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Phoebe’s the only person I’ve told about my sexuality. I’m not out on the tour, I’m not out to Victor or Papa, or my family back home. Lukas is my friend, but he’s also my biggest rival. Phoebe is like an older sister, and she has been since we met at a teen training camp ahead of Wimbledon Juniors twelve years ago. I’d watched Phoebe rise through the rankings, and by the time I was sixteen, I was on the circuit too, hungry to match her success.
We go to award nights together; we do media together; we catch taxis to the airport together. For years, she happily played her part in our ‘suspiciously too close’ friendship, and speculation about my sexuality stayed out of the tabloids.
Even when she dated actor Aaron Waterstone, my commitment to the role of ‘dumped ex who still wants to be friends’ was Oscar-worthy. When they broke up last year, rumours swirled that she’d decided to finally give ‘the long-suffering best friend’ a chance. It was great fun.
‘Gabriel!Allez!’ Papa calls from the kitchen.
Quickly, I change into training gear: an old Nike top, shorts, a pair of thick white socks and my headband.
Besides my rising popularity as an eligible straight bachelor, my hair has, annoyingly, become a thing. During the US Open, the ESPN commentators jokingly awarded me ‘Best Hair of the Tournament’. I’d never considered my hair anything special until a fan page uploaded a slow-motion video of me returning a serve to Dominic Thiem sync’d to ‘Buss It’. My hair was loose, sweaty, and the curls bounced around my shoulders as I moved. Suddenly, people were calling me the ‘Fabio of tennis’ and my Instagram blew up.
After that fiasco, I’d had to make an entirely new Instagram account just so I could see messages from my friends. So many people slid into my DMs, it was overwhelming.
‘If you’re going to engage with people like that, you need to be careful,’ Victor had said during one of our ‘now that you’re famous’ meetings. ‘Ask them to sign an NDA. You don’t need girls screenshotting your messages and sending them to gossip magazines.’
I’d promised him that girls could message me all they wanted; I’d never respond. He’d seemed satisfied with my answer, at least.
Training is brutal. The sun beats down on us. Papa serves and I return, but there’s no bite in my forearm. We spend time warming up and getting used to the conditions before we work through our paces. By the time we’re done, I’m dripping with sweat.
‘Focus on the backhand,’ Papa calls. ‘Make sure you’re following through with your shots. Bent elbow, full swing.’
During Wimbledon, Lukas knew I had a poor one-handed backhand and he exploited it. Ever since, Papa’s worked on improving my technique. If I can master it, it’ll take my slicing skill to the next level and provide more power and control over the ball. And, it might just take Lukas by surprise the next time we meet.
Papa serves, but I miscalculate the power behind the ball. I position myself to return with a one-handed backhand, but as soon as the ball hits the strings of my racquet, my hand buckles and I lose it. The racquet bends as the ball veers into the net.
‘Again,’ Papa calls from across the court.
‘Softer this time,’ I say.
He doesn’t serve softer. He sends the ball flying with the same amount of power and speed. But this time, I’m prepared. I soften my elbow and knees and when the ball hits the racquet, I feel in control. Driving through the backhand, I hit the ball crosscourt, making sure to follow through with the full stroke. The ball bounces on the inside corner and then out.
‘Better, Gabriel,’ Papa shouts back. ‘Curve your arm.’
I know, I want to reply, but don’t.
We play for another hour, although ‘play’ is a loose term. Papa hounds me with never-ending serves and I return until my left arm is aching. It’s real Luke and Yoda stuff, and by the time Papa calls the training session, I’m hot and sweaty and irritated.
This is nothing, I remind myself as the sun beats down on us.The tournament hasn’t even begun.
3
Gabriel
Victor calls me over to his laptop the moment I set foot in the apartment. Papa left after training to check out the gym and pool on the ground floor. Victor’s set up his office on the glass dining table. Behind him, there’s a whiteboard with photos of my opponents tacked around the edges, each connected with little red twine, like he’s planning a sinister fight club.
‘They’ve released the draw,’ Victor says. I slide into the seat beside him and peer at the laptop. ‘You’re up against Derbin in the first round. He won a qualifier. Show Court Nine at 11 am. If you win, you’ll face either O’Lachlan or Ujo. That will be at Evonne Goolagong Arena.’
Nathan Derbin is from Ireland; he’s twenty-four and number fifty-three in the world. He’s never won a grand slam but had a decent run in a few ATP tournaments last year.
‘I can take Derbin,’ I mutter as I follow the draw on the screen. As the name indicates, qualifiers have already played three matches to qualify for the Australian Open. You’d think they’d start the tournament tired, but when I qualified for the Australian Open seven years ago, I was in great form and hungry for my next match. ‘Where’s Lukas?’
‘He’s on your side of the draw with Rhodes in the first round.’ Victor taps Lukas’s name on the screen. ‘Hagiwara will likely win his first round to meet Lukas in the second.’
If things go right for both of us this tournament, Lukas and I will meet eventually. It’ll be the first time we’ve played against each other since I crashed out of Wimbledon last year when he beat me in straight sets.
It was the worst match of my life; I’d left the court embarrassed and overwhelmed, and even now, just thinking about that match makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up. I’d avoided Lukas’s calls and messages for weeks before I’d licked my wounds enough to face him. It’s one thing to lose a match, but it’s another to have your arse handed to you by one of your closest friends on international TV.
Beside me, Victor prattles on about matches and show courts, but I’m not really listening. The apartment suddenly feels small, and I’m having trouble focusing on anything except how unnaturally cold the room feels. Papa will be back soon, and he’ll want to talk about strategies and what I did wrong against Derbin last time. After everything that happened with Phoebe this morning, I feel too raw to be picked apart any further.
