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‘Withconviction.’
I suck in a deep breath. ‘I’M GOING TO KICK YOUR ARSE!’
‘Fuck yeah you are!’ Lukas bursts out laughing, making a staff member turn at the commotion. Outside, the stadium goes dark. Static crackles through the speaker system.
Lukas turns away from me. It’s time.
‘Welcome to the first quarter-final of the Australian Open,’ a man’s voice booms through the speaker system. ‘First, please give a big welcome to your number two seed, from Sweden, Lukas Froebel!’
Lukas steps into the stadium lights. The audience erupts around him. He looks like a fucking rock star. So confident, so sure of himself. I do not know how he does it.
‘And now, the fourteenth seed, from France, Gabriel Madani!’
With a deep breath, I adjust the bag on my shoulder and step out onto the court. There’s applause, but I can tell it’s not as rapturous as the applause for Lukas. Raising my hand to wave at the crowd, I look to my player’s box. I need to see Noah, I need—
A poster catches my eye.
The wordALLEZis in big black writing over a rainbow flag. The Pride flag.
I stop in the middle of my walkout. Lukas is looking at it too, shielding his eyes from the stadium lights. The fan holding the poster is close enough that I can see her face: she looks young, maybe fifteen years old, and she waves the poster vigorously when she realises she’s been noticed.
‘ALLEZ, GABI!’ the girl shouts. The crowd erupts into applause, and then they begin to get to their feet. The match hasn’t even begun but they’re standing for me.
Allez, allez, allez.
More flags appear, dotted across the crowd, waved proudly under the stadium lights.
Maybe this is what Phoebe meant, all that time ago, when she said that my coming out could help people. I never wanted this; I never wanted to carry this weight on my shoulders. I’d always worried I wasn’t strong enough, wasn’tgoodenough, that I’d make too many mistakes and let people down. But that’s not what this is about at all.
I take a breath before raising my hand to thank the crowd, to show my love, and receive it right back.
It’s time to play.
It’s two sets apiece.
6–4, 6–7, 6–7, 7–5.
My breath catches as I stare at Lukas across the net. This is the hardest match I’ve played in a long time. We’ve fought tooth and nail for every single point, with tie breakers on two sets. I almost had him in the fourth and the nerves that come from being so close to a win jostled in my stomach—and I squandered my advantage. Before I knew it, he had called on something deep within him, some power, and bested me.
He’s still dangerous. He’s still hungry. And I’m still in trouble.
Lukas wipes his brow on his towel and sets up by the baseline, awaiting my serve.
Taking a breath, I bounce the ball once, twice, and then send it across the net. He returns with incredible force. I lunge for it but don’t make it.
Love–fifteen.
I shake out my hair and sweat drips down my neck and onto the astroturf. Grabbing another ball from the ball kid, I set up to serve again.
Ace.
The crowd cheers. Scores are level again.
Three quick points later and I win the service match, taking a small lead.
I look to my player’s box. Noah’s watching intently, hunched over with half of his face in his hands. Papa and Victor are talking to each other, leaning in close.
If I can break Lukas here, I might out-serve him on my next service game and have him 0–3.
