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‘Someone’s printed a story about me—about us. They’ve told people I’m gay, they’ve—’
‘Oh, fuck, oh,fuck.’ I hear Noah’s bedsprings creak. ‘I’ll be there as soon as I can.’
He hangs up and the enormity of the situation descends on me like a wave, suffocating and overwhelming. Someone has taken a photo of me without my permission. Someone has published it online without my permission; has outed me to the public, and everything,everythingthat I’ve been working up the courage to do in my own time has been taken away from me—just like that.
I feel powerless, and overwhelmed, andangry,but mostly, like I’m going to throw up.
When I thought about coming out to my parents, I’d expected it to be on my terms. I’d imagined I would go over what to say, prepare and memorise my words and answers. But now, no words come to me. There’s nothing I can say.
‘You’re going to be okay, Gabriel,’ Papa says.
‘I didn’t want to tell you this way, I—’ I swallow down my emotions. ‘I had a wholespeechplanned. I wanted to do itright.’
I wasn’t brave enough, I want to tell him.Iwas scared for so long.
Wordlessly, Papa goes into the kitchen and pulls two mugs from the cupboard before running the coffee machine. I want to tell him not to bother, I don’t think I can stomach anything right now, but I lack the energy even to do that.
Papa comes back and places the coffee on the table in front of me, but I don’t reach for it.
‘This tournament has not been easy on you,’ Papa says.
I scoff. Understatement of the year.
‘But,’ he continues, ‘I hope it has shown you that, regardless of what happens, I will always be there for you. I will always support you. I will always love you. I don’t want to say that your being gay doesn’t matter to me—’ I turn to him, unsure what he’s about to say. ‘Because it clearly matters to you.’
‘Papa, I—’
He raises one large palm, silencing me. ‘Let me finish. I thought that you just hadn’t found anyone special, that you were like me and focused on your career. I can see now that keeping this side of you a secret has weighed heavily on you. I’m sorry it took me so long to see that; to offer you the support you needed.’
I sniff and wipe the tears from my eyes.
‘I know you aren’t homophobic,’ I say. ‘But I can imagine it’s different when it’s your son.’
‘Not different,’ Papa assures me. ‘Never different.’
My phone vibrates on the coffee table. Another Google Alert.
‘Ignore it,’ Papa says. ‘Victor’s meeting with our lawyers. This will go away, Gabriel, I promise.’
Papa throws an arm around me, and I curl into his side, resting my cheek against his chest. We haven’t done this since I was a kid. I can hear his heartbeat through his t-shirt, and he smells like Old Spice and deodorant. Comforting. Like home.
A few minutes later, Victor bursts through the door carrying his laptop. He’s still dressed in his plaid pyjama shorts but wears a grey suit jacket over his white t-shirt. He grasps my coffee mug and takes a big mouthful of lukewarm coffee.
‘Gabriel,’ he says, slightly breathless. ‘We’re working on getting the photograph and the article taken down, and the lawyers are looking at avenues of legal action. Adidas called, the Open’s called—’ He pauses. ‘They want to make sure you’re okay.’
Okay?‘I’m . . . fine.’
Papa’s arm tightens around me. ‘They’re concerned for you.’
The Open. I have to play tonight, I realise. AgainstLukas.
‘We’ll understand if . . . you want to retire,’ Papa says carefully.
‘What? No!’ My immediate reaction is so visceral; it even surprises me. If I retire now, they’ll know they got to me. I’m not naïve. I know there are people out there who will dislike me—hate me—for who I am, and some will see my bowing out of the Open as a victory. ‘I’m here to play. I just need to get my head right.’
Papa looks to Victor and they do that weird ‘talking without talking’ thing they always do. ‘If you think you can play,’ Papa says eventually.
‘I can.’ The reality is I have to.
