by Joe Satoria
“I’m not gonna let you spend the rest of your life here!” he called out from the back of his shaky throat.
She grinned, her thick curly hair shaking on her head. “My kids are adults, your cousins. My husband left five years ago. I have nothing else to do, at least not until they start creating children at least.” She planted a hand on my shoulder, tilting her head as she smiled. “We’ll cut your hair before you go.”
“I’m not—”
She nodded. “Look at you. I see that smile, looking at the match scores, and you have friends there.”
“It’s too much,” I told her.
“Bleedin’ heck, Harv,” my dad shouted, “take a break.”
I didn’t know how to take a break, I didn’t know how to turn my brain off or switch whatever was going on inside me—it had happened, when I was in the quiet space laid in bed beside Jordan—it felt peaceful then, never-ending.
“That’s it,” she said, “I’m booking the flight.” She stole my phone out of my hand. “Which airport are you flying into and where’s your passport?”
“No, no.” I chased her out of the kitchen into the living room as my dad grinned to himself.
The Next Day
I arrived in Hamburg, Germany after lunch.
It was mostly against my will, partly because I’d quit, and there was a level of embarrassment to that, but also because I didn’t want to see Jordan, even if I wanted to see him… I didn’t want to be face-to-face with him.
Sasha had got me a pass for the day.
She was doing well; she’d won both of her games yesterday.
Jordan hadn’t won either of his.
I took a single change of clothes in a backpack and held a one-night reservation at a hostel—shared with seven other people. It was the cheapest I could find.
I went straight to the venue, held at the Am Rothenbaum, not far from the centre. A large stadium ground with all number of people in the nearby parking lot.
My eyes glued to my phone as I texted Sasha to come and find me—there was no way I’d be getting in without that pass. With my backpack on my bag, I continued to approach the entrance.
“Harvey!” She yelled, pulling my attention forward.
She was dressed in a matching tracksuit—all blue, the type you’d see Olympian’s wear. This wasn’t her playing outfit, that would’ve been something mostly white with a skirt.
“Sash!” I wrapped an arm around her.
“How are you feeling?” she asked, pulling me away to look in my eyes.
“Fine,” I offered back, “just something with my dad, I didn’t want to leave him, but—here I am.”
She pinched my arm. “I’m not going to tell you it was a mistake, I’m sure you’ve already heard that.” She pulled away a lanyard from her neck. “I’m glad you’re here to watch anyway,” she said. “I know family always comes first.”
She was right. Family did come first, but she didn’t know the extent at which my dad was sick, or how much he was first, even with my aunt in my life, my dad was my rock.
“Obviously, Jordan took your place,” she let out with a sigh, “so, I guess his dreams are coming true.”
At least one of our dreams were. “Did you talk to him?”
“Yeah, only to tell him he got lucky,” she scoffed. “Other than that, no, he’s been hanging around with this girl.”
“Must be his girlfriend.” The words were choked in my throat—why must it have been his girlfriend, and why would it absolutely tear my heart out to see the two of them together.
“Not that it’s helping, he lost both his games yesterday,” she said, “two more today, then tomorrow, and the finals on Thursday.”
“Wait—ugh, I fly back tomorrow night,” I grumbled.
“That’s fine, just being here feels like a lucky charm,” she said, squeezing my arm in a tug once more.
It wasn’t the first time I’d been inside a large arena like this. I’d been to a couple up and down the country, except they had nowhere near the thousands of seats that this place held.
People flocked in, taking their allocated seats. There were the seats near the front around the court, that’s where I was going to be, I was going to be watching it while people watched on TV. That felt surreal, perhaps my dad would be watching, and while it wasn’t the same because I was only spectating and not playing, I knew he’d be happy to see me either way.
“I need to get changed, but if you need me, it’s to the left and straight down to the player’s room,” she said, “where you will be eventually, because I know you have the talent to get here—I mean, you were invited.”
I was alone once she left and the spaces around me became filled.
I was trying to keep me eye out for someone I knew from the camp, maybe even the scout from the Mitchell Agency, although if I saw him again, I was sure to need a disguise or throw myself into the centre of the court in shame.
Above me, a girl popping gum appeared. She tapped away on her phone, snapping pictures with the sound on obnoxiously. Perhaps she’d seen someone famous I didn’t know.
The one face I did notice was the face beside her. Signature sunglasses and a large hat. Jordan’s mother, she was dressed in a cream blouse with a matching silk scarf.
Back to the woman, must’ve been his girlfriend.
My stomach knotted as I glanced at her behind me. She was pretty. Seemed a little too dressed up for a sporting event, but she was his type: rich. She looked like something that would be nice to have on your arm if that’s all you were into.
A quiet calm lulled over everyone as the court became alive with players and umpires. I’d been too busy looking around to notice him—it wasn’t until the speaker announced that I looked.
Jordan Walsh, up first. His golden skin against the white and blue tennis clothes. I looked away.
He was against Hubert Gretsky—I’d seen his scorecard; he’d won his first two games.
Turning, I looked to Jordan’s mother as she spoke to another. An older man. He looked similar to Jordan, must’ve been his father. He had a newspaper slapped against his knee and glasses pinched on the end of his nose.
As the set started, I was staring.
That’s when he caught me.
Looking right at me like a rabbit caught in headlights.
The ball went right by him.
A shared gasp followed by a snort of laughter from above—his parents.
The scoreboard reflected it: 15-love.
I was the distraction.
Anchored in at either side of the bench. People didn’t appear willing to move.
“If he loses this one, he should stop,” a grumble came out of his mother.
“Shall I book tickets home?” his father scoffed.
The girl tutted. “What about the reservations at the restaurant?”
“Angelica,” the woman sighed, “reservations can be cancelled; besides, you didn’t even want to come.”
“Ugh,” she scoffed, “but it’s on TV.”
Looking away from his family, I looked back to him. He was staring at me as he bounced a tennis ball. I was messing this up for him. Sasha should’ve told me he was first.
His gaze burned a hole through my face.
Fuck.
22. JORDAN
Sitting right below my parents—what was he doing here? He’d quit, I’d taken his place. I didn’t expect to see him, at least not while my family was there.
They’d given me this chance, but win or fail, if they had to spend any more money, I was being cut off. I had to prove myself—and so far, I’d lost two games, and as this one was going, staring down the barrel of an angry Swede, snorting out through his red face—I wasn’t doing well.
The first serve went right by me.
Why was I letting myself get distracted by him? He was one face in a sea of people. The stands were full, this wasn’t the main attraction, this was the pre-event to the Hamburg open.
The racket in my
hand was slick at the handle from sweat. I told myself it was the sun, the heat beating through the opening in the stadium—except, every time I looked over to him, sitting in his shorts and t-shirt, staring right back at me, my heart gave a harder throb.
“Walsh, your serve,” I heard.
I knew. I knew it was my serve.
I bounced the ball from my hand again
Hubert Gretsky had won both games yesterday. Both of them. I’d lost mine. The odds of me winning were—slim.
My serve was weak, the sound of the patter on the ground told everyone as much—not quite the pop, more of a huh. He hit back, harder, picking it up from the court.
I chased it—focused.
30-love.
I wasn’t focused.
Looking back to the stands. He wasn’t there. He’d left. My dad wasn’t watching, but my mum was glaring through her glasses—or sleeping, I couldn’t see. My sister was busy on her phone, snapping pictures, throwing peace signs.
40-love.
Another missed serve.
“Get your head in the game,” a voice called out.
It was followed by some German-accented voice.
Harvey was hard to miss, his clothes were bright—he was headed to the locker rooms. Of course, he was here for Sasha, and I was just—losing—
Losing him again.
I couldn’t let him leave.
I threw my racket and chased after him.
“Harvey! Harvey!”
A faint buzz sounded over the speaker system, followed by a jingle.
At the end of the path, there was a door. He stood by it, turning to see me, pulling at the strap of his backpack.
Faces on either side of the stand looked over.
I reached ahead and pushed the door.
“What?” he asked.
We entered a second hallway; without the crowding of faces watching from above, I let out a sigh. “I’m sorry.”
“What for?”
Where did I have to start? What was I sorry for? I was sorry I’d not left him a note. I was sorry I’d left altogether. I was sorry I didn’t tell him how I’d felt, but most importantly—“I’m sorry we left it like that.”
His brows raised with a head shake. “You didn’t say goodbye, you didn’t say anything. I thought you left because—”
“I left because I couldn’t tell you how I felt,” I told him—I still didn’t think I could now. “I don’t know how I feel.”
Butting his lips in a thin line, he looked away.
“It’s just that—” a stone solidified in my throat. “You’re you, I’m me, we’re different, and I like your different, but I never thought anyone would like mine.”
The hallway was still clear, I wondered if he was waiting for someone to come out. He turned and sighed, I wondered what was going through his head. All I wanted was a glimpse behind those eyes.
“PLAYER, JORDAN WALSH, PLEASE RETURN TO THE COURT.”
“You should go,” he said.
“No,” I grabbed at his hand.
His other hand was still pulling at the backpack strap on his shoulder. “Fine, I had questions, I wanted to know, like really know what any of that meant to you. I’ve done nothing but think about you and worry about my dad.” He let out a sigh, pulling his hand away. “You’re not worth taking up all this space in my head when I have bigger things to worry about.”
“No, no,” I said, trying to get at his hand again. “I wanted to tell you the same.”
“What? That you chose taking care of someone instead of trying to achieve your dreams?”
I only knew what limited information those texts had given me. I knew his dad was sick, he must’ve been—that was why he’d quit. I was taking his space because he pulled out to take care of his dad. “I’ll quit,” I said. “I quit.” I said it louder. “I’m going to lose anyway.”
“Shut up. No, you’re not.”
“I’m being serious, seeing you, that’s the first time I’ve felt anything ,” I told him, my heart aching in my chest. “I can’t get your face out of my head, and I can’t stop thinking about the way you smile when you impress yourself from a strong serve.” My lips bubbled into a smile, looking to that same face and that same smile back at me.
“And I can’t stop thinking about you,” he said, “but not the same way, I can’t stop thinking about how you left without a word. I can’t stop thinking about feeling you actually liked me, and then as I started to accept you might—you left.”
He turned away. I let him walk.
“Please,” I said, my arms sinking on my shoulders.
My name was called once again.
If I didn’t go, I’d forfeit the game—I didn’t care.
He turned.
I was still there. I hadn’t moved.
“Just go,” he said.
I didn’t want to. I stepped forward. “Tell me you don’t feel anything.”
“I do,” he said, “I just can’t do this. I thought when I saw you I’d feel differently, maybe it would feel like the same thing we had, but now—”
“Now, it’s real,” I said, “it feels real, and I don’t want you to leave without saying goodbye. I don’t want you to go again.” I stepped closer. We were a foot apart, staring into each other’s eyes.
“I can’t promise you,” he whimpered, “we had something, but I don’t think we can get it back.”
“We can try.” I took his hand.
As he looked away, I pulled him by his warm hands. My hands moved to his body, pressed around him, squeezing him into my chest.
Raising his head, he kissed me.
His lips lingered. Fireworks, explosions, bombs set off inside me. Better than winning—the feeling was unmatched.
“I like you, but—” he started.
“I love you.”
I’d said it.
You couldn’t take an ‘I love you’ away. I’d meant it; I didn’t want to take it back. I let it out, and he’d accepted it with wide eyes and—shock, he was going to cry.
“JORDAN JAMES WALSH!” my mother’s voice screeched.
“JORDAN!” my father joined in.
In a knee-jerk reaction, I’d pulled my hands from his.
They’d seen it. Everything?
Harvey stood by my side, looking to me.
“Mum, dad—I—I—” looking to him, he stared—what did he want me to say?
“What are you doing?” she asked, “so what you’re a—”
“Pansy,” my father said. His face turned, the way it turns when you smell sour milk. That’s how he looked at me, that’s how he looked at us.
I couldn’t tell by my mother’s face, the plastic surgeon should’ve be commended. “We can get you into the best therapy.”
“Jordan,” Harvey said from my side, sliding his hand into mine—the perfect slotting of our fingers together.
“Mum, dad,” I grumbled back, pulling my hand away as I stepped towards them—and a step away from Harvey.
“Disgusting,” my father scoffed, “we’re going home.” He turned on a step and was already gone.
My mother stood shaking her head. “If you come home now, it’ll be ok.”
I turned to Harvey—his heart, I knew it was breaking. I’d poured my soul out to, soaked him in my feelings, and now.
“I’m sorry.”
It was my only option.
23. HARVEY
In the minutes that passed, I felt hope, I felt pain, and I felt like I could curl up into a ball and die. Like whiplash, I didn’t know about it until an hour later when I was alone—his body shrinking as he walked away in replays through my mind.
I knew it was too good to be true, like a cruel dream where you think you’re getting what you want, only for it to be snatched away by the morning light. That happened, except there was no morning light, there was no waking up, it was just pain.
Nobody knew. Nobody saw.
I was quiet. I was always quiet.
In th
e end, Jordan was disqualified, leaving me again without a goodbye, and if he thought that had been a goodbye—I couldn’t think of anything worse.
He didn’t have a choice—rich people always have a choice.
It’s the people like me who don’t get them.
Sasha didn’t win either. She came third out of eight. I didn’t see her play the final games, but her final match win or lose meant she was ranked high, she’d only lost one match, and that was against the woman leading.
I allowed her to wash over me—everything she said, soft and soothing, her words and excitement, she’d lost, but she’d won the attention of sponsors, and those were the life blood.
It wasn’t over for me; except I couldn’t get a call back from the Mitchell Agency.
Four Weeks Later
The only thing looking up since I couldn’t rely on speaking to Sasha were my A-level results. I knew I failed a couple exams, and I knew I’d need to re-sit a few when September came around.
That was ok, I’d been looking at universities too. I wanted to do something that could get us out of this place. The lift rarely worked and with my dad needing because of the wheelchair, we needed options. His disability allowance and the government wouldn’t move him into a ground floor apartment or bungalow, either because he had round-the-clock care.
I’d barely slept as my mind spiralled—Jordan, exams, my dad, university—Jordan, exams, my dad—
BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.
My alarm went off, even though I was holding the phone waiting for results to be posted to our individual student portals.
I threw my head back as I kicked my legs free in the duvet.
I had a single bed, pushed against the wall of the small rectangle room. There was only enough room for the bed and a small desk at one side with my dresser at the other. It was cosy, my space, even if it was small.
At the curtain, I pulled at one side to let in a brighter stream of light.
It was still early, and the results still hadn’t been posted.
They said results would be posted at 9:00 A.M. It wasn’t nine, but it was close.
Falling from my hands, the phone slapped my face.
