtle flexing of his forearm as his fingers loop and tie.
It’s hard hiding my sexuality on the circuit. Ruiz, to my knowledge, has never had a public relationship. That’s not uncommon. Most young players focus on the game.
Ruiz looks up, his dark gaze meeting mine, and I swear I see the hint of a smile. We’re not close, but it’s not the first time I’ve wondered if—
It’s ridiculous to think I’m the only gay on the tour and I know some of the players in the women’s draw are queer, but right now, keeping this secret feels like I’m a lone runaway train, hurtling down a track that’s broken off halfway down the hill, and nothing and no one can stop the crash that’s coming.
Some players come out publicly once they leave the professional circuit, or are already out before they gain fame, but when you’re actively playing the game, it’s like politics. To many, you’re just a warm body with a racquet. Shut up and play the game.
Coming out now will changeeverything—and while I know a lot of good could come of it, I can’t ignore the challenges. I still need time. I haven’t even told my family.
Our names are called—mine first to help Ruiz time his entrance. I give him a smile and push past him, stepping out onto the court. I raise my hand to the cheering crowd, blinking against the bright stadium lights. It’s a pleasant atmosphere tonight. Balmy. A gentle breeze rolls across the court. A moth flutters past my face, caught in the allure of a bright light.
Dropping my gear by my station, I suck down a mouthful of electrolyte water before unsheathing my racquet: my chrome-handled Wilson. Its strings are hard and taut. It’s seen hundreds of games. Hundreds of wins. I’m desperate to give it another one.
Tonight, the strategy is to outlast. There’s no point in trying to break Ruiz. His defensive game is too good, his backhand too strong. The only way I’ll win this game is if I can exhaust him, control the ball, and time my points.
Ruiz doesn’t disappoint. After five games—of which I win four—my knees ache and my wrist is sore. Ruiz may be down, but I know that’s all a part of his plan.
It’s my service game. I try to ace him and fail. The ball catches the net, dropping down to the court. My second serve is softer but Ruiz absolutelysendsit back. I fumble forward and hear my racquet scrape against the ground. Standing up, I examine the frame. There’s no warping, but the paint has chipped off.
On my favourite racquet, too. Damn.
I face Ruiz again. He stares across the net at me, hard and intimidating. I grin back, trying to tip him off his game. He doesn’t break.
On the next game, I win the set, but I’ve played right into his hand and my body is feeling it.
Ruiz doesn’t even seem fazed as we head into the second set and just to prove it, he wins the first game. He is a meticulous, careful, even-tempered player. I’d rather be up against Lukas, whose erratic nature can turn against him just as easily as it benefits him, but trying to break Ruiz is, well, like trying to tear down a brick wall with your bare hands.
Every point is hard fought and I’m feeling the burn. Worst of all, Ruiz has me exactly where he wants me. For the first time, I have real doubts about winning. The scoreboard says I’m a set up, with two games of the second set in my favour, but as I meet Ruiz’s gaze again, I know there’s a lot left in this match.
I’m not winning.
Ruiz makes me run for the ball each and every point, the complete and utterarsehole, and my legs scream in protest. I’m two sets up but won the last set with a nail-biting tie breaker. Now we’re deep in the third and Ruiz has won the last three games to my none. The momentum he has spent the entire match building is paying off.
This has been his plan the whole time, and the worst part is that Iknewit.
