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Taylor almost screws up when the ATP media person asks, “What are you obsessed with?”
Tommy, Taylor almost says.
“Winning,” he says instead.
Taylor smashes his face into the firm hotel pillow to erase the memory. Tommy is his best friend.
Or at least, Tommy was his best friend, until Taylor tripped over his two left feet into unknown territory. Now the lines are smudged and blurred. Now the name Tommy tinges his cheeks and lingers in the back of his throat.
Tommy means fumbling fingers in the dark, shower water trickling down a sunburned back, dexterous hands wrapped around him in the locker room.
It’s all casual. It would be insane to think otherwise.
Tommy is effortlessly casual, after all, with his hat tipped backwards and his shirt draped uselessly around his neck. He Tweets idiotic things and calls Sinner beautiful with a twinkle in his eye that says, I don’t take this too seriously .
It pisses Taylor off, how casual Tommy can be about tennis, about life. About him.
Taylor has never been good at casual. Underneath his deep voice and California cool, he is coiled tight with ambition. He has spent his whole life reaching and striving and grasping while Tommy drank more beer than he practiced.
Taylor was so close to the top. He cracked the top five and snagged an invite to the ATP Finals. He hugged the glass Indian Wells trophy tightly to his chest, electric with joy and intoxicated by slaying a giant. The press cast him as the next Andy Roddick.
Then Taylor slipped, and Tommy caught up. And somehow, Tommy made a Grand Slam semi-final before him.
That fact stings sometimes at night, when Taylor thinks about all the chances that have disappeared like dry sand through his fingers.
Taylor wants it more. That’s his curse.
Tommy is impossible to hate. Taylor roots for Tommy over everyone except himself. He has to. They’ve known each other since they were kids with noodles for arms. As roommates at the USTA base in Florida, they fought over the communal peanut butter, tracked sand all over the floors, and snuck out to play Horse on the basketball courts after curfew.
Maybe Taylor loved Tommy even then, with his ridiculous side swept hair and baggy shorts and tight tanks. He misses the days when they lived in each other's pockets, when being ranked inside the Top 100 felt like a big deal. Back then, their roommate Reilly always stood safely in the middle, keeping the lines intact.
The balance shifted when Reilly dropped off the tour with an injury, and eventually Taylor couldn’t stop himself. He stumbled far past casual, and now he’ll probably ruin his longest and deepest friendship.
Fuck. If he can’t sleep, he should do something productive. He should practice his breathing, visualize winning his match tomorrow. Stretch.
Taylor switches on his phone and pulls up Tommy’s second round match replay instead. Tommy is mesmerizing to watch. Taylor has a monster forehand and a killer serve. Tommy has it all - speed, control, serve and volley, slice.
He watches Tommy’s limbs slide across the court, his movements indistinguishable from the European players who grew up playing on red clay. The good stuff, as Tommy calls it.
Taylor knows Tommy won in straights. He still whisper cheers at his phone. Come on, Tommy. After each set, he looks at the door, waiting for Tommy’s knock, even though they agreed not to hook up during Grand Slams. They both wanted to stay focused and avoid distractions. To get locked in.
The truth is, Tommy distracts him without even touching him.
Taylor is sick with anticipation over meeting Tommy in the quarters, the inexorable march towards one another in the draw. They will both leave it all out on the court like they did in Acapulco. He dreads it. He wants to win. He wants to collapse into Tommy’s arms over the net and feel utterly, completely known.
Taylor falls asleep with his phone in hand, listening to Tommy’s grunts.
–
After the fifth straight day of rain at Roland Garros, Taylor is tired of waiting. His muscles are loose and limber after warming up, and then he is forced to cool down again. He wishes tennis were playable in the rain. He would prefer to run through the downpour, hair plastered to his head and goosebumps prickling at his skin.
Anything is better than waiting.
Taylor wishes he had 24 slams so he could be guaranteed a spot on a covered court and know his playtime with certainty. Waiting means being alone with his thoughts, his high hopes and deep-seated doubts. I’m good enough to beat him. Am I good enough to beat him?
He can’t sustain the constant thrum of nerves that course through him before every match for hours, and he feels exhausted and depleted before even taking the court. Sometimes Taylor thinks the only reason he beat Nadal at Indian Wells is because the searing pain in his ankle drowned out the perfectionist voice in his head.
Taylor retreats to his hotel room and plays Apex on his PS4 Slim for a bit. The violence of a shooter game is oddly comforting, somehow less of a bloodsport than tennis. When his fingers start cramping, he reluctantly lowers his headset and returns to the player’s lounge to continue his vigil.
Circles of empty armchairs and unoccupied tables are scattered across the lounge. The other players scheduled to play the third round must be hanging out with their teams. The only other person in the lounge is Tommy, who is stretched out on his side on the carpet, eyes closed and knuckles tucked underneath his suntanned cheek.
Tommy’s always been able to sleep anywhere, comfortably nestling himself into the crook of Taylor’s shoulder on a hotel couch or curling up on the floor of the airport using Taylor’s sweatshirt as a pillow. He looks so peaceful that Taylor longs to do something stupid, like lie down next to him and map the shadows of his stubble.
It’s casual, Taylor reminds himself.
He nudges Tommy with his foot, and Tommy smiles up at him through bleary eyes.
“Hey, T.”
“Hey. I can’t believe you can sleep like this before a match.”
Tommy yawns. “The rain’s still going, right? I have an alarm. It seems like it’s going to be another couple of hours.”
Taylor nods.
“It reminds me of US Open Juniors. Remember?” Tommy asks.
Taylor obviously remembers his first junior Slam title, beating Tommy under the lights while roars echoed from the men’s final on Arthur Ashe. He and Tommy spent the rain delay together, playing card games while their knees knocked under the table.
It seems impossible that the US Open Juniors was almost a decade in the past.
“That was ages ago.”
“Mm.”
Taylor sprints as fast as he can, and time outruns him easily. He’s had a crush on Tommy since he was 14 years old, and he’s never said anything about it. What is he waiting for, retirement? How is it possible that he can get Tommy off, but he can’t tell him that he wants more? That he wants Tommy in all the ways he can have him?
Because it’s absurd , Taylor’s brain supplies. What does he expect, fucking roses and chocolate? Tommy doesn’t see him that way, and he never will. This thing, this- situationship is about two athletes relieving stress in a high-pressure environment. That’s it. Taylor needs to take what he can get and be grateful he has such a good friend on Tour.
He forces himself to continue the conversation about that previous rain delay.
“That’s when we played Odds Are and you had to-”
“Wear the leopard print outfit to the airport, yeah.”
Both men laugh at the memory. Tommy attracted some wolf-whistles from their fellow airline passengers that day, dressed in a tight-fitting, loudly patterned women’s quarter zip pullover.
“I looked hella good in that fit,” Tommy adds without any trace of embarrassment.
You always do, Taylor almost says. He bites his lip hard.
“It was honestly like, better than that neon yellow fit you had going in Rome. You looked like a lemon.”
“Nah, you’re jealous. My fits are the freshest on the circuit. More exciting than your black-and-white fits, anyway.” Tommy sits up and brushes the shoulders of his New Balance jacket.
“Boss is classy,” Taylor sniffs. “Timeless.”
“Your sponsors aren’t here. You can admit they’re boring.” Tommy grabs the hem of Taylor’s black minimalist shirt, and Taylor rolls away with a laugh.
“No really, I’m glad I’m not with Nike anymore. I don’t have to wear that like, salmon swirly shirt that Shapo’s wearing.”
“You look good in pink,” Tommy says offhandedly.
“Thanks.” Taylor looks at the carpet and prays his tan hides the flush of his cheeks. Tommy collapses back onto the carpet, short shorts skimming up his thighs.
“Man, I’m so bored. I already scrolled through Instagram for like an hour and then slept. I’m so ready to play,” Tommy sighs, staring up at the ceiling.
“I know… I gamed for a while but I feel like I have to save my energy for my match.”
“I forget how seriously you take video games. You could play for fun, you know.”
“They’re not games, they’re esports.”
“Right. Esports,” Tommy says with mock seriousness. “Hey, I know what we could do to pass the time.”
Taylor pictures leading Tommy back to his room and pushing him up against the wall. He would run his hands down the smooth expanse of Tommy’s abs while rocking his hips against Tommy’s. He curls his fist at the thought. He needs to preserve his energy to beat Kokkinakis.
“We said we wouldn’t- during a Slam,” Taylor mutters.
“Not that,” Tommy says with a knowing grin. “We could play Odds Are, though.”
Taylor fidgets in an armchair, bouncing his leg to hide his embarrassment. His obsession must be painfully transparent. Tommy was clearly thinking about reliving innocent childhood memories, not fondling Taylor in a darkened hotel. Taylor feels like a creep.
“Alright,” Taylor agrees. “Let’s play Odds Are.”
“You go first,” Tommy says.
Taylor should start with a harmless dare. This game tends to escalate quickly until someone is dared into something outrageous to save face, like getting their ears pierced or getting a tattoo.
“Hmm… odds out of 100 that you switch kits with me.”
Tommy scratches his chin. “Aren’t we like- contractually obligated to wear our brands?”
Taylor shrugs. “Say a different number from me, then. 3… 2… 1…”
“100,” Tommy says at the same time as Taylor says, “52.”
“Damn. Your turn.”
“Okay, I’m thinking… Odds out of 100 that you tell Gauff that Shelton’s in love with her,” Tommy says.
Taylor groans. Ben Shelton is the opposite of subtle. He brings Coco macaroons at breakfast and goes to escape rooms with her during every tournament. No one likes escape rooms that much.
Taylor would truly love to give Ben shit about Coco, if Ben didn’t suspect his crush on Tommy. Sometimes Ben stares intently at the two of them while they’re lost in conversations conducted in their own private language, built on memories and inside jokes.
“No way, I’m not getting involved in that.”
“Say a different number from me, then,” Tommy parrots. “3…2…1…”
“82.”
“40.”
“Your turn,” Tommy prompts.
There’s a wistfulness in falling back into the old familiar patterns and grooves of their friendship. Tommy leans back onto Taylor’s shins as they talk comfortably about nothing at all.
“Okay. Um, odds out of 50 that you eat escargot while we’re in Paris,” Taylor dares.
Tommy pulls a disgusted face. “74.”
“68. Shit that was close. You.”
“Odds out of 2 that… you kiss me. Right here, right now,” Tommy says. He flashes Taylor an impish grin, the grin he uses to dare Taylor to climb over chain-link fences and dive off platform diving boards and skinny dip in the ocean. He knows Taylor can’t refuse a challenge.
Taylor’s breath hitches in his throat, and he instinctively scans the deserted lounge. Kissing Tommy would unlock a whole new level of intimacy. He’s given Tommy a sloppy hand job, not kissed him in public in broad daylight at a tournament.
It’s probably just a dare to Tommy, some way to fool around and fill the hours until his match. It doesn’t mean anything.
Taylor teeters between his choices. He wants to kiss Tommy badly, but he doesn’t want everything to collapse with one wrong move and topple over like a Jenga tower.
“2,” both men say simultaneously. Taylor’s stomach swoops.
“Looks like I’m getting a kiss,” Tommy says, twisting his body to face Taylor and pursing his lips expectantly.
It’s unfair how classically handsome Tommy has become. He’s grown into his looks over the years, filled out and solidified in all the right places. He looked like a knockoff Florida version of Justin Bieber back then, and now he’s a man with broad shoulders, green eyes and fluffy brown hair that Taylor wants to ruffle.
“C’mon, I’m not going to like- we’re in the player’s lounge,” Taylor says hoarsely.
“You can never back out of Odds Are,” Tommy says solemnly. “I don’t make the rules.”
Taylor sighs, gazing down at Tommy, who is now perched on his knees on the ground. He instinctively licks his lips as Tommy meets his eyes. Slowly, slowly, Taylor presses his fingertips lightly against the swell of Tommy’s throat. When Tommy swallows, a shiver ripples down Taylor’s spine.
“Hey guys.”
Taylor snatches his hand back.
“Shelton. Hey.”
Taylor could punch Ben Shelton in the face for many reasons - reaching the semi-finals at the US Open last year, briefly taking Taylor’s rightful spot as American No. 1 this year, and now interrupting his moment with Tommy.
“What are you guys doing?”
“Playing Odds Are,” Tommy says, when Taylor glares silently at him.
Ben looks back and forth between them and seems to decide silence is his best course of action.
“I’ll play.”
“Okay. Odds out of 100 that you ask Medvedev to play doubles with you,” Tommy says easily. “3…2…1…”
Taylor hunches over in his chair and stops listening. He brushes his fingers across his lips and pushes aside the disappointment of almosts. He has tennis to think about.
–
Kokkanakis claws his way to a fifth set, and Taylor duels it out to reach the second week of Roland Garros for the first time. Even after a late night of press and physio, adrenaline thumps through his veins as he steps out of the icy hotel shower and wraps himself in a towel.
The landscape for American men has shifted again. Tommy had all the momentum going into this tournament, and then he unraveled against Cerundolo. Now Taylor is the last American man standing. The tournament is wide open this year, with Sinner and Alcaraz injured and Djokovic showing signs of age.
It’s time for a new champion. It’s time for Taylor to win his first Slam.
A knock on the door reveals Tommy standing on the threshold with his hoodie cinched up around his head. New lines crease across his forehead and around the corners of his mouth. His shoulders are slumped.
Guilt seeps into Taylor’s triumph. He doesn’t know what to say or how to address the awkwardness of the moment. He waits for Tommy to talk first. He doesn’t want to sound like a dick.
The silence expands.
“He’s tough. Cerundolo. He beat me last year in the third,” Taylor finally says.
“I don’t know why he always beats me. His level kind of- came out of nowhere. I was watching his matches, and he wasn’t playing like that before,” Tommy says dully.
“It sucks,” Taylor says, fully aware of how inadequate it sounds.
There is nothing else he can say. Losing should get easier, since they lose practically every week. It doesn’t. Losing cuts deep welts into his skin every single time. And the worst part is, there is no one to blame but himself.
Taylor didn’t think Tommy felt the losses as deeply as he did, though. He usually rebounds quickly after a hamburger and a beer. “You’re disappointed.”
Hurt flashes briefly across Tommy’s face before settling back into a tight smile.
“Yeah, I’m disappointed. Is that so hard to believe? That I care about tennis?”
“No, that’s not what I meant-”
“Of course I care. I’m a Top 20 player. I’m not as dramatic about winning and losing as you or Shelton, but I care.”
“Okay, well, I’m not as dramatic as Shelton. Bro looks like he’s going to pop a vein celebrating after winning a point.”
Tommy’s mouth lifts slightly in a poor imitation of a smile.
“He really does.”
Taylor reaches for Tommy’s forearm and squeezes it. It’s the closest he can come to an apology. He isn’t sorry for playing well or for beating Kokk tonight or for being the last American man in the tournament. He is sorry to see Tommy go.
Tommy pats the top of his hand.
“Are we good?” Taylor murmurs as his hand falls back to his side.
“Yeah no, we’re good. I don’t know why I got so bent out of shape about today. It’s like, at the end of the day, it’s not that big of a deal. We’re out here getting paid to exercise. Not a bad life, right?”
Tommy’s tone is purposefully light, practically breezy to an acquaintance. Only Taylor can hear the strained undercurrent of Tommy’s words.
“Right.”
He will tell Tommy whatever he needs to hear at this moment, whatever will smooth out his furrowed brow and resurrect his confident grin.
“Luckily clay season is over after this,” Taylor says. “Where are you headed now? Germany?” He counts his days in airport stamps and suitcases packed, in time spent away from his son.
“Boca. I’m going fishing.”
Taylor considers Tommy as he slides the hoodie off his head and rakes one hand through his hair. He must be really torn up about this loss if he’s flying all the way back to Florida.
“Ah. Nice.”
“You should come,” Tommy adds unexpectedly.
“To Boca?” Taylor’s voice jolts up an octave in his surprise.
“Yeah.”
“Just- the two of us. In Florida,” Taylor repeats dumbly.
“Yeah. Why not?” Tommy says, like it’s a sensible request.
Taylor can think of a million reasons why he shouldn’t fly to Boca Raton, starting with the fact that grass season starts in two weeks, followed by the Olympics and the US Open. Taylor would miss out on multiple days of training and lose ATP ranking points if he skips out on Stuttgart. He opens his mouth to tell Tommy that.
“Okay, sure,” Taylor hears himself say, and it’s almost worth it to see the spark return to Tommy’s eyes.
“Awesome. Let’s book it. Hopefully you won’t fly out too soon. First you gotta beat Ruud.”
Tommy claps his hand and pulls him in for a hug. Taylor circles his arms around Tommy, inhaling the smell of his laundered sweatshirt and freshly shampooed hair.
Do you believe in me? He wants to ask, desperate for confirmation that he can win against all the odds and facts and statistics. That he can beat a clay court specialist on clay. That he won’t be a perpetual member of the Top 20 who never wins a Slam.
He releases Tommy and says nothing.
“When do you fly out?”
“First thing tomorrow.”
“Hopefully there will be like, good in-flight movies.”
“I have 3 Benadryls. I’m going to be knocked out the entire flight. I should get packing, through-”
Tommy turns to leave, and Taylor’s chest tightens at the thought of saying goodbye. He is translucent with pathetic desire, waiting around for a kiss and some kind of promise that will never materialize.
As Tommy walks down the hallway, he calls out, “See you soon in Boca.”
Tommy disappears around the corner, and the irony hits Taylor. He stands in a luxury hotel in one of the most sophisticated, cultured cities in the world, wishing he was already on a plane headed to Florida.
–
Taylor doesn’t beat Casper. Ruud takes him out in four sets, and Taylor can’t stop replaying the first set tiebreaker in his head. After he failed to capitalize on that set point, Ruud stayed annoyingly calm and patient to secure the win.
Taylor only outlasted Tommy and Ben by one match, a marginal gain. Reaching the quarterfinals is impressive. Reaching the fourth round leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.
He will play more matches and rack up the points on grass and hard court to increase his rankings. It’s all he knows - driving himself into oblivion, pushing himself beyond the brink, praying his recovery routines will prevent injuries.
Hoping his time won’t run out before he’s accomplished his goals.
The sun is achingly bright, and the white leather cushions stick to his back in the humid air. Tommy springs up the ladder on the side of the boat two steps at a time and shakes his soaking wet hair all over Taylor’s chest. Taylor wriggles away with a laugh.
“Are you done sulking? You’re ruining my fishing,” Tommy says, setting his rod down against the boat railing and poking Taylor’s stomach.
“I’m not sulking, I’m thinking.”
“Yeah, well your thinking is depressing. Let it go out with the tide, man. Look where we are.”
Tommy’s boat is anchored to a buoy, bobbing over the waves of the Atlantic. The open ocean fuses into the azure sky, forming an unbroken, invisible horizon of blue. The expanse feels unnaturally wide for someone who spends everyday living within the confines of baselines and sidelines.
“Did you catch anything?” Taylor asks.
“Yeah. A massive catch, actually. Deadly.”
Tommy grabs Taylor’s ankles and pulls him up into the air. All 6 feet and 5 inches of Taylor dangles from Tommy’s grip, his hair brushing the deck of the boat.
“The number 12 tennis player in the world,” Tommy says.
Taylor laughs until he’s breathless, swinging his torso around and swatting at Tommy’s ankles. Tommy easily side steps out of reach.
“Tommy! Put me down!”
“‘K.”
Tommy places him gently back on the deck and sprawls out parallel next to him. The shape of the clouds steadies his erratic breathing as Tommy’s palm suddenly curls around his. Wispy tendrils merge together, then break apart.
“You did good, Claylor,” Tommy says.
The words pause the relentless batter of his thoughts against his skull. Tommy knows how to stitch him up, with his jokes and his unwavering belief in Taylor’s ability to persist. He acts like they’re on the same team, not fighting over the same ladder to the top.
“You did, too,” Taylor says softly.
“More points than last year on clay. We’re figuring it out.”
Taylor doesn’t want this to be casual now, now that he’s holding Tommy’s hand, adrift on a boat in the place he once called home. He almost swallows the words lodged in his throat, almost dives overboard to escape this moment that could shift the course of his future.
He addresses the sky instead of Tommy. “I don’t want to see other people. And I’m sorry if that like, makes things weird or fucks things up, but- that’s what I want. I guess.”
For a moment, he can only hear the lap of the waves, and he considers booking an immediate flight back to London. Losing the first round of the US Open after flying there in a helicopter is nothing compared to how idiotic he feels right now.
“I don’t want to see anyone else either,” Tommy says.
Taylor mentally cancels his trip to London as relief washes over him. Tommy wants to be in an exclusive relationship with him.
It feels like a trick.
“You don’t? But I thought- you wanted to keep things casual.”
“I never said that.” Tommy lets go of Taylor’s hand and roots around in the pocket of his swim trunks.
“What are you doing?”
Tommy smacks something beaded against the inside of Taylor’s wrist.
“Ow. What the hell is that?”
“Sometimes you’re an idiot, Taylor.”
A beaded friendship bracelet lies flat in Tommy’s palm, blue beads surrounding the initials T x T in the center. Taylor gifted Tommy the bracelet for some ATP media post around Halloween. He didn’t think Tommy would keep stashed in his pocket at all times.
“You kept that?”
“Yeah. I told you I thought it was cute.”
“I kept mine, too.”
He fingers the beads in Tommy’s hand, feeling the weight loosen in his shoulders. Tommy keeps him in his pocket. T x T. He rolls over on top of Tommy, hip bones colliding and heartbeat clanging in chest.
“I still owe you,” Taylor says.
“You could never back out of Odds Are,” Tommy says as he slides his hand up the knobs of Taylor’s spine. It’s not a dare anymore, pressing his lips against Tommy’s. Taylor is drenched in him, asking him an unspoken question. Do you care about me the way that I care about you?
When Tommy pulls him close, Taylor feels the thud of Tommy’s pulse underneath his warm skin, and an answer dissolves on his tongue. Yes .
And the next time the ATP media person asks, “What are you obsessed with?” Taylor will say, “Winning. And Tommy.”