Chapter 3
three
My phone nearly drops from between my shoulder and ear as I wrangle my blonde ponytail into a braid three days later. “Sorry? Can you repeat that?”
Shay, my agent, laughs. “Stratosphere wants to increase your endorsement deal. You’ve been moving up the ranks, your social media is growing fast, and they’re looking for more of your sunshine energy.”
I abandon my braid, silent in my disbelief. Stratosphere has sponsored me for the last year. Renewal was the hope, but this? This would be money directly into my pocket. Exactly what I need to feel like I can exhale fully without doubles.
Scanning the walls of my bedroom, I think of all I can upgrade in this little space: a wooden bookshelf I found on the side of the street years ago, two of the shelves rotting enough that they’re bending; a wicker dresser the person who lived here before me left behind; a bed frame I got at an estate sale that may (definitely) be haunted, ironically the same type of wood as the bookshelf, though not yet rotting; and fake plants galore since I’m not here enough to take care of real ones, and I’m not positive I’d be any good even if I were.
And finally, the many art pieces I’ve hung over the years, almost all from thrift stores and estate and garage sales: a blue-green fish with geometric patterns that could have been done either by a second grader or an adult with a deep love of marine geometry; a photograph of a cow, and beside it a photograph of cowboy boots, picked up on separate occasions, both of which have a sepia filter, though one more so than the other; a painting that could be Frida Kahlo or an unnamed, unknown woman with a unibrow.
My personal favorite—a vintage pop art print of a blonde woman holding a dog with one hand and covering her eyes with the other, a bubble that reads “I forgot to have children!” above her, all of which made me giggle when I first saw it. Still does.
There are a slew of others and more in the living room behind our couch. None of them match. And yet the Frankenstein room I’ve built from other people’s trash feels more like home than the ones I lived in for eighteen years.
Nic moving around in the living room, likely getting ready for the day, is what shakes my next question loose. “What are the specifics?”
“Six-month contract with the potential for an extension if you do well. They’ll keep providing the clothes and shoes, and you’ll wear them in social media posts here and there and on the court, of course.
There’s a clause that states you have to play in specific tournaments—Aussie, French, Wimbledon, US, obviously.
And a few WTA1000 and 500 tournaments too.
All the ones you already play in each season. ”
“Do I have to make it to a certain round for the contract to go into effect?”
“Nope! But if you get to the quarterfinals or higher, you get a bonus. The amount depends on the tournament. Here, I can give you the breakdown…” she continues explaining, but my mind is stuck on the last thing she said.
“The quarterfinal bonus. Is that only for singles or does it include doubles?”
I can almost hear her eyes scanning the document. For the millionth time, I’m sure. “Includes doubles. You get a smaller payout than if you get to quarters in singles, but they are separate.”
“So if I were to make it to quarters in both singles and mixed at Aussie?” I need to hear the words again. It probably won’t change my decision, especially now that I’ll have more coming in without it, but it’s good to know.
“You’d be making big money. I’ll send it over for you to review and you can let me know if there’s anything you don’t like. I’ve read it more than a few times and added my notes where we can negotiate, but I think it’s everything you’ve been hoping for.”
For the sake of Shay’s ear, I hold in a squeal and instead settle for a small happy dance. I’m a step closer to being financially stable, and it was all of my own merit.
“Del?”
“Yeah, sorry. This is…You don’t know how amazing this news is, thank you. I’ll send the contract back as soon as I can. Is there anything else I need to look at?”
Shay takes a second. Then, “No, that’s it for now.”
We say our goodbyes, and when Nic calls out from the kitchen to make sure I’m ready for practice, I allow myself that squeal.
It’s easy to hate the monotony of on-court drills, but the predictability is precisely why I love them—running from the center of the baseline to the alley to hit the perfect cross-court backhand, then doing it another one hundred times until I can perfectly place it in the same spot every time.
Once I get into a rhythm, all my troubles disintegrate.
When I’m playing a match, what I stand to lose is always on my mind. But when I’m doing drills? Nothing breaks through but moving my feet, using my core, and hitting the ball squarely in the center of my strings until my legs ache and my lungs beg for air.
Sadly, today is an exception. I’ve noticed Matteo practicing on the court next to mine approximately eighty-seven times. I can’t help it. It’s been three days of passing each other without speaking, and it’s completely thrown me off after Francesca’s claims that he asked to play with me.
Okay, not asked, but definitely offered.
Two days ago, during the first strength and conditioning session with Aleks, I went up a plate on the lat pulldown machine, so my set took longer.
Matteo was standing a few feet from me, waiting, and when I finally finished and mumbled a quick “sorry,” he just grunted.
That evening, when I was heading to meet with Francesca for game strategy, Matteo swung open a door, nearly sending me flying into the opposite wall.
All I got in response to my tentative smile was a brief stare.
Then, yesterday, when Nic and I were doing our three-mile walk on our rest day, he jogged so close to us that he clipped Nic, who refuses to move out of the way for any man.
I thought she was going to kill him.
I’ve concluded, based on these very limited pieces of information, that he is preoccupied with something. Even on the court, he hasn’t seemed all there. I have to wonder if it has anything to do with his offer of mixed doubles—if there’s something more going on here.
Or maybe I’m being silly, as I often am.
We’ve been at the same dinner table once, and I’ve sat in his box while watching him play doubles with Austin, but I don’t know the first thing about Matteo Corsi.
It’s entirely possible (and with my luck, highly probable) that he has no idea who I am and simply spoke before he could think through his offer.
After about an hour of drills, a familiar voice calls my name. When I whip around, Austin is hobbling on his crutches to the fence behind the court.
“Taking five!” I yell to Nic and Francesca. I meet Austin at the fence, beaming. “See? I told you you’d be back in no time. Three days and you’re already walking.”
His head drops, nodding toward his booted foot. “Not so sure I’d call this walking, but it is good to be outside.”
After strategy and dinner on Tuesday evening I thankfully remembered to swing by the store.
I showed up to his apartment with a basket of all of his favorite foods, some of which he doesn’t allow himself to eat during the season, and watched a few episodes of his favorite war show in the hopes of cheering him up.
He was on the couch with his foot elevated, and just by the increased level of untidiness in his living room, it was clear he was putting on a brave face.
Now, at least, he seems to be feeling better.
“How was your first physical therapy appointment?”
He shrugs. “About as good as can be expected. She gave me the same timeline as the doctor but said I could be back on court practicing volleys and doing some basic racket work in a couple of months.”
“That’s great! For now, you can spend two months in the gym beefing up your arms,” I joke.
Snorting, he says, “I’m absolutely doing that. Being at home all day is going to drive me crazy, especially with Dad swinging by three times a day to make sure I’m okay. Plus, I’m not allowed to swim yet, so it’ll be the only thing getting me out of the house besides PT.”
“And seeing me,” I add, framing my face with my racket and free hand, smiling wider.
“And seeing you.” After a glance at Matteo, he asks, “Did you hear?”
I feign ignorance. “About what?”
“I think Matteo is on the lookout for a new doubles partner for the beginning of the season,” he answers suggestively.
“I’m sure he’ll have no shortage of volunteers.”
Austin tilts his head. “Del, I know Francesca well enough to know she heard his offer and took it straight to you.”
I snort. “Okay, yes. I just haven’t figured out what to do with it yet.” Though after today’s call with Shay, I’m leaning toward saying no.
The thump thump of Matteo jogging over quiets us.
“Hey, man. You doing okay?” Matteo asks, voice deep and oddly quiet.
“I’m great. Like Del said, I’ll be back in no time. I feel bad that you moved down here to train with me for the season just for me to get injured, though.”
Matteo’s eyes flick to me for a second before they’re back on Austin. “I needed the change of scenery. Living and training in New York was getting old.”
I turn my smile on him. “We’re all glad you’re here. It’s nice to have new faces and hitting partners. Though”—I slant my head in Austin’s direction—“hitting with him would’ve gotten old fast. Trust me, I would know.”
“Hey! Is that any way to speak to your elders?”
I chuckle, rolling my eyes. “You’re six months older than me.” To Matteo, I say, “Anyway, I’m Delilah, Austin’s friend. I’m on the women’s tour.” I hold out a hand for him to shake.
Matteo’s thick, arched eyebrows sew together. He takes my hand in his warm calloused one and shakes it once. “I know who you are. We’ve met. Multiple times.” He lets go, and when his fingers twitch at his side, he switches his racket to that hand.