Chapter 25
twenty-five
Knowing he’s likely asleep, I knock loudly, ignoring the odd glances from people walking down the hall or poking their heads out of their rooms. For once, I couldn’t care less what they think of me.
After my second round of knocking, the door swings open to reveal a bleary-eyed Matteo, his hair standing up on one side, torso bare, and gray sweatpants haphazardly thrown on.
“Delilah?” Sleep clings to my name, his voice deep. His eyes flood with confusion, then happiness, then concern, his breath catching. “Are you alright?”
The air around me tightens, my stomach raging. Insistent. Heat blooms in my chest and creeps up my throat, just shy of burning me. My muscles feel taut as I point down the hall. “Do you want to go on a walk?”
Thick eyebrows furrow, but he nods, disappearing into his room and reemerging in a Stratosphere T-shirt and hat. “Where do you want to go?”
“The river isn’t far.”
Matteo gently grabs a strand of hair that’s fallen out of my messy bun, as if to make sure I’m not an apparition or figment of his imagination. He drops it quickly, clearing his throat. “Sorry. Lead the way.”
He follows me to the elevators. “How did you know what room I was in?” he asks, pressing the button. The elevator opens immediately, and we step inside.
“I asked Austin, but he was no help. He gave me four different possibilities. The front desk wouldn’t give it out, which, in hindsight, is a good thing.
Then I got to Francesca’s room and begged her to ask Alessio.
” Sheepishly, I look away. “She wouldn’t tell me anything until I explained what was going on, so she knows. Everything.”
To my surprise, when I gaze back at him, his lips twitch subtly. “I think she’s known for quite some time,” he murmurs.
I don’t get a chance to answer. The elevator doors open, and though it’s after midnight, it’s no surprise to see the lobby bustling with coaches and players; this hotel is where most choose to stay during the Australian Open.
We make our way through the crowd, and when we step out of the main doors, a breeze darts around us, the sounds of the city magnified by how close we are to the main street and train station.
Putting a pin in our prior conversation, I say, “Sorry for waking you. I didn’t…I had a small revelation and didn’t want us to go another hour without talking.”
“I thought I ruined any chance of you talking to me again,” Matteo breathes quietly. He sounds so small, so hurt. I take his hand, watching the wonder on his face as he tightens his fingers around mine.
“I’m sorry,” I reply, doleful. “I’m sorry I got upset.
I’m sorry that I’m not good at accepting help from others, even when it’s small.
I’m sorry I left you like that, and that I let you believe we were done.
I’m especially not proud of the way I handled the match today.
” I glance down at our hands, feel him anchoring me.
“I…I just had things I needed to work through.”
We pass a loud group of tourists leaving a restaurant, then turn to walk toward St. Paul’s Cathedral. I can see the gears turning in Matteo’s head while he digests my words.
“So you’re…not mad at me about Strato?”
“I wish you would’ve told me. It was a long time to keep something from me, particularly when we got as close as we did.
But at the end of the day, with that and everything else you’ve done to help keep my family together, I could never stay upset.
” We cross the main street and walk toward the Yarra River.
When we’re safely in the quaint park area, I finish, “It was overwhelming, hard to register and comprehend in the moment, but I will forever be indebted to you.”
Matteo pulls me to a stop. Cupping my face with calloused fingers, he makes sure my eyes are on his when he says, “You are not indebted to me. You don’t owe me a thing. Okay?”
“Okay.”
His features soften. “And it’s like I said. There are only so many strings I could pull. If they didn’t want you, they wouldn’t have pushed your endorsement through. You did all the work.”
I can’t help myself, even as another group of tourists walks past us. I lean forward, pressing a chaste peck to his lips. “Thank you for giving them that push.”
He’s spent so long being terrified of the people in his life leaving in one way or another, there’s still a hesitation in the tilt of his brow.
Like he’s not positive he’s not dreaming.
Like he fears waking up to an empty bed, this memory we’re making becoming nothing more than his subconscious playing a cruel trick.
“I’m here,” I whisper. “It’s me. I’m not going anywhere. We’re going to play doubles until we’re old and wrinkled.”
His eyes widen. “Does that mean…um, do you…” Matteo scratches the back of his neck, pink coloring his cheekbones. It’s adorable from a man who seems so self-assured most of the time.
I step in and help before he loses his resolve entirely. “I would very much like it if you would be my partner on and off the court.”
Matteo flashes me the most beautiful smile I’ve ever seen, all pretty eyes and straight teeth.
He tugs me toward him and kisses me hard, a hand slipping into my hair.
When someone whistles, we pull apart reluctantly and I slip my hand back into his, dragging him down the dirt walkway beside the river.
Little ferry boats rock gently, the city of Melbourne lit up and casting a warm amber glow against the river water.
The smell of food from the restaurants down the riverwalk waft toward us as we take a seat on a bench.
“Back to what you said about Francesca. What do you mean she’s known about us?”
Matteo chuckles, wrapping an arm around my shoulders and pulling me into his body. “That woman sniffed me out like a wolf. Knew practically the moment I stepped foot in the facility that I wanted you.”
“What? You’re kidding.”
“Nope. Half of what I said to her in Italian over the last few weeks had nothing to do with tennis and everything to do with asking her to be less obvious. When your back was turned, she made kissy faces at me and pointed in your direction.”
I laugh, still shocked. “I had no idea. Does Alessio know?”
Matteo nods. “Yeah. The number of times he whacked me upside the head during my singles strategy sessions because I was thinking about you probably gave me a mild concussion. I got yelled at a lot when we were on separate courts too. He’s very worried about my focus.”
“As he should be, apparently.” I rest my head on his shoulder. “I can’t believe I was so oblivious.”
“Very. I was sure you knew many, many times, but Francesca reassured me that you were clueless. Which is good. It gave me time to work my very limited charm.”
I slap his chest. “You’re very charming.”
Matteo pulls my hand to his lips, kissing it softly before setting it in his lap. We observe Melbourne in all its glory, people drunkenly walking down the path in front of us or singing from restaurants behind us.
After a particularly rowdy group passes us by, I say, “There’s one thing that doesn’t make sense to me.”
“What’s that?”
“If you wanted to play mixed with me, why would you offer me up for the endorsement? I could have gotten the deal and decided I didn’t need to play doubles.”
Matteo traces circles on my arm, putting his cheek on top of my head. “Because I cared more about you being okay than I did about getting to play with you.”
I feel cleaved open. Raw. The warmth of his words, the depth of his love wraps around my heart to fill every void. Sticks to it tightly to protect it from any more hurt.
Over the course of the last couple of months, it has become increasingly clear that the press and other athletes on the tour don’t know him very well. Now more than ever, it hurts me to recognize how utterly wrong they are.
“I love you,” I say suddenly, almost desperately. I don’t know when it happened, but the words have never felt more right. Pushing away to look into his eyes, I say it again. “I love you.”
From his smile, he knows it means more than that.
That I’ll protect him from the words of people who know nothing about him.
From their incorrect assumptions ever becoming something he believes himself.
That I’ll stand beside him at every tournament, win or lose, whether I’m physically there or in another country.
That I’ll spend every night I can beside him, holding him when he’s reminded of the storms in his life.
That I’ll love him until I’m laid to rest.
And when he whispers it back against my lips before kissing me, I know he means all of that too.
Shots Fired
Austin
More edits of the newlyweds now that they’re official on socials
Sahar
Austin, remind me to teach you what newlywed means
Harper
Aw, stoppppp. These are all so cute.
Noah
This is kind of obsessive
Austin
Me? Or the people making the edits
Noah
If you have to ask…
Nic removed themself from the chat.
Austin added Nic to the chat.
Matteo liked “More edits of the newlyweds now that they’re official on socials”
Matteo
Delilah is so pretty, I didn’t even notice I was in those.
Harper
AWWW.
Austin
Barf
Sahar
Shut up Austin
He’s just mad I’ve got a new doubles partner ;)
Two weeks later, I win my first Grand Slam quarterfinal match in a third-set tiebreak and immediately rush off to prepare for our mixed doubles semifinal match.
Francesca gives me a giant bear hug when I reach her outside of the locker rooms, her smile almost as wide as when I told her Matteo and I were together.
The Wards are next, each hugging and congratulating me. Eli pulls away with tears in his eyes. “I knew you could do this. You were phenomenal, Del.”
And though I promised myself I wouldn’t cry until after my second match, I can’t help it. I hug Eli again before hurrying to the area where Matteo is warming up, Francesca hot on my heels.
He was doing cone work on the grass, but the moment he sees me, he tugs me into a tight embrace.
“Look at you. My semifinalist,” he whispers against my temple.
Past him, Nic shoots me a small congratulatory smile.
Harper and Sahar, who are preparing for their doubles match, send me a thumbs up and kissy face respectively, and I giggle against Matteo’s shoulder.
He steps back, searching my face, then my body. “How do you feel? Will you be okay to play? If you need to focus on singles, we can pull out.”
I tap my chin and hum. “I’ve never known you to be so enthusiastic about pulling out.”
His eyes widen, flicking around to make sure no one heard me. “Delilah,” he groans quietly.
Chuckling, I add, “We will not be pulling out. I’m a little tired, but I have another match in me. Plus, I have a couple of days to recover before singles semis.”
He scans me one more time, head to toe. “At least we know you’re warmed up,” he jokes.
“Exactly, so hop to it.” I poke his chest, and he goes back to the cones.
Half an hour later, after lots of water, bananas, electrolyte drinks, and stretching, Matteo and I are called onto the court, the sun beating down on us.
We barely win the first set, helped along by Matteo’s aces and winners.
I’m able to keep the ball in play, consistent until the end, when Matteo steps in and puts them away.
The second set is not as easy. The momentum shifts during the second game when Jeremiah Winter hits an angled winner, and no matter what we do, we can’t seem to catch them on their heels.
They’ve been playing mixed doubles together for a few years, and it shows.
We knew this one would be harder than the last six we’ve played over the past two weeks, but as we head into the third-set tiebreak, I feel my energy nearing empty, and I’m not sure we’re going to win this.
During the break, Matteo pours cold water on one of our towels and sets it across the back of my neck. “Do you want another banana? I have three of those protein shakes you like.” He’s been fretting at nearly every break, but he seems to know this time is worse.
I smile at him, resting my head against his shoulder. “I’ll be fine. We’re so close.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to pull out? I don’t want you cramping or getting sick.”
Taking the cool towel, I pat my face a few times, then his. “You know how I’m going to answer that.”
Matteo sighs. “Fight?”
“To the death,” I joke. “We’re scrappy. I have faith in us.”
We listen to Francesca and Alessio’s pointers for the final few points before the chair umpire calls time. When I ask for a couple of balls for my serve, Matteo joins me at the baseline.
“Win or lose, I still love you.” He’s started saying this during every match, and though neither of us needs the reassurance, it’s a reminder to both of us not to take things too seriously.
“Win or lose, I still love you,” I answer.
Though we lose the match, and two days later, I lose my first Grand Slam semifinal, I don’t regret a moment of the last two and a half months. I may have lost two semifinals, but I feel like a damn winner.