Chapter Text
September 2002
Lars used to be a world champion tennis player back in the ‘80s, but you wouldn’t know it judging by the way he’s blowing serves and letting the ball whizz by him in front of God and everyone at the US Open men’s singles semifinals.
His opponent is half his age, a tennis wunderkind just like Lars used to be. Is this kid old enough to remember when Lars was to tennis as Michael Jordan is to basketball? Does he grasp the inherent symbolism in this match: old versus new, the fading star passing the mantle to new blood?
The stands are packed, and Lars foolishly brought his parents and his son Myles along, because hubris is how he’ll die, apparently. Now his closest family get to watch him choke.
On the court, Lars makes a diving save and knocks the ball back over the net. It’s a lucky swing that flies past his opponent, but Lars is tired, giving everything he can just to survive.
At thirty-nine, and coming back from semi-retirement, Lars isn’t as agile as he used to be. Speed and stamina that used to be second nature now stretch and strain him like never before. And his opponent knows this; he’s hitting all over the court, making Lars run and dive and wear himself out.
It’s 5-5 in the last set. He needs two more points in a row to win the game, two games in a row to win the set and have a shot at the finals.
In his championship years, Lars could break the serve of every opponent he faced. Not now. The game belongs to the new blood.
Lars’ opponent moves quickly and efficiently. His body is built for the court, and he has studied Lars’ previous matches at this year’s Wimbledon, and Australian and French Opens. He knows every strategy, every slice, every serve and return Lars is capable of.
He gets Lars to match point. If Lars loses this game, he loses the match, loses the semi-finals. Loses his last shot at securing his record of most Grand Slam singles titles ever.
Lars serves, and there’s a brief moment of triumph, because he knows exactly where the ball will go, that it will whizz by his opponent like a rocket.
But his opponent knows too. When you’re the best, everyone studies your game. He slams it back with crushing force, and Lars gets his racket on the ball. The ball hits the net.
Just like that, it’s over.
“It wasn’t that bad,” Lars’ mother tells him, and Lars knows a kind lie when he hears one. “You put up a good fight. All the way to the semifinals!”
Lars’ son Myles shrugs and says, “Sorry, Dad.” He’s eleven, so he’s old enough not to bullshit.
“Thank you,” Lars says grimly. They’re camped in his hotel suite, where Lars plans to hide until the heat death of the universe. “Now please let me die peacefully.”
“Oh honey,” Mom fusses over him. “It’s not the end of the world, you know. So you lost. Big deal. Everyone has to lose sometime, and you’ve had plenty of wins to make up for it.”
Lars’ father is not so forgiving. “You could have at least choked in the top half.” As a former tennis star himself, Dad’s criticism isn’t unfounded. Predictably, Lars’ greatest critic has always been his father, who coached him during most of his career.
Mom elbows him. “Torben, please.”
In some ways, Dad is right. People were rooting for Lars, cheering on his comeback, and he let them down over and over again. And Lars’ sponsors probably weren’t thrilled they’d endorsed a choke artist. Who was really paying attention to the logos on his sleeves or the Nikes he wore while he smashed the ball into the net?
“Why come back if you’re not playing to win?” Dad says. “You embarrassed me, your mother, and the entire country of Denmark!”
Mom gives Lars a pained, apologetic look. “You’ve never embarrassed me, Lars. Torben, give us a moment?”
Dad grumbles under his breath and steps out of the room. Mom takes Lars’ face in her hands. “Don’t listen to him. Your father knows everything about tennis, but very little about the world. To him, life is a game that must be won. But nobody really wins, not in the end.”
“Is this a pep talk? Because I’m not feeling very pepped.”
Mom kisses his forehead, and Lars smells her sunscreen and the hint of lavender from her shampoo. He is ten years old again, comforted by her unconditional love. “I’m saying you and your father are very different. Retirement suits you much better than him.”
The word strikes Lars as something obscene, though he’s aware that feeling comes not from within himself — as if he intrinsically believes it — but from the outside. Of how he would appear if he put down the racket for good. Of what Dad would think of him.
“I see it on your face,” she says. “The longing for something else. For happiness.”
Lars thought he’d be happy when he became the best tennis player in the world. Then he reached the apex, but the void inside of him remained. He chased championship after championship in hopes of filling that emptiness. When Myles came along, the void shrank. Not entirely, but enough that he thought it could, with enough effort.
“Winning makes me happy,” Lars grumbles, feeling petulant and pathetic.
Mom shakes her head. “It only makes you less sad.” She kisses his forehead again. “Take some time for yourself, okay? Your father and I will come by in the morning.”
Lars nods noncommittally. “If any reporters bother you, tell them it wasn’t me out there, but my identical twin, lost since birth.”
When his parents are gone, it’s just Lars and Myles in the too-big suite that feels like a joke. There’s no reason for Lars to stick around. He’s been eliminated, and loitering around the grounds to watch the rest of the men’s singles matches means inviting nosy reporters to attempt to interview him.
Like he didn’t get enough of that shit in the locker room.
He takes out his laptop and hooks up the internet, thereby preventing any calls to the room from intrusive reporters. Lars intends to book a flight back to San Francisco, but as the modem screeches its way to a connection, a sick pit forms in his stomach at the thought of going home. At home, a new life will have to begin, a life where Lars’ tennis career is fully in the rearview. He doesn’t know how to be anything else. Christ, he’s not even forty yet. What’s he supposed to do with the rest of his life?
Lars spins in his chair to look at Myles, who’s already bored and switching on the TV. “You wanna go somewhere?”
“Right now?”
“No, tomorrow. Instead of going home.”
“Like a vacation?”
“Yeah.”
Myles considers this for a moment. “Why?”
“Why not? It might be fun. We haven’t had a lot of quality time together this year anyway.”
Myles shrugs the shrug of an almost-teenager. “I guess. Where’d you wanna go?”
“I haven’t really thought that far ahead. I’m open to suggestions.”
“Japan,” Myles says, because he’s into all that anime stuff, as evidenced by his Dragonball Z T-shirt.
“I don’t know if you know this, but I don’t speak a lick of Japanese.”
“Baka.”
Well, Lars knows that word, at least. “Call me a dumbass in whatever language you want, you’ll still be grounded.”
Myles sighs and drops onto the bed. “Fine, you pick somewhere then. I’m out of ideas.” He switches the TV to cartoons, for which Lars is grateful; Cartoon Network won’t mention Lars’ humiliating defeat.
Lars turns back to his computer and pulls up a world map. Conceivably, he could go anywhere, but he’s nixing anyplace with a considerable language barrier.
His parents would probably suggest he take a sabbatical in Denmark, his birth country, but he’s less than enthused about that. People know him there. Along with Lars’ father and grandfather, he’s their hometown hero (at least where tennis is concerned); considering the war crimes committed earlier on the court against the Ulrich name (and, by extension, the people of Denmark), he would have insulted them less by burning the nation’s flag.
He wants to disappear. Is there a private cave he can rent in an isolated corner of the world where no one knows him or gives a shit about tennis?
While Lars looks at hotel and flight rates, an instant message window pops up. It’s Kirk (screen name K 1 R k_t h 3_R 1 P p 3 R), and Lars finds himself smiling despite his abysmal day.
For two years, Kirk has taken up residence in Lars’ AOL Instant Messenger buddy list, and Lars finds it comforting to log in knowing he’ll usually be online. They met in an AOL chat room where they bonded over heavy metal, music, and Kirk’s weird — and occasionally endearing — penchant for horror. Lars isn’t really into horror, but he admires Kirk’s passionate diatribes about the genre; Kirk listens to (or reads) Lars’ rambles about art, so it’s only fair to hear him out.
K 1 R k_t h 3_R 1 P p 3 R: how’s you
Lars’ hands pause over the keyboard. He can’t exactly be honest, since he’s never revealed much personally identifying information to Kirk. But Kirk is always so open and authentic that it feels like a slight to lie to him now.
He gathers his nerve and writes:
metalupura55: life kinda sucks. I think my career is over.
And there it is. Acceptance. Isn’t that supposedly the final stage of the grieving process?
Kirk’s reply comes as expected:
K 1 R k_t h 3_R 1 P p 3 R: holy shit!!! That sucks dude. Did u get fired?
Metalupura55: kind of? It’s more of a me problem. But whatever. I need a vacation.
K 1 R k_t h 3_R 1 P p 3 R: DISNEY!!!!!!!!!!!
Metalupura55: gotta take my son with me, and I’m pretty sure he’s too old for that.
Lars took Myles to Disneyland on his eighth birthday, but kids change so much in four years. Lars asks, just to be sure. “Disney World?”
“Kinda lame. Isn’t Florida full of old people anyway?”
Metalupura55: confirmed. Disney = lame.
K 1 R k_t h 3_R 1 P p 3 R: :-(
K 1 R k_t h 3_R 1 P p 3 R: do u wanna do tourist shit or just chill?
Metalupura55: I want to lie on the ground until the earth reclaims me
K 1 R k_t h 3_R 1 P p 3 R: bro u sound depressed, u should come to Hawaii! It’s nice and sunny. Hard to be bummed out here. :-)
Hawaii… The more Lars thinks about it, the better it sounds. It’s not a private cave, but it is an island (or at least a cluster of them), which means isolation from the rest of the world. At the very least, Lars will have a friend there.
Metalupura55: any good hotels?
K 1 R k_t h 3_R 1 P p 3 R: fuck that, just stay with me. I’ve got a guest room.
Metalupura55: don’t you know any better than to meet strangers online? I could be a deranged sex killer.
K 1 R k_t h 3_R 1 P p 3 R: Except if u were a total creepazoid, u would’ve been all up in my business trying to pump me for info or pics
Metalupura55: I assure you I’m only 23% creepazoid.
K 1 R k_t h 3_R 1 P p 3 R: lol. Cmon dude be serious. It’s been like 2 years. and I wouldn’t have offered if you didn’t give me good vibes :-)
Metalupura55: maybe YOU’RE the creepazoid.
K 1 R k_t h 3_R 1 P p 3 R: maybe. guess you’ll have to find out
Lars turned back to Myles. “How’s Hawaii sound?”
Finally, a smile. “Yeah, that’d be cool.”
Lars writes:
Metalupura55: I really fucking hope you’re not a serial killer.
“So how long is this vacation?” Myles asks while they’re sitting in the boarding lounge at JFK International.
Lars is dressed in black jeans and a white hoodie, the hood drawn up as if to hide his identity, like his face hasn’t been plastered across Nike and Gatorade ads for almost two decades. He would’ve worn shades, except nothing signals “I’m important” more than wearing sunglasses inside, and the sun was barely up when they arrived at the airport anyway.
“I don’t know,” Lars says. “A week or two, maybe?”
“And we’re staying with some guy you met on the internet?”
Lars is fully aware of how pathetic it sounds out loud. “Yep.”
“Is this a mid-life crisis?” Myles says.
“I’d be offended if I thought you had any idea what that means.”
“Cali told me her dad had one.”
Lars is well-acquainted with James, Cali’s father, so that’s probably true, but it’s beside the point.
Lars sighs. “You know I’ve always been honest with you, right?”
Myles nods, looking uncomfortable with where this is going.
“My tennis career is over. But that’s all I’ve ever done, you know? When I was your age, my dad was coaching me to play competitively. So I need some time to figure out what to do next.” Lars looks at Myles to get a sense of how he’s taking this. “We’ll be okay, y’know, with the money and all.”
In tennis, sponsorships and endorsements are where the money is, and Lars has received plenty over the years. Maybe not anymore, now that his all-star career has this pitiful coda attached to it.
Myles doesn’t ask why Lars is running away, like he gets it. And of course he does. Kids understand the raw power of humiliation better than anyone; an embarrassing incident in front of their peers will get them faking sick to stay home from school the next few days.
They board the plane a little while later (Lars paid extra for the privacy of first class). Myles has his Game Boy and some of the Harry Potter books to keep him busy during the ten hour flight. Lars, meanwhile, depends on the beverage cart to roll around and supply him with complimentary bottled cocktails.
“Grandpa’s kind of hard on you, isn’t he?” Myles says while the plane rumbles down the runway.
Lars chuckles. “You noticed that?” He stretches out, taking advantage of the ample legroom. “Believe it or not, he’s mellowed out over the years.”
Myles looks pained, but Lars can read his son pretty well, and underneath the grimace, Myles’ eyes are appreciative, a silent thank you that Lars has not repeated the sins of his father.
1974
At ten years old, Lars learned he might actually be good at the whole tennis thing.
His father and grandfather were prolific stars in their own right, and while they always claimed the talent ran in the bloodline, serving the ball past his father on their home court made Lars feel like a champion. Dad never lowered himself to Lars’ level; he always played like it was a real game, forcing Lars to rise above.
And rise Lars did.
For winning a match against his father, Lars was rewarded with praise, affection, and the promise of more.
“If you can keep playing like that,” his father said, “you’ll be a superstar. Another one of us in the record books.”
His father’s heart was a boundless ocean of adoration, as long as Lars kept winning. As long as Lars proliferated the family name in a long line of championships.
He could do that, sure. His love for music could be put aside. He wouldn’t get that same warm appreciation for being the next John Bonham.
September 2002
The time change is disorienting, and the sun has disappeared when the plane lands. Lars is wide awake, having caught a few hours’ worth of sleep. Myles yawns while they retrieve their bags at the carousel.
“Did you sleep?”
“I tried, but I can’t sleep in public,” Myles says, embarrassed.
“Well, Kirk should be here soon, then you can get some rest.” It’s a little after midnight in New York, a quarter past nine in San Francisco, but in Honolulu, the night is still young.
Lars called Kirk when the plane landed, and Kirk said he’d be there in about forty-five minutes. He gave the make, model, and color of his car, along with the license plate so Lars could spot him in the pickup queue. Lars isn’t really a car guy, so most of that information is useless to him.
When the car rolls up (Lars double-checks the license plate just to be sure), the trunk pops open, and Lars and Myles deposit their luggage inside.
“I’ll take shotgun,” Lars volunteers, knowing Myles would prefer to sit in the back and not make conversation with a stranger.
They get inside the car, and the overhead light comes on. In the driver’s seat, Kirk grins at him and says, “Aloha!”
Seeing Kirk teaches Lars two things. One, Kirk is the most attractive person Lars has ever seen, and considering Lars has dated supermodels, that’s some impressive competition. Two, Lars is attracted to dudes.
Not that he hasn’t thought about going to bed with a guy before, but holy shit, Kirk is fucking hot, like all of Lars’ kinks fused together and took human form.
His hair is a long mop of dark ringlet curls. Sex appeal and innocence comingle in his dark eyes. A scrawny mustache sits above his full lips, and a small goatee clings to his chin like a barnacle on the hull of a ship. There’s a small beauty mark on his cheek that Lars finds particularly alluring.
But Kirk’s smile. Oh shit, that’s a knockout. And this is how Kirk looks in minimal lighting. In full daylight, the sheer power of Kirk’s beauty will blow Lars apart like an energy blast in one of Myles’ anime shows.
Lars spends an embarrassing amount of time staring at him. “Kirk. Nice to finally meet you.”
“Lars,” Kirk says, sly and knowing, and for a moment Lars panics that Kirk recognizes him. But no, Kirk’s never expressed much interest in sports, save for the Super Bowl and the World Series. Lars’ most iconic endorsements and ads were in the early days of his career, back when his hair was long and his face (as well as the rest of him) was skinnier.
Kirk’s probably just glad to put a face to the screen name he’s been IMing for years.
Kirk rolls out of the queue and gets them on the road. He glances at Myles in the rearview mirror. “And you must be Myles. It’s so great to meet you guys! How was your flight?”
“Long,” Myles says. “And boring.”
“Well, do you really want an exciting flight?” Kirk wonders. “I guess it wasn’t your first time flying, huh?”
“Yeah, I travel a lot with my dad.”
Kirk smiles at Lars, as if they’re in on a secret. “Oh yeah? Does that get in the way of school?”
“School sucks,” Myles says.
“Yeah, it does, but you gotta stick it out,” Kirk says. “Just remember it doesn’t last forever, even if it feels like it’ll never end.”
“Wow, deep,” Myles says with the slightest trace of sarcasm.
“Cool car,” Lars says, because he remembers Kirk gushing over it when he got the thing a few months back.
“Yeah! My family had it, then they sold it when I was like ten, which I was super bummed about. I’ve been looking for one for years. It’s probably not the same one, but it could be, right?”
“I guess so. Where do you live?”
“Diamond Head.” Kirk grins. “Like the band!”
Lars is still disoriented by how gorgeous Kirk is. He runs the risk of bursting into flames by looking directly at Kirk, so Lars steals a sidelong glance. “Oh, right! You told me that, didn’t you? I must’ve forgot.” It was probably one of the first things Kirk shared after establishing their shared love for British heavy metal.
The drive is pleasant, but the night sky obscures most of the tropical brilliance. There are enough palm trees that Lars can fool himself into thinking he’s back home in California.
They exit the freeway and turn onto a residential street. The farther they go, the nicer the houses get, though none match the sprawling extravagance of Lars’ home. For one, none of these houses have their own tennis courts.
They roll through the streetlamp-lit neighborhood for a bit, then turn onto another street. Much like California, there are hills and inclines and mountain views here too.
“Yo, MTV, welcome to my crib,” Kirk says as the car rolls up the the curb of a modest two-story home surrounded by palm trees and neatly-trimmed hedges.
Kirk backs the car into the driveway so the trunk will be easier to unload. Lars and Myles haul their bags out while Kirk unlocks the front door.
“It’s not the Hilton, but you can’t beat zero dollars per night,” Kirk says as they walk up the porch steps. Inside, the house is warm and cozy, with hardwood floors, sage and cream walls, and wicker furniture. The lamps and wall sconces cast the living room in a sunny glow.
“About that… You really should let me compensate you — ”
“No way. Don’t worry about it. I’m just happy you’re here,” Kirk says with a bewitching smile that sears through Lars.
“Whoa, awesome!” Myles has discovered Kirk’s framed horror movie posters along the walls of the living room. “You like horror?”
“You could say that.”
“Dad, you didn’t tell me he was cool.”
“Must’ve slipped my mind,” Lars says, but at least Myles won’t be sullen and bored if he and Kirk share a common interest.
“You like anime?” Kirk asks, a shot in the dark that strikes oil.
Instantly, Myles is awake, his complaints of being tired forgotten. “Dude, yes!”
“Ever seen Akira? Or Cowboy Bebop? I have an entire shelf of anime.”
“None of the weird stuff with the tentacles, right? He’s eleven,” Lars says.
Kirk laughs. “No, nothing like that. Now, come see your room.”
Kirk leads them to an upstairs bedroom done up in the same sage and cream color scheme as the living room. There’s a queen-size bed, an armchair, and a small TV/VCR combo.
“You have a lot of guests?” Lars wonders.
“My family likes to visit around the holidays,” Kirk says. “Are you guys wiped out from the flight, or do you want dinner?”
“I could eat,” Lars says, because Kirk seems overjoyed to be their host, and he is a little hungry.
They freshen up and change clothes, then they join Kirk downstairs while he cooks their food.
“Any plans while you’re staying here?” Kirk asks.
“I haven’t thought that far ahead,” Lars admits, sheepish.
“That’s okay! It’s a vacation. You can just relax.” Kirk stirs something in the pan on the stovetop. “I do have a part-time gig as a surf instructor, so if that’s something you’re interested in, I can totally do that for you.”
Heat rushes through Lars at the thought of Kirk wearing nothing but waterlogged swim trunks, and his flawless tanned skin glistening with sunscreen and water.
Lars drops his gaze to his hands spread flat on the table. “Oh, well, thanks.”
“That sounds kinda fun,” Myles says. “’Cept I don’t have a board.”
“No worries,” Kirk says, “I’ve got plenty.”
“Well, that settles that, then,” Lars says, morose. He’s not excited about potentially being cajoled into failing at another sport tomorrow, so he’ll have to reject the invitation and look like a dickhead.
Myles gets Kirk talking about anime, and Lars might as well just not be there for the next forty-five minutes. He doesn’t really mind, though. It’s nice to hear Myles talk excitedly about something and have Kirk match his enthusiasm.
Kirk serves them what Lars considers a culinary abomination: sweet potato quesadillas. But Kirk is their host, and refusing would be rude — even Myles isn’t fussing over the food, because if it’s smothered in enough cheese he’ll eat anything — so Lars swallows his pride and takes a bite.
God damn it, it’s actually good.
Lars must make a surprised little noise, because Kirk looks at him inquisitively. “You like it?”
“Yeah, actually… I had my doubts.”
Kirk laughs. “Full disclosure: I wanted to go to the store today and pick up some food specifically for you guys, but I woke up late and it slipped my mind.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Lars says, going for another bite. “We can eat whatever you want.”
Dinner goes smoothly. Myles doesn’t mention anything about Lars’ tennis career. Kirk keeps the conversation around music, so both Lars and Myles can participate.
When the meal is over, Myles goes upstairs to bed. Kirk mixes Mai Tais for himself and Lars, and now Lars is alone with a man he almost certainly has a crush on.
“So,” Kirk says with a grin, sitting across from Lars at the table while he swirls the ice in his glass with a tiny straw, “imagine my surprise when I roll up to the airport and see tennis sensation Lars Ulrich getting into my car.”
Lars sputters on his drink. “Shit! No, that’s not me! He’s my identical twin. Lost since birth. I’m just a regular guy. I’m a… insurance salesman.”
The corner of Kirk’s mouth twitches, and he lifts an inquisitive eyebrow. Obviously he’s not buying this.
“I thought you didn’t pay much attention to sports,” Lars says, annoyed.
“I don’t, but everybody knows Agassi, the Williams sisters, and Lars Ulrich, even if they’ve never watched a single moment of a tennis match.”
“But you recognized me, not my name.”
“Your face is pretty memorable,” Kirk says. Is that flirting? Fuck, Lars has no idea how to navigate this conversation. “People probably recognize Michael Jordan from his Hanes ads and Space Jam even if they don’t watch basketball.”
Lars buries his face in his hands. The whole point of coming here was to escape the scrutiny of recognition. He hasn’t even been on the island for twenty-four fucking hours. “Goddamn it. So you probably know everything, then.”
“You mean losing the semifinals? Yeah, sorry. Saw that on the front page of Yahoo News. Then I put it together, you know, your name being Lars, saying your career is over…” Kirk shrugs and takes a sip of his drink.
“So you never suspected anything until yesterday?”
“Nope! To be fair, you never talked much about what you did for a living. So I thought all sorts of wild stuff over the years: government secrets, CIA sort of shit. Very classified.”
Lars laughs at the absurdity. “Sorry to disappoint you.”
“Are you kidding? This is awesome! But we don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want. I figure that’s probably why you came here, right? To get away from all that?”
Lars steals a glance at Kirk’s hands. There’s no ring, and no tan line where a wedding band might have been.
“Y—yeah, I — ” If Kirk knows all of this yet isn’t clowning on Lars for his loss, maybe Lars can be a little more honest with him. “I need to figure my shit out.”
“I totally understand, man. That’s why I came here.”
Lars doesn’t know this story. Kirk has always lived in Hawaii since they met online.
“I used to live in San Francisco, remember? I think I mentioned that before.”
Lars nods. That was another common link that bonded them.
“Well, for a long time, I was married. Then about two years ago, we got divorced, and I needed a fresh start. So I moved here.” Kirk takes another sip. “She got most of our friends in the divorce anyway. And the dog.” He frowns. “Man, I loved that dog.”
“Any kids?”
Kirk shakes his head. “I think that was part of the reason we split. I wanted to start a family, and she didn’t. Which was fine, but there were a lot of other problems on top of that. But anyway, I didn’t know anyone when I moved here, so that’s why I started hanging out in chat rooms. Then I met you, and you know the rest.”
Does he? Kirk’s life is a fascinating mystery, and Lars has only peered through small crevices to glean bits and pieces of the whole. He never felt it was fair to ask questions of Kirk that he wouldn’t want to answer himself, so Lars stayed away from that subject unless Kirk volunteered the information.
“For your sake, I hope you met people in real life.” It seems impossible that a hottie like Kirk wouldn’t have a bustling social circle.
“Oh, sure! My buddy Rob is hilarious. He’s into music too. Maybe the three of us can get together sometime.”
“He’s not a tennis fan, is he?”
Kirk laughs. “I don’t think so. Now, if you were an NFL kicker who fucked up a field goal with ten seconds on the clock, he might have a few choice words. I’m kidding though. Rob is a sweetheart.” Kirk takes another drink. “Would I be out of line in asking if Myles’ mom is still in the picture?”
“No, you wouldn’t be. And no, she’s — it’s complicated.”
“People always say that, but it usually isn’t.”
Lars plucks the cherry out of his drink and crushes the berry between his teeth. “She’s not a bad person or anything. It’s just… raising him was something I needed to do. Alone. And she was fine with that.”
“Like a surrogate sort of thing?”
“Not exactly.” Lars sighs, rolling the cherry stem between his fingers. “But, yeah, I guess it kinda was like that.”
Lars doesn’t tell Kirk that after his divorce he clung to the one person who would love him unconditionally. Myles wouldn’t leave Lars because of a loss. The kid couldn’t leave home until he was eighteen anyway, so that bought Lars some time — by then, Lars would be too old to properly compete, unless he played the Senior Circuit.
They veer away from the topic after that, and Kirk talks about some of his favorite places on the island and fun things to do nearby.
An hour later, Lars creeps upstairs to crawl into bed. Myles is already fast asleep, hogging most of the covers. Lars lies awake for a few minutes and listens to the soothing rustle of the palm tree leaves overhead, then sleep is on him like a blanket.
1991
Idiot. Failure. Fuckup. Loser.
They were all invectives Lars had heard before, words that rattled in his head like marbles since losing the ‘91 US Open, but divorced? That was a new one.
Just like a loss on the court, when Lars’ wife walked out on him soon after the humiliating defeat, Lars reviewed the game tapes, so to speak, analyzing where he’d gone wrong.
He’d been a little desperate, sure. So when he met a woman who liked him, someone he could halfway tolerate, he fell too fast. And maybe they would have split sooner if not for his hectic schedule. If he’d been home more, maybe the cracks would have shown earlier.
And the baby probably didn’t help.
Yes, Lars was a father now, and every time he looked at his son’s cherubic face, staring back at him was the threat of fucking up this kid with expectations and demands and the poison of legacy, just as his parents had unknowingly done to him.
He wouldn’t repeat those mistakes. He would make new ones, certainly, but his son would never have to dig his nails into anything for praise. Myles would never know that brief glint of disappointment in his father’s eye when he failed a math test or underperformed in whatever pursuit he chose.
Lars would love him unconditionally.
In turn, Myles would grow to love his father the same way.
So when the divorce papers came to Lars, he made one request: he would agree to a no-contest divorce as long as he got to keep Myles. It made sense; Lars was more financially equipped for childcare, and there was a void in his life that Myles filled perfectly. Lars was willing to sit out of the game for a few years if it meant caring for his son.
The deal was made, the papers signed, and Lars was officially a single father.
That was better than being a loser.
September 2002
Lars wakes up to Myles shoving his shoulder and saying, “Dad, phone.”
Through his bleary eyes, Lars sees Myles holding his phone. He can’t read the tiny screen, but it doesn’t matter; there’s no one he wants to talk to right now.
“Who is it?”
“James.” Then Myles adds, “Cali’s dad,” like Lars might have forgotten who his own sports agent is.
Lars smothers an expletive into the pillow. He’s definitely not in the mood to hear James poke fun at his poor performance on the court or grouse about all the sponsors who look like dopes for backing him.
Like his testicles, Lars’ ego is sensitive, and it’s already bruised; no need to go poking at it.
“Just let it ring,” Lars groans and rolls onto his back, blinking at the ceiling fan slowly paddling overhead.
Myles sets the phone on the bedside table with a clatter. The phone continues its electronic mating call. Lars considers smashing it with a hammer, except obtaining a hammer would require him to get up.
“Kirk’s making breakfast,” Myles informs him.
“What time is it?” Lars’ eyes are still too sleep-blurred to read the digital clock on the night table.
“Almost eleven.”
Daylight filters through the bamboo shutters hanging over the window. Fuck it. Might as well get up.
Lars hauls himself out of bed. His mission accomplished, Myles hurries out of the room and down the stairs.
Boasting a double sink vanity with marble countertops and wood cabinets, a freestanding bathtub, and a walk-in shower, the house may only have a single bathroom, but it’s a damn impressive one. Lars stares at his reflection for a moment, unnerved by the bags under his eyes and the hollow expression on his face. This is a man without direction, with no back-up plan for the rest of his life.
He knew he couldn’t play the game forever. After Myles was born, Lars spent a few years on hiatus to focus on raising his son, and it was rewarding to watch Myles grow up, to be there during important milestones instead of delegating those things to a nanny while he competed in tournaments.
He enjoyed his time off, but he always assumed the game would be waiting for him when he came back, like he could pick up right where he left off. Maybe he got cocky after his ‘96 Slam titles, because after rolling his ankle, he took more time off than necessary, enjoying the downtime, but he couldn’t bounce back as impressively as he did before.
Pride has always been Lars’ worst vice.
Downstairs, Kirk and Myles sit at the table, eating something that could either be oatmeal or rice. Probably rice. Myles hates oatmeal.
“What’s for breakfast?”
“Egg rice,” Myles says, his mouth half full.
Amazing. Lars can’t get the kid to eat anything for breakfast that isn’t loaded with sugar.
A point in Kirk’s corner, really. He’s good with kids, or at least good with Myles. Definitely worthy crush material.
“Want me to make you a bowl?” Kirk offers.
Lars looks at the spread of ingredients on the kitchen counter. He could probably figure it out on his own, but breakfast is the most important meal of the day, so he shouldn’t fuck it up.
“Sure.”
Kirk hops out of his seat and enters the kitchen. His lower half is no longer hidden beneath the table, and it becomes obvious that Kirk’s wearing shorts. Lars makes a tiny choked noise at the sight of Kirk’s bare, long (smooth) legs.
Dear fucking God, Lars won’t survive this trip without making a total ass of himself. He can just sense it, the way animals can detect an impending storm. At some point, he’s going to humiliate himself (again!) by staring too long, popping a boner, drunkenly confessing how hot he thinks Kirk is, or some new, terrible faux-pas he can’t even imagine.
But there’s no way he’s staying over twenty-four hours in this house without Kirk suspecting Lars isn’t entirely heterosexual.
Oblivious to Lars’ ogling, Kirk spoons out a bowlful of rice, cracks an egg into the center, and peppers the dish with a mix of spices and seasonings. He stirs it for a while, adds some more seasoning, then hands the bowl to Lars.
“Seriously? A raw egg? Who am I, Rocky Balboa?”
“It’s good, Dad,” Myles says, his mouth half full to illustrate the point.
Lars has seen some of the garbage Myles eats, but Kirk probably wouldn’t poison either of them, so Lars thanks him and takes the bowl to the table.
It is good, and Lars is faintly jealous that Kirk is not only a mega hottie, but a good cook too.
“Beach today?” Kirk says around a spoonful of rice. “Myles, I have a spare board you can use.” He looks at Lars. “I might even have one for you, too.”
Lars chews slowly, analyzing whether his gut reaction is the best response, and decides that it is. “I’ve already failed very publicly at one sport. Let’s not add another.”
“Oh, come on,” Kirk says, giving Lars a playful nudge with his foot under the table. “We’re all friends here.”
Lars puts all the steel he can into his voice, despite the (possibly) unintentional footsie making him blush. “No.”
“Alright, alright,” Kirk says in friendly acquiesce. “I won’t ask again.”
After breakfast, Kirk gets them packed and drives them to Waikiki Beach. The sand is pockmarked with footprints, the sky and ocean a crisp, radiant blue. Wispy clouds swirl overhead, and palm leaves sway in the gentle breeze. On the shimmering water, sailboats and cruise ships float by on the horizon.
Tourism season might be over, but the locals are out in full force, peppering the beach underneath umbrellas and spread across colorful towels. Kirk leads them to an unoccupied patch of beach, where Lars sticks his umbrella in the sand and makes camp.
“You’re really not gonna come with us?” Myles asks, blocking out the sun along with Kirk.
Through his sunglasses, Lars gets to ogle Kirk, who’s wearing a sleeveless Iron Maiden shirt and the ugliest Hawaiian print board shorts Lars has ever seen. Kirk’s skin glistens with sunscreen; until now, Lars has never been tempted to lick someone’s arms before.
“You guys go have fun,” Lars says, looking at Myles. “This trip isn’t just for me, remember?”
Myles nods and shrugs. He grins when he glances at Kirk. “Okay, let’s go.”
Lars watches them shrink as they approach the shoreline. He could have brought binoculars, but he didn’t want to seem like a perverted weirdo. At least he has a justification for wearing sunglasses.
Myles climbs onto his board when they hit the water, paddling farther out along with Kirk. Despite his vehement refusal to participate, Lars wants to be there with them. But he doesn’t want to embarrass Myles, who’s on the cusp of becoming a pre-teen and living in a constant state of parental embarrassment.
And the last thing Lars wants to do is make an ass of himself in front of Kirk. Kirk probably wouldn’t insult him for not being a pro surfer on his first attempt, but there would certainly be a diminishing of value where Lars is concerned, and he feels so worthless already.
So he sits on the beach and watches them have fun.
A little while later, a fat grey seal waddles out of the water and plops onto the sand, giving zero fucks about any nearby humans. Despite living in San Francisco for most of his life, Lars has only seen a seal in the wild once before, during his first hiatus from tennis. When Myles was five, Lars took him to the beach, just for something to do, and a brown harbor seal hauled itself onto the shore. Myles was curious but afraid to approach (he always had a good sense of self-preservation as a young kid), so they sat and watched it.
Lars thinks about those long years on hiatus as some of the happiest times of his life. The sentimental parent in him says that’s because he spent that time fully dedicated to raising his son. The cynical part, however, suggests that happiness was derived in part from not having to fucking play tennis. None of the endless grind, no exhausting himself on the court, no beating himself down with expectations, or the voices of his father and his coach in his head berating him with every misstep and imperfect serve.
He could just… be. And Myles never cared if Lars won a title or made sponsorship money or broke a record only sports nerds cared about. To Myles, Lars was just Dad, and the Ulrich family tennis legacy meant nothing.
Lars watches them for a while under the shade of the umbrella. The water is calm today, so Kirk doesn’t get to show off by riding huge waves. It’s mostly a teaching session for Myles, who presumably learns how to control the board and get comfortable on it.
They come back ashore later, stepping around the giant seal still lounging in the sand by the shoreline. Myles nudges Lars with a foot. “Dad, Kirk says the FBI will arrest me if I pet that seal.”
“I said marine creatures are federally protected,” Kirk corrects with a smile, amused by Myles’ hyperbole. “And you shouldn’t pet them anyway because they’re wild animals.”
“I wasn’t really going to,” Myles grumbles.
“Still, I don’t think you’d fare too well in a federal prison,” Lars says.
“I’m a kid! They don’t send kids to prison!”
“It’d go on your permanent record, though,” Kirk says slyly, like he’s having fun teasing. “And everybody in school would find out, and they’d call you something mean like Seal Boy.”
Lars nods. “Kids can be cruel.”
The glistening trails of water on Kirk’s skin shimmer under the sun. Lars stares for what’s probably a socially unacceptable amount of time.
Does Myles notice the inappropriate attention his father is giving Kirk? Because he asks, “Can I go back in the water?” like he doesn’t want to be here right now.
“Sure,” Lars says. “But don’t touch any seals.”
Myles scoffs as if he’s already an angst-afflicted teen, but there’s still a trace of affection there. “I won’t,” he says, taking his board and stomping across the sand.
Kirk sits beside Lars, scooting closer to grant himself some of the umbrella’s shade. At this tantalizing proximity to Kirk, Lars’ heart rate accelerates as a full-body flush comes over him.
“He’s a good kid,” Kirk says.
“Yeah, I got lucky.”
“Don’t sell yourself short. It’s all about nurture over nature. At least the way I see it.” Kirk wiggles his toes in the sand. Lars finds this particularly appealing for some reason he doesn’t understand. Fuck, is a foot fetish part of the mid-life crisis starter pack?
“If I was a cynical dickhead, I’d say you don’t have kids so how would you know?”
“Well, I was a kid, and if I inherited my dad’s shitty genes, then my mom worked overtime to counteract them,” Kirk says. He doesn’t often talk about his past, so Lars pays rapt attention. “Without her influence, I don’t know where I’d be. I definitely wouldn’t have ended up here.”
“Here as in…?”
“My general state of well-being.” Kirk leans back, bracing himself on his hands. Lars’ gaze is drawn to Kirk’s shoulders, and the sleek paths of the muscles in his arms. Through Kirk’s wet T-shirt, Lars sees the outlines of abs and delicious creases under the material.
The breeze picks up, balmy and cool, rustling Kirk’s hair and the sand beneath him.
“So you don’t — I’m not being a shitty parent because Myles just has me?” Lars asks. James likes to rag on him about settling down so Myles has a mother, and while it might be teasing in good fun, Lars worries he’s set Myles up to fail by virtue of having a single parent.
“No way,” Kirk says, surprised that Lars would ask. “I had two parents, and my dad sucked so much I probably would have turned out better if he’d never been around. But then if my mom had to work all the time ‘cause he wasn’t in the picture, so I didn’t get enough attention in my formative years, who knows what would have happened to me? But it looks like you’re doing an awesome job. As long as he feels safe and valued, you’re on the right track.”
Lars knows that much is true. Myles will come to him with awkward, embarrassing questions because Lars doesn’t brush him off or condescend. And Lars has made goddamn sure Myles’ sense of self-worth doesn’t come from grades or achievements or the poison of comparison.
1983
It was a remarkable year for Lars, who won his first tournament after burning his way through the ranks.
The fanfare was unreal. He was hailed as a new superstar in the making, which struck Lars as odd but no less satisfying. And the more he won, the more attention he got.
After winning the finals, strangers recognized him when he went out for a late dinner or a drink, or while he stood in the checkout at the grocery store. They congratulated him, asked for his autograph.
He didn’t necessarily like the fame, but he liked being appreciated.
As he kept winning the majors through the 1980s, women who wouldn’t have paid him any attention otherwise became very interested. Lars had his share of flings, though with the rise of STDs he was more selective and careful than he would have been otherwise.
Still, it was a lonely life. After the parties and celebrations and one night stands, Lars still came home to an empty apartment overlooking the bay. A beautiful view and no one to share it with.
He thought about it, of course. Of letting one of those many beautiful women into his life. But that meant intimacy, and Lars had never learned how to be intimate. He could have sex, and plenty of it, but the deeper requirements of intimacy — the willingness to be emotionally open, sharing his pain and anxieties, understanding another person — felt beyond him. He was a machine programmed to play tennis, to be the greatest.
But underneath that surface of rationalizations lay a more troubling foundation: Lars couldn’t bear to fumble, to lose in front of someone he pledged to love forever, and lose them.
Better to keep the world at arm’s length.
But it got lonely sometimes.
September 2002
Later in the afternoon, they meet Kirk’s friend Rob at a nearby tiki bar for colorful umbrella drinks and a light lunch. Rob is muscular and tanned with long, dark hair, and his intimidating Danny Trejo energy vanishes as soon as he grins at Kirk.
“Hey, man! Is this the infamous Lars?”
A spike of panic strikes Lars’ heart like a triphammer. “Infamous?”
“He talks about you a lot,” Rob explains as they join him at an outdoor table. “’Bout time I finally get to meet you.”
“You talk about me?” Lars asks Kirk, going for surprised over pleased.
Is Kirk blushing? “Nothing bad! I just — got a little excited when you said you were coming. So I told Rob.”
“I made a bet that you wouldn’t show,” Rob informs him. “Or if you did you’d be some Patrick Bateman, American Psycho sort of dude.”
“But instead of raving about Huey Lewis and the News, you’d play Deep Purple while you murder me,” Kirk says.
“‘Stormbringer,’” Lars agrees, playing along for a laugh. How is joking about being a serial killer more palatable than talking about his actual job?
Lars almost asks what Rob does for a living, but he doesn’t want the question fired back at him, so he sidesteps it. “How’d you guys meet?”
“We teach surfing classes together,” Rob says.
“Jesus, is that all anyone does on this island?” Lars wonders.
“You have to take at least one surfing class or they don’t let you live here,” Kirk says with a grin.
“I’m still not a hundred percent sure when you’re joking.”
Rob laughs, deep and hearty, and Lars likes him already. “Oh man, Kirk’s never serious. It’s all jokes all the time with this guy.”
Lars thinks back to the instances when Kirk has made him laugh, and, yeah, that tracks.
The four of them share a plate of nachos the size of a small nation. Myles mostly stays quiet unless he’s asked about school, his interests, or can contribute a mildly embarrassing (not tennis-related) anecdote about Lars — which he offers frequently, because it makes Rob and Kirk laugh.
Rob brags about some of the concerts he’s been to, and Lars fires back with some of his own.
“My dad and I saw Deftones last year,” Myles says. “It was my first concert.”
“Hell yeah, dude!” Rob says, giving him a fistbump. “What a killer first show.”
“Yeah, it was awesome.”
“Nobody cool ever plays here,” Kirk says sadly. “Honestly, that’s the hardest part about living in Hawaii. I usually save up for a once-a-year trip to L.A. if a band I really like plays there, though.”
“And sometimes I bribe him to take me too,” Rob adds with a grin.
“That’s… gotta be expensive.”
“Not for Bill Gates over here,” Rob says, nudging Kirk with an elbow.
Kirk blushes and glances away. “I guess it’s no secret. It’s not exactly cheap to live here,” he says, as if convincing himself to reveal what he actually does for a living. Two years in, and Lars still doesn’t know.
“How’d you make your fortune?” Lars asks.
“I was part of the dot-com boom and domain-squatted for businesses,” Kirk says.
“I have no idea what that means.”
“Right, not everyone’s a computer geek like me,” Kirk says with a self-deprecating laugh. “So a lot of big companies thought the internet was just going to be a fad, and they didn’t bother buying their own domain name. Like, say, McDonalds dot-com, or Nike dot-com. But the internet obviously isn’t going away, so they need those domains. Literally anyone can buy any domain name, so I scooped up some big URLs and politely contacted the companies. It’s actually more of a hostage negotiation, since the company needs that URL so they seem legit. They pretty much had to pay whatever I asked for, because there’s no law about domain-squatting yet.”
Smart and sexy, Lars thinks.
“I wish I’d thought of that,” Rob says.
“Dude, that’s super cool,” says Myles.
“After I made a lot of money, I had my finance guy invest it in a bunch of different ways, so it keeps earning for me,” Kirk says. “But, look, before all of this, I worked at a video store. I just got lucky.”
Mercifully, no one asks Lars what he does for a living.
They eat and drink a while longer, enough that Rob feels like an old friend. Lars’ phone vibrates in his pocket, and he peers at the screen. James again. Shit.
“Anything important?” Kirk asks him.
Flustered, Lars shoves his phone back into his pocket. “N—no, just — a friend of mine keeps bugging me.”
“Maybe they’re worried about you,” Kirk suggests, lifting an eyebrow in suggestion. “I get the feeling you kinda ran off without telling anyone.”
“You in trouble, bro?” Rob asks. He’s known Lars for all of two hours and Lars is already “bro.”
“No,” Lars says, shooting Kirk a disdainful glare across the table, “I just — I guess I’m having a midlife crisis.”
“Ha!” says Myles. “Told you.”
“Well, if that’s your girl calling, you should probably let her know you’re okay,” Rob says. Mr. Helpful.
Lars chuckles. “It’s just a buddy of mine wanting to give me shit for failing spectacularly at my job.” He glances at Myles and apologizes for the profanity.
Myles rolls his eyes. “Dad, you swear all the time.” It’s true, but he shouldn’t say it.
The three of them are minding their own business, no one being too loud or boisterous, so it comes as a total shock to Lars when he gets a frozen margarita dumped over his head.
“Hey, dickhead,” his assailant says. “Great job choking out there.”
Lars wipes the icy drink out of his eyes — Jesus, that salt fucking stings — and sees a tall, muscular, and (more importantly) very angry dude standing in front of him, blocking Lars’ exit from the table. His brow is wrinkled like a Shar Pei, a cruel sneer on his mouth.
“Bro, not cool,” Rob says. Apparently everyone is his bro, and Lars feels a little less important now than he did five minutes ago.
“What the fuck’s your problem?” Lars spits, hot with rage. If he was alone, he might have cowered and apologized, but in front of Myles, Rob, and Kirk, Lars feels obligated to at least mount a defense for his masculinity.
“You’re my problem, Lars,” the man says, a prominent vein bulging in his neck. “How fucking hard is it to hit a goddamn ball over the net?”
This is exactly the kind of situation Lars hoped to avoid. Instead he’s getting publicly humiliated in front of his son, his crush, and a potential friend who might have liked Lars without all that messy tennis crap getting in the way.
Everyone seated at the bar and the nearby tables is looking at them now. Lars imagines himself deflating like a balloon and sinking underneath the table, sliding between the miniscule cracks in the concrete, and disappearing entirely.
Except he can’t, and he has to actually deal with this nonsense. Swallowing the lump in his throat, Lars says, “Dude, it’s just a fucking game.”
Vein Guy laughs a harsh, derisive snort. “Yeah, that’s what losers say.”
“Hey, y’know, outside the world of sports, we’re all losers, man,” Kirk says, and Lars is overwhelmed by the gratitude he feels for Kirk sticking up for him. It’s also a little embarrassing though, an insinuation that Lars can’t handle his own shit.
Veiny Guy shoots Kirk a baleful glare. “Easy for you to say. You didn’t lose a couple thousand bucks on that match of his.”
The proper thing to do here is to shut up, maybe try to end this peacefully and nonviolently. But Lars is an idiot, so he says, “If you bet that much on me — no one’s ever won a Slam at my age — after I lost all the other majors, you deserve to lose your money, because you’re a shitty gambler and a fucking moron.”
Immediately, Lars is hauled out of his chair by powerful, veiny hands and dragged past the other tables, past the beach loungers, and he’s momentarily grateful they’re in a pool bar, or else he might be getting his ass beat instead of thrown into the water.
Then he’s airborne, his limbs flailing, and everyone in the pool spreads out to make room for his graceless splash. Lars hits the water on his side, and momentum sucks him into the depths of the shallow end. He twirls under the water like a baby in the womb, opening his eyes to see the pastel pinks and purples of the twilight sky shimmering from beneath the water.
It’s peaceful down here, the low thrum of his heartbeat in his ears, all other sound drowned by the water. All he sees is the sky, palm trees overhead, towering hotels. Lars considers staying underwater forever. Then he buoys to the surface, and everything rushes back. One of his black Crocs bobs in the water nearby.
Kirk and Myles are standing by the pool’s ladder. Lars swims over to them, eventually wading through waist-deep water by the time he climbs out. He’s waterlogged and dripping, his shoes squeaking with each step.
“Sorry,” Lars murmurs in apology as they try to escape, but Rob and Veiny Guy are in the way, squaring off like they’re about to come to blows.
“Guys, if you’re gonna fight, you gotta take it outside,” the bartender says and receives a chorus of boos from patrons who find Lars’ beatdown to be the evening’s entertainment.
“This is so embarrassing,” Myles groans, his head buried in his hands. “Can we please leave? Everyone’s looking at us.”
Veiny Guy looks at Myles, potentially recognizing how this pugilistic nonsense might not make him the good guy in this scenario. “Whatever,” he grumbles, stepping back. “You’re fucking washed up, Lars. In fifty years, this is all you’re gonna be remembered for: being a professional choke artist.”
Wisely, Lars keeps his mouth shut.
“Damn. People get that bent out of shape about tennis?” Rob asks when they’re safely outside, walking along the boardwalk.
Lars is still dripping water, every droplet hitting the concrete like another molecule of his dignity. “Apparently that guy does.”
“Well, hey, I know a couple great clubs if you’re still up for hanging out,” Rob says.
Kirk props an elbow on Lars’ shoulder and murmurs, “Rob’s pulled this on me before. He’s trying to hook you up.”
Lars wouldn’t be great company right now. He feels shitty about himself, and that’s no way to start a potential date. Anyway, he’s too fixated on Kirk to even think about anyone else.
“Thanks for the offer, but I gotta get home and call — ” It occurs to Lars that being dunked in the pool probably did the inner workings of his cell phone zero favors. “Shit. I bet my phone is fucked.”
“You can put it in rice and that’ll absorb the water,” Myles says.
Lars grins, pleasantly surprised by his kid’s ingenuity. “Great idea. Let’s try it.”
They bid Rob goodbye and head back to Kirk’s place. Lars leaves his squeaky, wet shoes on the front porch. Kirk has a bowl of uncooked rice ready when Lars comes inside. He fishes his cell phone out of his pocket and nestles it into the rice.
“Here’s hoping this works,” Lars says.
Already bored, Myles asks, “Kirk, can I watch one of your movies?”
“If it’s alright with your dad.”
“Sure. I have to rinse off anyway.” Lars’ clothes are still damp from the pool, and his skin smells like chlorine.
While Myles puts on a movie in the guest bedroom, Lars stands under the hot spray of the shower and jerks off miserably. It’s something he has to do after being in a near-constant state of arousal around Kirk. Kirk, with his toned arms and his smooth legs and his sweet smile and those gorgeous blow job lips —
Lars makes a choked noise when he comes on the tile, his knees buckling underneath him. “Fucking pathetic,” he mumbles to himself, watching his jizz slide down the wall.
When he’s finished, he pops into the guest bedroom, hauling an armful of his laundry. Myles is lying on the bed watching one of Kirk’s anime movies.
“I saved you some hot water.”
“I don’t need a shower. I was in the ocean, like, all day, dude.”
Lars laughs. “Dude, any open body of water is basically a public toilet. You’re not sleeping in this bed one more night without a shower.”
“Fine,” Myles huffs, dramatically pausing the tape as he climbs out of the bed. He’s digging through his suitcase when Lars leaves him to go downstairs.
Kirk’s on the couch watching a Seinfeld rerun.
“I’m shocked you’re not watching a horror movie,” Lars says.
“I can like other stuff too.”
“I know. It’s just a little disorienting. Like hearing a nun swear.”
Lars dumps his armload of dirty clothes into the laundry bin and joins Kirk on the couch. Kirk has his socked feet propped on the coffee table, still wearing those goddamn board shorts that show off his exquisitely toned calves. Lars averts his eyes to the screen, distracting himself with the wacky hijinks of Kramer and company.
During a commercial break, Lars says, “You remember the one where George’s parents brought a loaf of bread to a dinner party and then took it back with them ‘cause it never got served? My dad pulled that exact same shit one time.” He laughs to himself. “Honestly, the geriatric insanity of the Costanzas is so on point with how my parents interact.”
“I’m so sorry,” Kirk says with a grin. “That’s gotta be excruciating. Did your father invent a fake holiday for airing grievances?”
“No, he doesn’t need a holiday for that.”
“Oof.” Kirk offers a hand. “Welcome to the Sons of Terrible Dads club.”
Lars shakes Kirk’s hand despite not feeling fully like a member. “He’s not so bad. I mean, he’s not, like, violent or anything.”
“Words can do a lot of damage to a kid.”
Lars doesn’t disagree with that, but it still feels wrong to put his dad on the same level as an abuser or an absent father. All Dad ever did was push Lars to do better, to be better. Just because Lars couldn’t measure up doesn’t mean Dad was wrong.
They spend an hour or two on the couch watching TV, from Seinfeld to Whose Line to The Simpsons. Then Lars checks the time. It’s still a reasonable hour in San Francisco. James should probably still be up. If Lars’ phone is working, he ought to return James’ calls.
Lars digs his phone out of the rice and presses the power button. The screen comes to life, and he exhales a sigh of relief.
Lars goes outside, sits on the porch steps, and dials James’ number.
“Lars, what the fuck?” James says after three rings. “I thought you were fucking dead.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“It crossed my mind a couple times. Where are you? I drove by your place, but nobody was home. Are you still in New York?”
“I’m in Hawaii. I brought Myles with me.” Lars adds that last part so he doesn’t sound irresponsible.
“Hawaii?” James chuckles. “I guess that’s a good place to run off to.”
“I didn’t run off,” Lars says, even though he totally did. “I took a vacation.”
“Semantics.”
Lars huffs and picks up a fallen palm frond, twirling it in his free hand. “Well, I’m not dead. So you can rest easy.”
“Hey, c’mon. You vanish without telling anyone, of course I’m gonna get worried.”
“I told a friend,” Lars says, petulant.
“I’m your friend too, dumbass. It’s really sad you feel like you couldn’t face me, man.”
“I guess therapy’s working for you.”
“You should give it a try,” James says. Since last year, James has been working with a therapist to combat his alcoholism and anger issues.
“There’s nothing wrong with me!” Lars protests.
James laughs. “There’s something wrong with everyone, man. And you are totally fucked up if losing a game makes you run away like this.”
Lars crunches the palm frond in his fist. “I just had a drunk asshole threaten to beat the shit out of me because I lost, so, no, I’m not the one who’s fucked up.”
“Lars, c’mon. There’s always gonna be dickheads who take sports too seriously. But you don’t have to be one of them.”
“I’m not! I don’t even fucking like tennis! You know what I wanted to be when I was ten? A fucking heavy metal drummer, like Ian Paice or John Bonham. But playing tennis made my dad and my grandfather happy, and I liked that they were proud of me.”
Lars has never been this candid about his dislike for his career before. Not in front of anyone, at least.
“Now nobody’s proud of me,” he mumbles.
“Is that why you came out of retirement? So someone’d be proud of you?”
“Kind of…” Lars breathes in the cool night air. “I wanted to hold onto my record a little longer. Not because I cared that much about having it, but because I don’t know who I am without it. If I’m not the best at this stupid fucking thing I dedicated my life to, what the fuck do I have to show for the last thirty years of my life?”
“You really should consider therapy,” James says after a moment. “But for what it’s worth, I’m proud of you. You’re a fucking legend, man. Nobody can take that away from you, not even yourself.”
“Thanks,” Lars mutters. He wants to lie down and cry from the futility of it all. “I’ll let you go. It’s kinda late for you, isn’t it?”
“Right, you’re on island time.” James laughs. He sounds happy, healthy, and cognizant of his own bullshit. Lars envies him. “Take care of yourself, alright?”
They say their goodbyes and hang up. Lars tears pieces off the palm frond and tosses them onto the ground. Maybe James is right and Lars should see a therapist. At least a therapist would be obligated to listen to Lars bitch and complain.
Behind him, the screen door opens, and Kirk steps out. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah.”
“Mind if I join you?”
“Go ahead.”
Kirk sits beside him on the porch step. The soft breeze rustles his hair, and Lars catches a whiff of Kirk’s shampoo — or maybe it’s conditioner. He’s got a lot of hair products in the bathroom.
If Kirk owns shirts with sleeves, he hasn’t worn one yet. His arms are incredibly close, soft shadows and highlights contouring their shape. Lars’ mouth goes dry at the sight.
“So I couldn’t help but overhear just a little bit of that,” Kirk says, sheepish.
A bolt of terror strikes Lars. “Of what?”
“Your phone conversation.”
Right. Because Kirk isn’t a telepath capable of hearing Lars’ inner thoughts.
“I would totally brag about you if you weren’t embarrassed by it,” Kirk says. “And you don’t need to be the best at anything to have value. Maybe someone’s already told you that, but I think it bears repeating.”
Lars can almost believe this when he hears it from Kirk. Because their friendship was built almost exclusively on omitting his tennis career, so Kirk got to determine Lars’ value for himself.
But something in Lars’ expression must trouble Kirk, because he says, “Quick, name the greatest painter of all time. Y’know, on a technical level.”
“Probably da Vinci, Michelangelo, Rembrandt… Van Gogh?”
“Alright. Now tell me your favorites.” Kirk smiles, because Lars has talked about his favorite artists before, and none of them are considered the all-time greats — except maybe Monet, but the point still stands.
“I see what you’re doing,” Lars says. “But art and sports are totally different. Art is about expression. Sports is about results.”
“How about being one of the best? Is that good enough?”
Lars tosses the palm frond into the yard and wipes his hands on his shorts. “For me? Sure. But my father isn’t satisfied with anything less than perfection.”
“Does he even understand how sports work? No one can be the greatest forever. There’s always new blood that comes along and overtakes the old records.”
“He used to play professionally. Then he retired and started coaching me.”
“Ah, the classic ‘living vicariously through your kid’ syndrome,” Kirk says with a knowing smile. “Is that how you treat Myles?”
“Fuck no,” Lars says, emphatic. “My whole thing with him has always been ‘do whatever the fuck you want, as long as it makes you happy.’”
“So you know your dad’s expectations are bullshit, otherwise you would’ve repeated the cycle.” Kirk glances sidelong at him. “What you said back there, about how no one’s won a Slam at your age… The odds were stacked against you, but you gave it a shot anyway. That’s pretty fucking ballsy.”
“Don’t you mean stupid?”
Kirk frowns. “No. It’s brave as fuck to do what you did. Anyone who doesn’t see that is stupid.” He speaks with such conviction that Lars almost believes him.
“Well, thanks, but that doesn’t help me figure out what to do with the rest of my life.” Lars has always been so tunnel-vision focused on prioritizing his tennis legacy that he never gave any thought to pursuing something else. Considering another career felt like a betrayal, not just of his family’s expectations, but his own sunk costs.
“Well, now you’ve got the freedom to learn drums or take up painting, and you don’t need to worry about money,” Kirk says. “I mean, that’s kinda what I did. The money I made domain-squatting I get to use as a cushion for doing other stuff.”
“You’re one of the few people who’s actually encouraged me to go after something besides tennis.”
“That doesn’t surprise me. I imagine you’re surrounded by lots of people who don’t have your best interests at heart. Managers, agents, coaches… To them, you’re just a golden goose, and they want you to keep laying eggs.”
Lars snickers at the questionable images that brings to mind, but an odd elated feeling settles in his chest. Kirk has no ulterior motives or any reason to hang around Lars other than genuinely enjoying his company. Kirk actually likes Lars for who he is.
What a rare, incredible thing.