Chapter 2
two
It isn’t a Tuesday afternoon in the offseason if Nicola isn’t smashing the ball so angrily across the court that I can hardly get to it. Granted, it’s only our second offseason together. But still. I’d know the frustrated slap of her racket if I were blindfolded and three towns over.
Every ball I hit to her, she slams back with a ferocity that could maim.
I’m surprised it hasn’t yet. When Nic slaps a ball so hard down the backhand line that I can barely pivot from where I just hit a shot on my forehand side, Francesca steps forward, frowning.
The weathered lines beside her eyes and mouth are more pronounced thanks to all the sun she’s gotten in her years as a professional player and coach.
“Mannaggia, Nicola,” my coach calls from near the net, a word I’ve come to learn means damn it—most frequently used when I’m frustrating her.
“How is she meant to warm up if she can’t get a ball back?
It’s warm-up. Stop hitting winners,” she finishes, an Italian accent bending her vowels into something rich and melodic.
Nic mumbles an apology, one I don’t need.
With the finals still fresh, I understand why she’s upset, even if Anya did end up coming second to Emilia like I thought she would.
I know as well as any other player on the tour how therapeutic slapping the heck out of a tennis ball can be.
I would rather she vent her frustrations now than beat me to within an inch of my life during our practice match in fifteen minutes.
“No worries!” I assure her.
After warming up our groundstrokes, Nic moves to the net to take volleys and overheads, and when she feels sufficiently warm, we swap.
Any other Tuesday afternoon, we’d finish this warm up and end on the same side of the net, doing doubles drills or playing a practice match. But now that Nic’s done with doubles and Austin is practicing with Matteo more often, Francesca wants me to play a second singles practice match every week.
My eyes travel a few courts over, where Austin and Matteo are doing net drills together.
I’ve been sneaking glances at Matteo all day, waiting for him to erupt like a volcano, spewing obscenities like lava and hot ash.
For him to slam his racket against the concrete until it splinters into pieces.
For him to storm off the court and tell his team he’s done for the day.
I saw his volatility on a small scale this season the couple of times I sat in Austin’s box during their doubles matches.
Watched him struggle to leash his temper, angry tension between himself and the chair umpire clear from the hard set of his jaw and the rapid-fire Italian I later learned was all profanity, though it was directed at the fence instead of the umpire.
It was never as bad as the media painted him to be though.
Other than a clenched fist here and there, I’ve seen nothing to indicate he’s getting riled up today.
No noise besides some amiable talking, a body slamming into the back fence when a ball had too much topspin, and Austin’s boisterous laughter.
It feels like vindication that I’m right about him. That there’s more than meets the eye.
When I’ve put away enough overhead shots to know I’m good to go, especially since I rarely go to the net during matches, I head back to the baseline for serves and returns. A few minutes later, Nic’s coach steps forward.
“Take a break before you begin,” she calls, then turns back to Francesca, gossiping about some of the newer hires at the academy. They love to act like Nic and I distract each other when we practice together, and yet it’s them who hate to be pulled away.
Thank goodness. The fact that our teams mesh so well, along with Sahar’s and Harper’s, means the tour is significantly less lonely for us than for most others. Even if, at the end of the day, we’re all competitors.
I set my racket down and take a swig of water, glancing around the rest of the facility. A couple of women on the tour walk past, and I smile, giving them a quick wave.
The academy is always bustling this time of day, with more amenities than I know what to do with, though I certainly try my best to use them all.
There are sixty tennis courts, indoor and outdoor, mainly hard court but some clay and grass for the players who fly back to train before those swings of the tour; a massive fitness center, a CrossFit gym, and a separate players’ gym; a training pool for those who enjoy that sort of torture; a full health and wellness center with medical offices and a spa; junior boarding houses for the prodigies hoping to make it big on tour once they hit eighteen, along with the school they attend to meet minimum education requirements; adult apartments for those who like the convenience of being right on campus; and, of course, all the built-in hitting partners I could ever need, including multiple top-ten players on the men’s and women’s tours.
It’s every pro player’s dream, and since I live off campus, I only pay fees the months I’m here. A no brainer.
My phone buzzes on the bench, and after a cursory glance at Francesca to be sure I won’t incur her ire for looking at it during practice, I check my new messages.
There are a few in the Sahar’s Bad Berlin Bagels chat—aptly named for the time Sahar ate an entire stale, moldy bagel without realizing because of the cream cheese she slathered on it after losing at a tournament in Berlin, though also funny in a tennis context—and a couple of old ones in the bigger group chat with the guys that I swipe away.
Sahar’s Bad Berlin Bagels
Harper
8 images
We wish you were here!
Nic’s phone is put away, probably in the locker room, so I show her the photos.
Three of them are beautiful shots of the Amalfi Coast, three are of mouthwatering pastas and bread, and the final two are of Sahar and Harper in bikinis on a boat holding each other tightly, their dark hair waving in the breeze, cheeks pressed together, wide grins on their faces.
Nic’s lips tilt up, and there’s a flash of wistfulness across her features, though whether at the thought of vacation, being back home in Europe, or something else entirely, I can’t be sure.
Maya
I wish I were there too :(
Do I spy a Noah?
Now that I look more closely, my former roommate is right. I can see Sahar’s childhood best friend turned coach in the reflection of one of the yacht’s windows, the phone he’s using to take photos covering half of his face.
Sahar
I tried to tell him to stay home, but he insisted the offseason was for him too
Oh, definitely. We totally believe you
Sahar disliked “Oh, definitely. We totally believe you”
Maya
Yes, totally. You guys definitely aren’t doing anything nefarious.
Harper
They’re not!! Sahar and I are sharing a bed.
Sahar
Yeah, there’s no room for big oafs
I type the words Nic and I wish we were there too when the fence squeaks open, a couple of players walking onto the courts. Or rather, one player on the men’s tour, Ryan Tremblay, and Anya’s brother Aleksandr.
“You’re kidding.” Nic scoffs. “I thought they were going to Spain for a week.”
Aleks waves the small orange cones in his hands at us, his lips quirking even more when he takes in the sour look on Nic’s face. His dirty-blond hair is cropped close to his head, his blue eyes shining with mirth and his facility T-shirt slightly too small on his muscular frame.
“Nic, look. He’s wearing your favorite,” I tease, and she rolls her eyes, mumbling something about “stupid slutty little T-shirts.” Still, I see the slight blush in her cheeks that wasn’t there before despite our warm-up.
Francesca nods after the pair as they move to the empty court beside Matteo and Austin, responding to Nic, “Anya’s in Spain. Aleksandr’s doing strength and conditioning coaching for everyone at the facility during the offseason.”
“Great,” Nic mutters. She tosses her hair into a braided ponytail, then repositions her visor. “Exactly what I needed.”
I smile. “I’m sure you’ll never have to talk to him. You have your own performance coach anyway.”
“And thank goodness for that.” She stands, and I know our friendship is temporarily on hold. I’ve never met anyone more serious about practice matches than Nic. I tuck my phone into my bag and go to the other end of the court, doing a burst of high knees before getting set to return.
Each point is an absolute battle, but I lose the first set 6–3.
There’s a small momentum shift in my favor when Aleksandr laughs between a point and Nic glares his way.
I win the first two games of the second set easily.
Right as I toss the ball to serve into the third game, there’s a loud pained “fuck!” from a few courts away.
I know that voice. Panic constricts my lungs, the ball I tossed coming down onto my shoulder. I don’t care because three courts over, Austin is on the ground holding his ankle, Matteo standing above him with a grim expression.
I dart toward them, taking advantage of the fact that everyone else has halted their drills and matches to pay attention to the commotion. I’m by Austin’s side in a flash.
“What happened?” I ask, voice wavering.
Matteo looks up, then back down to Austin, then does a double take. His brown eyes meet my blue ones, his thick dark eyebrows twitching upward. It’s intense enough that I have to glance away, noting the pain on Austin’s face.
Gruffly, Matteo says, “I fucked up. I shouldn—”
Austin huffs a pained laugh, his expression contorting as the small movement jostles his ankle, which already seems to be swelling—though that may be my imagination.
“Shut up, man. I was being a dumbass. A ball fell out of my pocket. I said I was okay to keep hitting, knowing it was there. But then I jumped for an overhead and landed on it.” He winces when he tries to lift himself off the ground.