Chapter 3 #2
I nod dumbly. I, of course, knew that. I just wasn’t sure he did.
After all, it was only a few times here and there at bigger tournaments this year.
We trained on side-by-side courts at Indian Wells, where he asked me to toss one of their balls back to him after it rolled onto my court.
Austin introduced us once at the Miami Open and then again at Roland Garros when we all got dinner, after which, Matteo told me, “It was nice to meet you, Delia,” and I didn’t have the heart to correct him.
At Wimbledon, we nearly ran into each other in the players’ tunnel, but he was so upset that his muttered “sorry” seemed more like an accusation than an apology—despite having beaten the number fifteen in straight sets.
Most recently, at the US Open, I sat beside Austin’s parents in their box during their fourth round and quarterfinal matches.
At one point, when Matteo talked to his coach, his eyes slipped to me and stopped.
Only for a beat or two, and then his focus was back on the court.
Nothing crazy. Certainly nothing memorable enough that it would stand out to the second highest-ranked Italian player on the tour—who couldn’t remember my name after learning it twice and who hasn’t so much as said hello to me this week.
“I remember, but you never know. With all the people you’ve met on tour, I’m sure it’s not easy recalling names.”
His eyes don’t leave mine. “I remember. Delilah not Delia.” It sounds like a joke, but he gives no indication that it is.
Come to think of it, I’ve never seen him smile.
Ever. Not after he slammed his racket, broke it in half, then proceeded to win in straight sets and held up the US Open trophy three years ago.
Not after a five-set battle to win the Australian Open (after fighting with the chair umpire, of course) two years ago.
Not even after he twisted his ankle horribly during the Roland Garros final the same year and still beat the number one player in the world in four sets.
Assuming he is joking, my neck is practically wrecked from the whiplash. The weird feeling twisting through my gut that seems tied to the way he’s looking at me doesn’t help.
Austin clears his throat, and we both turn back to him.
“I should get back to practice, but I’ll see you tomorrow for breakfast, right?” I ask Austin hopefully. Every Saturday morning, we eat breakfast with his parents before practice, a tradition I hold as sacred as Nadal does his water bottle ritual.
“I’ll be there.”
Nic has begun picking up balls on her side of the court, so I play catch-up on my side. At one point, I think I hear Austin say my name, and when I turn, Matteo is already watching me. I snap back to grabbing balls. A minute or so later, Nic finishes her side, joining me.
As I add a seventh ball to the flat face of my racket, Nic mutters beside me, “How does someone even become the bad boy of tennis? It’s a noncontact sport and mainly for people who come from money. He slams his racket, sleeps with models, curses at officials and umpires, and suddenly he’s bad?”
Right as I begin to respond, that same gravelly voice beats me to it. “I also think it’s dumb, but I guess I did it to myself.” I startle hard enough that I lose my grip on my racket and all the balls I picked up topple to the court.
“Didn’t mean to surprise you.” Matteo holds up a ball, pointing in the direction of the fence.
“This one was stuck in one of the holes. Figured I’d help.
” He bends down to place it on my racket, then adds a few of the ones I dropped and passes the racket back to me, his hand brushing mine in the exchange.
His eyes dart to the point of contact, and when he notices me watching him, his hand falls away.
Once I’ve recuperated, I answer, “Th—thank you.”
“Of course.” A pause. I’m too confused about what’s happening right now to do more than stare back at him. “It sounds like Austin talked to you a little about us playing mixed. I know it’ll be an adjustment, but…I’m in.”
He seems so genuinely earnest, so completely incongruent with the picture of him I’ve built up in my head over the years. “Why?” I’m shocked when my mouth moves before my brain can.
“Why?”
Knowing my question may have come off more aggressive than I meant it, I tease, “Yeah, especially after you spent this week doing your level best not to talk to me. I guess I’m just wondering why me?”
Something shifts in his face, his eyes bouncing to Nic and back to me like he’s uncertain how he should proceed.
Gruffly, he says, “I apologize for the way I’ve acted this week.
It’s been…different, and I had a few…disruptions come up.
I feel partially at fault for what happened to Austin.
I shouldn’t have kept playing after he dropped the ball.
I should’ve made sure he picked it up before we continued the point. So I want to make up for that.”
“By playing mixed doubles with me.” It was meant to be a question, but there was no lilt at the end of the sentence.
His answer is a half truth. I cannot fathom why he wouldn’t just pair up with a more experienced and successful player; it makes me feel like I’m missing something, like I’m a pawn in a game with rules I’m not allowed to know.
I almost say as much, but he bends down and grabs three more balls to stack onto my racket, and the gesture is nice enough that I bite my tongue.
When his eyes meet mine again, they’re back to a honeyed brown, no longer shadowed by whatever his real motivations are. “Think about it. Please.”
He walks back to his court before I can respond.
“I’m sorry, what just happened?” Nic asks, dumbfounded.
“I…don’t know.”
And I can’t help but notice Mount Matteo has yet to erupt.