Chapter Twenty-One

I wake up when my alarm goes off at its usual time. Slowly I open my eyes and instead of getting up, I linger a little longer in bed. My brain feels a bit less worked up right now and I take advantage of this to try to assimilate the last twenty-four hours. But I quickly realise it's still all too much and roll to my side.

Why couldn't Luc be just a normal guy with a normal life? Like all the others of the past couple of years? But then, if he were like them would I have gone this far?

I get my phone, and staring at the screen I decide to check his Instagram profile. It hasn't occurred to me yet. I use Naomi's account and type in his name on the search box. I shouldn't be surprised that she already follows him, Lexi and Nate too. This all makes me think that if I'd ever told them his full name, they'd have recognised it immediately and I probably wouldn't be in this mess. I feel stupid all over again. And mother of God, he has over seven million followers. SEVEN FREAKING MILLION.

luclamaire

900 Posts 7,3 M Followers 370 Following

Lucas Lamaire

Athlete

French tennis player

There are so many photos of him I feel overwhelmed. There's him playing on the grass just two days ago in Wimbledon when he won. There's a video of him training with his brother and Maurice. There's him thanking the public, and another of him punching the air cheering a win, wearing his white cap backwards and that daredevil stare of his aimed at something on his side. I keep scrolling.

There's him wearing a suit, receiving some kind of trophy, him giving press interviews, hitting his racket against another tennis player's outside of court, both smiling. There's also photos of him on holidays by the beach, having dinner out with his brother, in a private jet, with a Golden Retriever, giving press conferences, running, sweaty, shirtless, smiling, raising a trophy in the air, many more of him shaking his fist flexing his arm mouthing something close to yes, shouting, and so many of him in action playing on blue, green and brown courts.

God.

All this time all of this was here, out for everyone—but me—to see. All his life in squares, accessible to millions of people to like and comment on his photos. It's almost unbelievable. It's unthinkable that this man held my hair while I was throwing up, cooked for me, slept on my bed and asked whether I wanted to make love or fuck.

I realise I've been checking his posts for over an hour. How did that happen? I set my phone on the bed and close my eyes. Thoughts are racing in my head. I want to make them go away. I let out a long and slow exhale. Reopen my eyes and make myself get up and get ready for a run.

I see him nowhere, and I'm relieved.

#

‘Are you telling me the media lady basically pushed both of you against the wall to make a decision about your relationship?' asks Naomi on the screen as she sips her coffee while she's walking the streets on her way to work.

‘Something like that, at least that's how it felt,' I say, opening my laptop on my desk as I hold my phone.

‘How are you feeling?' asks Lexi, always worried about my feelings.

‘A mess. I mean, it seems like the whole world has been watching me in some kind of reality show and I wasn't aware of it.'

‘I'm sorry, Livvy,' says Lexi. I'm glad she doesn't say if you had told us…

‘Including you two, who I realised already followed him on Instagram,' I say, a bit bitter, even though I know it's not their fault. I keep trying to find people to blame for what's happening, but in the end it's all on me. And, well, Luc.

‘Well, you can't blame us for knowing who he is, and finding him hot,' says Naomi, and there's so much honesty in what she says it hurts.

‘Oh God. I know. Sorry. I just, I feel so stupid. I'm so sorry I kept things from you.'

‘Livvy, you would have found out eventually, through us, the media or him,' says Lexi.

‘I know, but I wish it was from him. He had so many chances to tell me, yet he didn't.'

‘What are you going to do?' asks Naomi.

‘I have no idea.'

‘You like him,' says Lexi.

‘That's not the point,' I say.

‘You like him a lot, otherwise you would know exactly what to do,' says Lexi.

‘Lexi's right. Things are simpler when there are no feelings involved. I don't remember you having any trouble telling Mike, Conor or all the others to go live their lives,' says Naomi.

I say nothing, because it's true. None of those guys were Luc.

‘Honey, there's nothing wrong with liking someone. Did you really believe it would never happen again?' asks Lexi.

Maybe. And maybe I hoped it wouldn't hurt ever again.

‘Guys, I have a meeting now. Talk to you later?' I say. It's true, but right now I'm glad I have a lot going on at work so I don't have to carry on with this conversation. I feel like being alone today.

‘Sure, we're here if you need us,' says Naomi.

‘I know, thank you. Bye.'

#

His match is at 1:00 pm. I have never in my life watched a tennis match until the end. I don't know the rules, I never understood why people enjoy seeing two players screaming Oh's and Ah's as they hit the yellow balls from one side to the other for hours. If it weren't for Dad who occasionally watches the games, I'd never know who Roger Federer, Rafael Nadal and Novak Djokovic are. If he ever mentioned the name Lamaire before, I wasn't paying attention.

Today I actually check my watch more times than normal, to make sure I turn on the TV to watch him play. Even though I don't know how a player scores or understand the point count, I trust I will recognise when and if he wins the match.

My heart feels heavy in my chest when I see him on TV. The camera is showing him in a corridor waiting to be called out to the court. He's all dressed in white, as is his opponent, Dordevic. That I know about Wimbledon—it's mandatory that all players wear white. He has his white cap backwards, his eyes serious and focused, really focused, like he's in his own parallel world.

Dordevic is the first to go out to the court, then it's his turn. He salutes the public looking up, raising his arm to wave his hand, the other holding the straps of his racket bag hanging over his shoulder. He spins slowly in a circle, making sure he has greeted everyone. My heart beats faster.

Then he walks toward one of the benches and sets his bag on it. He opens it and chooses a racket. He discards the plastic that covers it, and tests it by touching his fingers on its strings and hits it against his hand. Then the two players head to the centre of the court, each on one side of the net, to hear some kind of explanation from the jury—or chair umpire, as they're apparently called. The chair umpire tosses a coin to decide who's serving first, whatever that means. Luc wins. Then he and Dordevic officially greet each other and stand side by side for some official photo.

Each player goes back to their bench. Luc takes off the white Adidas jacket covering his T-shirt and goes to warm up on the court.

The narrator talks about previous games in which they played each other, Luc has won more matches, but the previous two Dordevic has won. He also talks about the numbers and achievements of the two players during the championship and who of the two would have a better chance against Moretti in the final on Sunday.

Once they finish the warmup, the game begins. I suspect then that the server gets to hit the ball first, because it's Luc who starts. His face is so composed, his eyes so focused on the ball and on his own movement. I don't know how he can look so calm. Right there I meet a different Luc. An athlete, a public figure, someone who people cheer for at each point won. A determined and competitive man who's already won some of the most important tennis championships in the world.

I can't keep my eyes off the TV even though I'm struggling to understand what's going on. I notice that the numbers change from 0 to 15 when he scores one point, then from 15 to 30 then from 30 to 40 when he scores again and again. The narrator says he has won the first game. How many games are there? Then after a little over one hour into the match, he wins the set. How long is this going to take? I decide to take my laptop and get some work done while I watch the match.

After three hours I find myself on my couch still watching the match, my laptop now on the side. I learned that watching a tennis match and trying to focus on getting some work done on my computer doesn't really happen. It's either one or the other.

Luc is doing good, but Dordevic is fighting strong against him now, winning one point after the other. Luc has won two sets. As far as I understood, if he wins this set he wins the match, but both are point against point. It's like a never-ending story.

By now I know that Luc has a thing before he serves, he always tugs his T-shirt on the shoulder, touches his nose and pulls strands of his hair behind his ear. Only then he takes position, throws the ball in the air then hits it. He does this every. Single. Time. Also, whenever there is some kind of a break he gets something to drink and uses a towel to dry himself. While he sits on the bench, he eats a banana or a fruit bar here and there, takes his cap off to dry his hair too, combing it with his fingers, then puts it back on. To my complete despair, he also changes T-shirts, as well as his racket—twice—and now even though he still looks incredibly focused, he seems tired. The camera zooms on his face and there's sweat and grass on his forehead.

The third set is taking ages, they have been on something called deuce and advantage for what seems like one hundred times. Deuce, I realise, is when they are tied on a game 40 - 40, and advantage is when one of them scores and the next point favours him on winning the game. The crowd gets crazy each time a deuce is announced. I can't even tell for which player they are cheering for, because it doesn't matter who scores, people go wild, so much that at different occasions the jury needs to ask them for silence.

I'm no longer sitting, I'm pacing my living room from one side to the other. I just heard the narrator saying that if Dordevic wins this set, there will be a fourth one. God, I can't handle watching another one of these.

Today at 4:36 pm

Dad: Your boy's doing good.

Oh God. My boy, as if.

Mum: Your dad is going bonkers. He's already thinking he's an in-law.

Oh God.

I toss my phone on the couch.

The TV is showing the box of each player, where their families are. I see Luc's brother and parents, Maurice and Daniel—who I discovered is his physiotherapist—and some people I haven't seen before going nuts cheering for him. Each point he makes, he does that thing with his clenched hand, shaking his fist and flexing his elbow against his body mouthing a yes. Sometimes, when the point is very hard to win, some of them taking over twenty-five strokes, he shouts hard and throws his daredevil look at the crowd as if saying see what I can do? God, that makes my heart go wild.

His white T-shirt is completely glued to his abdomen. His white shorts are now green from the grass. I bite my nails. I catch myself cheering, screaming, jumping, then back to biting my nails again. They've been playing for almost four hours. It makes me remember how tired he often looked when he was here. After playing such a long match he must feel exhausted. I wonder how he managed to keep this other life from me for over a week.

Then is a deuce again. If Luc wins this point he will win the game and the match. But he doesn't. The match goes on. Luc begins to lose one point after the other, now he doesn't look as focused, he looks furious, something I've never seen. He begins to hit the net more than he should. He lets out screams of frustration at the sky. Dordevic wins the third set. God, I can't believe there will be another one of those.

The TV goes for a break, I open a bottle of rosé and make popcorn. Something, anything that can help me with my nerves will do. I can't even believe I've been watching him play the whole afternoon. Even this makes me mad at him. How could I have let someone else wreck my plans and routine like this? Why am I watching him play? Why do I care if he wins or loses?

Slow motion replays of the match's best moments are being shown on the screen. Both players are already exhausted. Luc sits on the bench staring absentminded at the court and drinking some kind of pink liquid, possibly an isotonic, while Dordevic changes his racket one more time.

Suddenly everyone goes silent and they resume the match. Luc seems determined once again, his body expression says he's giving his all to win this match, but Dordevic is number one in the world for a reason, comments the narrator.

Whether he's number one in the world or not, Dordevic gets smashed by Luc on the fourth set. Luc is on a winning streak, now Dordevic is hitting his racket on the grass with rage. He's making too many mistakes, while Luc is now celebrating each point in silence, more focused than when the match began. It's more than clear that Luc will win now, even Dordevic has already accepted his fate, he lets out an honest smile when Luc scores the last point and uses his racket and hand to applaud him. The crowd laughs in unison at the scene.

I only let my shoulders relax when I see Luc celebrating his win, going on his knees and looking up at the sky, as if thanking God, then lying on his back on the grass. The narrator says it's his first time advancing to a final in Wimbledon, so I can only imagine how important this match was for him. It even makes me feel a bit childish for worrying about my problems, while he's about to accomplish a dream.

I still watch the two players greet each other with a friendly side hug and a strong pat on each other's back. Dordevic tells Luc something, probably congratulating him. Luc lets out a smile and I can read a thank you on his mouth. He then grabs his stuff, takes off his T-shirt only to make the women in the crowd go crazy. He lets out that boyish grin of his to the camera that has now zoomed in on his face. He puts on another T-shirt, only to make the females go crazy again with his defined muscles on display. The ones I have been taking advantage of these past days.

On the way out of the court he talks to some of the fans, signing tennis balls and some big versions of it and taking selfies with the people on the green chairs. That moment a realization hits me hard—being with him means I'll need to share him. With a lot of people.

I finally sit again and lean back on the couch, sighing.

Today at 5:36 pm

Dad: Tell him congratulations from me, love.

I roll my eyes, but smile, at Dad, and at the fact that Luc won.

After the match, there's a press conference. I was never one to watch sports press conferences, until now. Luc answers a few questions about the match, using many technical words I don't understand. The press likes him, it might have something to do with his kindness, how he replies to every question patiently and almost always with a smile on his face despite his visible tiredness. When he's about to stand up and leave, one more reporter throws him a question.

‘Is Olivia Charlton your girlfriend? Is she going to attend the match on Sunday?'

Luc puts on an impartial face, like he gets asked this question all the time.

‘I'm not discussing my private life. Does anyone else have another question about tennis? If not, I guess we're done here,' he says in such a calm tone it makes you think he just said something nice and not something that if said in another tone would sound rude.

I still manage to work for one more hour. I'll probably need to work over the weekend to finish what I need. It is extremely important that everything goes as planned for Monday. But right now I'm exhausted, and looking forward to an evening read and early bedtime. The universe, however, is still conspiring against me, and before I make my way to the balcony, someone's at the door. It's probably Amazon for a neighbour who's not home. Working from home also involves receiving packages for the neighbours.

But when I open the door, it's no Amazon, or any neighbour, or Luc or any friendly face. In fact, it's my worst nightmare.