Welcome to “First Chapters,” Cosmo’s column where we shine a spotlight on debut authors who you are definitely going to be obsessed with. And what better way for you to get to know them and their books than with an excerpt of their new release. This round, we’re highlighting Edward Schmit’s The Open Era, a new sports romance that follows two pro tennis players as they navigate the pressures of being a sports pro and the headlines that follow them. As their friendship and rivalry brings them closer together, sparks fly between them both on and off the court in th emiddle of the U.S. Open. Here’s some more info from Berkley:
Love evens the score between two tennis players in this stunning debut romance.
Recently-turned-pro tennis player Austin Hardy has been out since high school and it’s never been a big deal. That is, until he becomes the first openly gay man to compete in a Grand Slam tournament. Suddenly, being gay is a huge deal, with headlines to prove it.
Unprepared for this new spotlight, Austin’s anxiety disorder hits a breaking point, and he trips and falls at practice. Right next to the very attractive, very talented, and probably straight Diego Cruz, ranked second in the world.
The two professional rivals start a friendship off the court. But between their flirty banter, mixed signals, and looming showdown, Austin is thrown further off his game by Diego.
With the eyes of the world on Austin, the weight of history on his shoulders, and Diego across the net, he must decide whether love means nothing or if it means everything as he battles for the trophy during an electric two weeks at the US Open.
“I wanted to explore the life of a pro athlete after coming out, the pressure to succeed in the spotlight and the joy that can be found when you're open about who you are and who you love,” Edward exclusively told Cosmopolitan. “The Open Era is a pressure cooker, told over two weeks at the US Open, with sweat, tears, and a lot of heart. Get ready for some epic, gay tennis this summer.”
And you can check it out for yourself with an exclusive excerpt below! Just make sure to pre-order The Open Eraso you don’t miss a single match when the tournament starts!
THE SUN DIPS JUST below the trees as we turn onto an unpaved path in Central Park, away from the evening crowd. Surprisingly, not one person has taken a second look at Diego in his knockoff souvenir outfit, now complete with Pizza Rat shorts.
“Speaking of new clothes,” Diego says, ducking under a branch, “are we going to talk about Nike?”
“What about it?”
“You basically got offered a sponsorship deal back there.”
“I don’t know. It sounded pretty unofficial to me.”
“Why aren’t you excited, though?”
I look at him, considering my response.
“Since I got here, all the questions I get—everything is about who I’m attracted to. No one cares that I almost broke a serve record. No one cares about how I’m playing.”
“Why does that bother you, though? Who cares what they say? Just take the money.”
That’s easy for him to say when all anyone talks about is how incredible he is, the future of men’s tennis. “It’s hard to explain. When I came out, it wasn’t a big deal for most people. And now it is. I guess I’m not used to that.”
“But, like . . .” Diego pauses. “Why did you come out if you weren’t cool with people talking about it?”
I stop, and Diego hangs back. I’m not exactly sure what he’s implying, but his question doesn’t sit right. And why is he press- ing me so hard on this? I wanted this conversation to come up eventually, mainly to see if I can get any information about his own sexuality, but this is annoying. Whose side is he on?
“I am cool with people talking about it,” I say. “I just don’t want it to be the headline. There’s a difference.”
“I mean, the first gay guy in a Grand Slam—that’s a big deal.”
“To them, yeah. To me . . . I dunno. It just comes with a bunch of people being assholes online.”
“That’s why you gave up your phone?”
“Kind of.” Which is true, but I skip the part about my sleep- less night due to him and his ghosting.
“I’m just trying to understand why that wouldn’t make you proud,” he says, continuing to double down. “I want to be the first Mexican man to win a Grand Slam. That would make me proud.”
There’s a difference between the two things. I can’t really articulate it, though. And now I feel like I have to defend myself. “Being gay does make me proud,” I say. “It’s just not the only thing about me.”
“Right. You’re also smart and funny and bad at Ping-Pong.”
I laugh, and the tension lifts a bit. We keep walking. “And you will be the first Mexican man to win,” I tell him. “It’s hard to believe that’s never happened before.”
“I was really lucky growing up,” Diego says. “My family lived next to a private club, and I played there every day. I had access to the best coaches in Mexico City, the best training. And then my parents sent me to train in Florida. I had everything I needed to make it. It’s impossible if you don’t have that support.”
“If you’re as good as you are, you find a way.”
“No,” he responds, breezing past my compliment. “You have to be rich and you have to be lucky. I know that, and I’m grate- ful every single day. That’s why I’m starting my foundation. It’s going to fund public courts in Mexico, make scholarships. I want kids to have the opportunities I had, but that takes lots of money.”
He’s not wrong, and I’m well aware of that. Most of the play- ers on tour come from wealthy families all over the world. “The only reason I’m here is Robbie,” I say. “He hasn’t charged my family anything since I started working with him in juniors. He’s the rich one, not us. No way could we afford him.”
“See, there’s the luck part. You’re lucky he’s rich,” he says with a head tilt. “Also”—he winces, looking down at his shoes—“I’ve been trying not to complain, but these loafers are killing me.”
“I told you to get the matching Pizza Rat flip-flops.”
We veer off the path and take a seat on a large rock overlook- ing a grassy field. Diego peels off his shiny leather loafers, now coated in a thin layer of dirt from the walk. We sit together, watching a softball game in the distance.
After a moment, Diego turns to me slightly and asks, “Why did you come out?”
“Because I’m gay. You haven’t seen the articles?”
He laughs. “No, like, was there something that inspired you?”
I sigh as I consider which version of the story I should tell him. But if I’m honest, maybe he’ll be more comfortable being honest too.
“My best friend when I was growing up. We were really close. And we would like . . . mess around and stuff. And it got to the point where we were doing it all the time, hanging out all the time, and I was like, We’re basically dating already. Let’s make it official. So we did. We agreed,” I say, adding a shrug. “Fresh- man year of high school.”
The story’s simple and sweet up to then. It was wonderful— falling in love with my best friend, and shouting about it to the world.
“I was thrilled. I told Charlotte, my parents, a few friends. I don’t think anyone was surprised. They all saw me sobbing at Patrick singing ‘The Best’ to David on Schitt’s Creek.”
Diego nods. “I loved that part. It made me want to learn guitar,” he says. Hearing that would normally make my heart skip a beat, but I have to finish the story, and unlike Schitt’s Creek, it doesn’t have a happy ending.
“And then I posted a photo. Me and Jake holding hands. Just a photo of our hands, no caption or anything. I was so nervous to post it, but when I did, it felt amazing, like a weight was lift- ing from my chest. And I don’t think it was because I was finally coming out to everyone. I think it was about him. He meant so much to me, I was so happy when I was with him, and I wanted everyone to know.”
I clear my throat.
“The next day . . . he changed his mind. He asked me to take the post down. He took it all back like it never even happened, and we basically never hung out again. He wouldn’t answer my texts, ignored me at school, at lunch. And, yeah, that’s about it. I went from having a best friend to having a boyfriend to having . . . nothing at all.”
“Shit,” Diego says softly.
“The rest of the school was cool about it. My family was wonderful. The only issue was him. For some reason, it was just him.” I shake my head. After all these years, I still don’t under- stand it. “So yeah, it was really shitty, but I just took everything I had left in me and poured it into tennis.” I shrug. “That part worked out, I guess.”
Across the field, a batter winds up and cracks a softball into the sky. Bright red and white jerseys scatter the bases.
“Oh, and my dad died a few months later.”
“Fuck.”
“Yeah. Fun times.”
Diego is quiet for a few moments. I don’t blame him. There’s not much you can say after that.
“Have you dated anyone since then?” he asks.
“Not really, no.”
“Hooked up?”
I pause. Interesting question. “No.”
Why did I choose honesty here? If Diego thought I was cool in any way before, all of that will get blown up when he does the math and realizes I haven’t touched a dick other than my own in five years.
“What would you do . . . when you guys hooked up?” he asks.
I turn to him, my eyebrow dipping. “What do you mean?”
He chuckles, looks away. “Never mind.”
“Like, what would we do?” I ask, basically repeating him, but I want to make sure I understand what he’s asking. And it buys me a little time to cover my shock at his directness.
He turns back to me, shrugs his shoulder. “Yeah.”
“I would jerk him off. He would jerk me off. And then we moved on to . . . mouths.”
Diego meets my eyes.
“Oh. Wow, yeah. Good for you,” he says, twisting his hands together.
“What about you?” I’m surprised I asked the question, but hey, he opened the door.
“What about me?”
“Have you dated anyone . . . recently?” I ask, playing a little dumb, because I’m pretty sure of the answer.
“Yeah. There was someone for a second, but she lives in Mi- lan, and it never really worked with the distance.”
This is zero news to me—the someone he’s referring to is a famous Italian model—but describing the relationship as having lasted “a second” is a little suspect. Based on his posts, and my very normal and not at all stalkerish sleuthing, it was six months, maybe longer.
“We barely saw each other, though,” he continues, “and sex- ting can only get you so far.”
“Can only get you off so far.”
He stares at me, then finally laughs. It took him a beat, but he got there. I had to go for the joke to distract myself from thinking about him having sex with that beautiful woman.
“There was this one time, though,” he says, leaning in closer. “We had this private villa on Lake Como, with a heated pool. We’re enjoying some wine in the water. I’m behind her, arms wrapped around shoulders, and she reaches back and just pulls down my shorts. And we”—he pauses, lowers his voice—“do it right there, watching the sunset. Anyone could have seen. Maybe someone did.” He turns back to the baseball game with a smug look on his face.
“Romantic” is all I can say, as jealousy courses through me and gathers in my pants. And now I’m as hard as this rock we’re camped out on.
“I don’t know. I don’t have time for any of that now. I wasn’t that sad when we ended.”
“Seems like you have a little time now.” The words slip out of my mouth before I can catch them. That was fucking for- ward. He looks at me, smirks, and shakes his head as he hops up. Fuck, I wish I hadn’t said that. He slides his shoes on and holds his hand out to pull me up.
“Uh, I’ll just sit here a second longer.”
“Why?”
I pause, shift around, trying to think of a good answer as I wait for my blood to return to its normal places.
“Oh, I see now,” he says with a smirk. Apparently I wasn’t discreet. He reaches out to grab my hand anyway, yanks me up. “Walk it off,” he says, and smacks my back. “Hardy boy.”
I’ve never been so embarrassed and turned on at the same time.
“Should we play Mario Kart?” Diego asks.
“I don’t want to shatter your confidence before tomorrow,” I reply as we start walking, my hand in my pocket, hiding my dick against my leg.
“You can’t say shit like that to me. Now we definitely have to play.”
We cut toward the street as the sky lights up in cotton candy pink and I find myself about to host Diego in my hotel room once again—at his suggestion. I love that we’re getting more comfortable with each other, sharing our hopes, dreams, sexual histories, but I can’t help the nerves creeping back in. I’m so curious about him. He seems just as curious about me—but is it for the same reasons? I’m still clueless about what he ultimately wants here, but I’m enjoying this friendship—I need this friendship—and I don’t want to fuck things up. Not again.
From THE OPEN ERA published by arrangement with Berkley, an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC. Copyright © 2026 by Edward Schmit
The Open Era, by Edward Schmit will be released on June 2, 2026 from Berkley. To preorder the book, click on the retailer of your choice:
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