The Open Era

1

In tennis, love means zero, and yeah, that sounds about right.

My bag hangs heavy on my shoulders as we enter the tunnel. It feels even heavier when the roar of Arthur Ashe Stadium reaches my ears. Twenty-four thousand people are waiting for me.

The tunnel walls are lined with larger-than-life photographs of past winners-no trophies in hands yet, no smiles for the camera. The photos capture what's required before the celebration: the pure determination, the ambition, needed to make it here in the first place.

A woman with a headset stops us just before the entrance to the court, and my knees weaken. This is not how I imagined this moment. This is not how I dreamed it. I've spent my whole life training for this. I should feel ready. I should feel strong.

But all I feel is Diego Cruz behind me, standing only a few feet away.

We haven't talked in two days. Or, I should say, he hasn't talked to me in two days. I texted him asking if he was okay. I double texted to apologize, even though I shouldn't have. And yes, seconds later, I triple texted, because I simply could not help myself.

It started as a friendship, something I desperately lack in my life. I haven't had a real one since freshman year of high school, so of course I fell for it. But then it all spun out of control. I can't get over how the same guy who's ghosting me looked into my eyes and told me everything would be all right.

That was a lie, because it very much isn't all right. And it's all happening at the worst possible time.

Instead of focusing on the absolute biggest moment of my life, I'm spiraling about him. I could fucking scream. Why can't I settle my mind? Why can't I tune this out? But the truth is I've never been very good at that. And this shit is next-level.

"Austin, I'll cue you to walk out in a few seconds," Headset says to me.

My stomach drops.

Discreetly, I lift my hand to my chest, try to take a full breath, but it doesn't feel like air is going in. Not a good sign. Please, don't let this happen again. I've somehow found a way to handle my anxiety over the past two weeks, but my defenses could crumble at any point.

"New York . . ." The voice of the announcer booms over a sound effect of a heartbeat. I almost confuse it for my own.

Bump, bump. Bump, bump.

"This year marks his very first appearance at the US Open . . ." Bump, bump. "At twenty years old, from the United States, please welcome . . . Austin Hardy."

The lights dim. The music swells. Headset gives me a friendly push, and I step onto the court of the largest tennis stadium in the world.

Holy shit, this place is packed. Rows and rows of fans tower up into the night sky.

A kid in the stands wears a white headband just like mine and holds a flag tightly in his little hand-a pride flag. He waves it as hard as he can as I walk by, his eyes as bright as the stadium lights.

I spot another flag, and another one, and another-a sea of rainbows.

Of all nights for this specific match to fall, coincidence scheduled it on Pride Day at the US Open.

The crowd is cheering for me. They've had my back since my first match here. You'd think that would help, but if I'm being honest, the pressure is close to killing me.

Smile, stupid. Wave or something. Act like you're anything close to normal.

I show some teeth, lift an arm, and try my best to act cool. But I'm pretty sure I look like someone who's just learned how to walk as I make my way across the court, enormous broadcast cameras tracking my every step.

Over in the corner, my mom and sister sit in my players' box, clapping with everyone else. Love and excitement pour out of them, and for a moment, I feel a little better. I'm sure they're freaking out right now. I am too, just in the complete opposite way.

Robbie, my coach, is next to them, hand pressed to his mouth. He gives me his signature nod, but there's an extra dip in his eyebrows, holding the weight of the past year and a half-me dropping out of college, the accident at practice, and so much more. He doesn't know what's been going on exactly-I haven't told him-but I know he senses the shift in my demeanor, in my attitude, in my game.

He's worried again.

I make it to my bench and start to unpack my bag: racket, electrolytes, container of dried fruit for midmatch energy. Robbie packed five bananas-one per set-in case I need them. Everything has been perfectly prepared and placed.

The voice of the announcer is back, with a sentence that kicks my nausea into a new gear. "And returning to Arthur Ashe Stadium tonight, the number two player in the world, at twenty-three years old, from Mexico, please welcome-"

The crowd screams. I instinctively turn to watch him enter.

"-Diego Cruz!"

Fuck.

Every time. Every time I look at him, even now, he knocks me out. How is it possible to be that talented, to destroy everyone in his path, and to look like some sort of muscled-up superhero doing it?

He waves to the crowd with an ease I can only dream of. And from what I can see, he's completely unaffected by me. I search his face for any evidence otherwise. Nothing. Just those big brown eyes, that thick head of hair, and a shit-eating grin, his usual commercial for confidence.

We meet the chair umpire at the center of the court for the coin toss. On the other side of the net, Diego is alive with energy as I sneak glances his way. He's bouncing on his feet, hitting aggressive shadow swings, jumping as high as he can. This is his normal routine, but this time it feels like he's cranking up the intimidation.

He wins the coin toss and chooses to serve first, because of course he does.

"Okay, gentlemen. Photo, please. This way." The chair umpire gestures us together for the prematch tradition, and for the first time all day, our eyes meet. It happens so fast that I don't know who looks away first. Our shoulders brush as we turn toward the cameras. Gluing my arms to my side, I work every muscle in my face to paint on a smile, wincing through the flashes of light. Please, by all means, let's capture this wonderful moment.

And then . . . a touch pulses up my spine. His hand rests softly on my back. It's over before I have time to be shocked. It's a normal pose, but I wasn't expecting it with him today, and I certainly wasn't going to initiate it.

"You good?" he asks, lifting his voice over the crowd, turning to me slightly.

My smile fades. Diego waits for my response as he backpedals to his side of the court to start our warm-up.

"What the fuck does that mean?" I snap back reflexively.

That's all he has to say to me? You good? Seriously? Fuck this guy. My nerves evaporate as blood rushes to my face and anger takes over.

I shouted it way too loudly, but at this point I don't care. Everyone's already talking about me.

I'm already the story.

Austin Hardy, the first openly gay guy to compete in a Grand Slam tournament. The spectacle. The significance. Austin Hardy is making history.

I don't want to make history. I just want to play tennis. I just want to win.

I glance up at the commentators' booth, looming high above the court, broadcasting into homes and sports bars around the world. My ears burn.

Will Austin Hardy continue to make history tonight, or will his impressive run since qualifiers be cut short by certified asshole and world number two Diego Cruz?

What they don't know is there's an even better story beneath the surface.

They don't know Diego Cruz has hung out with me almost every day since we met.

They don't know he kissed me two nights ago.

They don't know he hasn't spoken to me since, and that it's crushing me.

And they don't know I'm about to crush him back.

2

Ten days earlier

Bits of light filter through the towel draped fully over my head-it's my last-ditch effort to focus on closing out this match. A bead of sweat slides down my lips, because apparently the towel creates a sauna effect. Not my best idea in today's heat, but I'll try anything at this point. Everything is on the line, and I can't get in my own way here.

"Time."

The umpire summons me to life and up from the bench. The towel comes off, the sun floods my eyes again, and everything rushes back to reality.

It's the final round of qualifiers, the final set in this match, and I'm one game away from my dream-one game away from a spot in the US Open. No big deal.

I'm playing on the smallest court here, I think, but the three rows of bleachers are packed. Every pair of eyes is on me as I make my way to the baseline to serve for the match.

Breathe, Austin. Just breathe. And settle the fuck down.

I start my routine. Bounce, bounce. Bounce, bounce. Wipe mouth with wristband. Long inhale. Ball to racket, lift, and toss. The ball hangs above me for a split second as my racket dips behind my head and-whoosh-I attack.

The ball flies, speeding across the court, aimed right down the T.

My opponent, a six-foot-eight-inch giant across the net, jolts to the side to return the ball, but he can't even touch it. With that wingspan, he should be able to-those gangly arms could reach clear over the net to slap my face if he wanted to-but my serve has too much speed for him. My beautiful ace is met with claps and cheers from the crowd. So far, so good.

The giant shakes his head in disbelief-in me or in himself, I'm not sure, but in tennis it's usually lack of belief in yourself. I can't believe I lost that point. Always beating yourself up. Always. It's a battle in your head, in addition to the one against your opponent-a battle no one sees but you. Move your feet. Why are you so slow? Put some spin on that ball, dumbass. How could you miss that? How could you let everyone down? Lovely thoughts I have all the time. But right now I'm doing a great job of keeping them on mute.

It helps when you're winning.

"All right, Auz!" someone shouts from the stands.

It's Mom, sitting off to my right, in a huge sun hat. I told her not to yell like that, because it breaks my concentration. I can't get too angry, though. The crowd has been wild for this final set. If they can shout, why can't she?

But now it's getting to me. That singular voice, that singular sentence of encouragement, dives into the depths of my brain, and I'm thinking about Dad again, and wishing he was here.

Stop. Settle. Serve. You're almost there.

I settle and so does the crowd, only the sounds from neighboring matches remain-grunts, sharp squeaks of shoes on courts, and the satisfying pops of balls colliding with strings.

I serve-smack into the net. And then I do it again. A double fault.

Because I'm a stupid piece of shit.

But despite this small setback, I'm still locked in.

If your mind is clear, if you can bury the doubts, if you can picture it-the point, the game, the set, the match-you can get there. And right now I see it as clearly as this spectacular sunset over Queens. I've been locked in the entire week, and I'm not stopping here.

I take a breath, and the thick summer air fills my lungs.

Let's fucking go.


Ten minutes later, my older sister, Charlotte, plants her hands on my shoulders and shouts into my face, shakes me as hard as she can, can’t control her excitement. I’d be in the same boat if I weren’t so wiped from this slugfest.

"Okay, okay, Char. I'm shook enough," I say, trying to calm her.

"I can't believe you did it! I mean, I absolutely can, but oh my god!" she screams.

I have a celebratory hug with Mom, and Robbie grabs me next, his salt-and-pepper stubble scraping my cheek.

"You were so good, Austin. That was so good," he says, beaming with pride. I beam right back. This is the reward for our hard work. This is what it feels like. "Hey, listen," he adds, his tone shifting. "I think they're setting up for an interview over there. Don't sweat it, okay?"

"Yup," I say after a groan. We've been out here almost three hours, and as happy as I feel, I'd love to be in bed right now, and not doing the single thing I hate most.

"This one isn't piped over the speakers or anything. You'll be fine," he says. I turn to head back to the court, and sure enough, there's a guy with a mic waiting for me.

A wave of nerves hits. I am not friends with interviews. I feel a weird pressure to be funny, to say something interesting. Meanwhile, I judge every word that comes out of my mouth in real time. I wish my performance on court could just speak for itself.

"Austin, hey. I'm Ryan. Give me another second here," the guy says, with the voice, face, and backward hat of an entitled frat boy. He fiddles with the mic as a cameraperson positions himself off to the side-and then we're off.

"Austin, congratulations on qualifying for the US Open. You played three grueling matches this week. How do you feel?"

"Honestly, I can't feel very much right now. I'm pretty sure my legs are about to give out." I laugh as if I'm joking, but a chair would be very nice right now. "In all seriousness, I feel great. This has been a dream since I was a kid."

"Well, at only twenty, you're one of the youngest men in the tournament this year-truly remarkable, and not far from a kid."

"Tell that to my mom. She's trying to kick me off her phone plan."

His polite laugh doesn't quite make it up to his eyes. This is going well.