But as he pulled out his phone and saw a text from Andre — a picture of the gallery, empty and quiet, with the wordsThank you. I love you.— Blake smiled.
He would do it again in a heartbeat.
Chapter nine
Flushing Meadows
New York in late August was a city built on heat and noise. The air shimmered above the asphalt, thick with humidity and the smell of roasted nuts and exhaust.
For Blake, the US Open was always a homecoming, a return to the hard courts where his game was most lethal. This year, he arrived as the number three seed, his ranking having climbed steadily through the summer after strong showings in Montreal and Cincinnati. He was playing the best tennis of his life — aggressive, precise, and unburdened by the ghosts that had once haunted him.
For Andre, the tournament felt like an obligation.
His ranking had slipped to fifteenth in the world — lower than it had been in some time. The art world had embraced him after the success of the Whitfield exhibition, and his mind was already in Paris, where a prominent collector had commissioned a series of three large canvases.
They were staying at a luxury hotel in Midtown Manhattan, the same hotel they had stayed in three years ago, during the tournament that had changedeverything.
“It feels different this time,” Andre said on the Tuesday of the first week, standing by the window of their suite, looking out at the glittering skyline.
“Different how?” Blake asked, sitting on the edge of the bed, taping his ankles before practice.
“Quieter. The first time we were here together, it felt like the whole world was watching us. Waiting for us to make a mistake.” Andre turned, leaning against the glass. “Now, we are just two tennis players. It is… peaceful.”
Blake smiled, finishing the tape job and pulling on his socks. “I like peaceful. Peaceful means I can focus on my serve.”
“You always focus on your serve.”
“It’s a very good serve.”
Andre laughed, crossing the room to kiss Blake on the top of the head. “Go win me a trophy.”
Blake paused at the door. "Bonne chance à moi," he said carefully, the vowels still slightly off despite months of Duolingo sessions on flights between tournaments.
Andre’s smile widened. "Your accent is getting better."
"Liar."
"Only a little."
Blake’s path through the draw was a tour de force in hard-court tennis. The late summer heat of New York was oppressive, the air thick and heavy with humidity, but Blake moved through the early rounds with a cold, methodical efficiency. He dismantled a French qualifier in the firstround, winning in straight sets under the blazing afternoon sun on Court 17. He served a veteran Italian off the court in the second round, hitting twenty-two aces and dropping only five games in the entire match. In the third round, he ground down a Spanish baseliner in a brutal, physical battle that lasted three hours, his fitness and discipline proving too much for the older player.
He was playing with a quiet, frightening focus. The New York crowds, usually loud and demanding, watched him with a kind of awed respect. He wasn’t just winning; he was dominating.
His quarterfinal match, however, was a different story.
He was scheduled for the night session on Arthur Ashe Stadium against a twenty-year old American prodigy named Carter Hayes. Hayes was brash, fast, and fearless, with a massive forehand and a crowd-pleasing style that had made him the darling of the New York media. He wore bright, neon colors, played to the crowd, and hit the ball with a reckless, explosive power that defied logic.
The atmosphere in the stadium was electric. Twenty-three thousand people packed into the massive arena, the lights blazing against the dark sky, the noise echoing off the concrete walls. The crowd was firmly behind the young American, their cheers deafening every time Hayes hit a winner.
Blake lost the first set 4-6. Hayes was playing out of his mind, hitting winners from impossible angles, feeding off the energy of the crowd. He was moving faster than Blake had anticipated, tracking down drop shots and returning serves with punishing depth.
Blake won the second set 6-3, slowing the pace, using his experience to disrupt the younger player’s rhythm. He started hitting high, heavy topspin to Hayes’s backhand, forcing him to generate his own pace, and attacking the net whenever he saw an opening.
They split the next two sets, the momentum swinging wildly back and forth. Hayes took the third set in a tiebreaker, riding a wave of adrenaline and crowd support. Blake took the fourth set 6-4, breaking Hayes’s serve early and holding on with grim determination.
It pushed the match into a deciding fifth set. The humidity had broken, leaving the air cool and sharp. Blake’s legs were heavy, his shirt soaked through with sweat. Across the net, Hayes looked equally exhausted, leaning on his racket between points.
At six-all in the fifth, they went to a tiebreaker.
