Page 4 of Love and Other Scores

I wipe my rag over the bar. ‘You think so?’

‘Babes, with a face like yours, you’d have more shifts than you could handle at the Rosewood. And we could hang out once work’s over.’

She’s teasing me, but my throat feels scratchy with sudden emotion, and I cough to clear it. I didn’t realise we were close enough that she’d want to hang outside of this ‘bartender–customer’ dynamic we’ve got going on. It’s weird because I don’t even know Peaches’s real name and if I saw her on the street out of drag, I don’t think I’d recognise her. We’ve known each other for just under a year, and in that time, Peaches has fed me tidbits about her life as one would a stray cat: she’s thirty-nine, works part-time as an IT consultant, and owns a two-bedroom apartment in St Kilda which she shares with her toy poodle, Monster.

She leans forward, her breasts spilling out of her top. ‘So, you’ll let me talk to the Rosewood for you?’

‘Fine,’ I relent. It’s not like Mark would care if I left, and I could use the extra money.

‘That’s the spirit,’ she says. ‘Imagine all the fun we’ll have working together.’

I scribble down my number on a napkin and pass it to Peaches. She folds it and slips it into her absurdly tiny handbag with a smug smile.

‘I’ll have my people call you,’ she says, and I roll my eyes.

‘You’re insufferable.’

2

Gabriel

Idrag my sore and severely under-caffeinated body through the airport. I barely slept last night. All I could think about was Phoebe and if she was okay—and if she was okay, why wasn’t she messaging me back? So clearly, she wasn’t okay. I’d spiralled like that until two in the morning when my brain finally shut down.

Now I’m in the security line for a 7 am flight to Melbourne feeling like death warmed up. I check my phone to see if she’s messaged back, but I’m still on ‘unread’. Just like I was six hours ago.

Papa sighs as we move through the line at a snail’s pace. Rafael Nadal and Novak Djokovic have private jets and their own security gates. As Papa and I make our way through the airport, shoulder to shoulder with the general population, I wonder if I should have texted one of them for a ride. Rafa’s usually good for it.

A security guard makes me take off my shoes to check for a bomb or gunpowder residue. Papa waits on the other side of the scanner, scrolling through messages on his phone. Victor, my media manager, stands beside me, glaring daggers at the security agent as she hands me my shoes back.

‘Right to go,’ she says, and I slip my sneakers back on. Victor follows behind me, slinging his satchel over his shoulder as it comes off the conveyor belt.

‘Have you heard from Marco?’ I ask Papa. Marco is Phoebe’s coach of over ten years and well known on the tour for developing her formidable 190-kilometre serve.

Papa shakes his head as he scans the departures screen. Today, his locs are tied into a bun on the top of his head, and a few wiry salt-and-pepper fly-away hairs sprout from his scalp. He won’t trust anyone but his barber in France to retwist them so until we get back to Paris, he’s rocking the loose look. ‘Come, Gabriel, we’re at gate eighteen.’

My iPad dies halfway through the two-hour flight, and I sink back into my seat. I check my phone again to see if Phoebe’s messaged—nothing. Beside me, Papa turns the pages of his novel.

‘Stop jiggling,’ he mutters, nudging my leg with his.

I realise I’ve been tapping my foot and still it. ‘Sorry.’

‘You’ll do well at the tournament,’ Victor assures me from my other side. ‘I’vemanifestedit.’

‘Manifested it?’ I repeat.

‘Yep,’ he says, and I realise he’s being completely serious. ‘Andthe tarot cards agreed.’

Tarot. Manifesting. I’m all for luck, but that’s a bit ridiculous. I turn to Papa, hoping he’ll be the voice of reason, but he’s got his headphones on. To him, we might as well not exist. ‘Since when are you into that kind of stuff?’

‘Since the pandemic. Some people baked bread, I got really into astrology. Sometimes I do it before your big matches, just to settle my nerves.’

Boredom prompts me to ask, ‘What else do the tarot cards say?’

Victor leans to one side, reaching behind him, and produces a well-used pack of tarot cards from his back pocket. ‘Want to ask them?’

I shrug. It’s not like there’s anything else to do. ‘How do I do it?’

‘You ask the cards a question.’ He goes to hand them to me, but at the last second pulls away. ‘Be serious about this, Gabriel. If not, the cards will know.’

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