Chapter 5 #2
“He’s a hard-working guy. Like I said, in the second half of the season, he seemed to mellow out a lot.” Austin shrugs. “I don’t know a ton about his personal life, but I support it.”
“Do you think I should do it?” I ask, turning to Eli and Lilian.
Eli answers, “Let me turn that question around for a second. Do you feel you need to, or could you do without?”
I think of my freshly inked deal with Stratosphere, the conversation with Chase about the car, and those university tuition payments starting in January…
it won’t be like community college. If I explain all that to them, they’ll try to help me like they always do, and I can’t allow that.
Instead, I weigh the two against each other.
“I’m not sure yet.” But even that’s a change from my mentality from Tuesday, when Francesca first pitched the idea and I was certain the answer was no.
Lilian sets a hand on mine. “And that’s completely fine. Take some time. Think it over. Austin’s is just one opinion.” The man in question makes an affronted noise, but Lilian talks over him. “At the end of the day, the decision is entirely yours.”
I’m still deliberating as we clean up, the sun rising and bathing the kitchen in warm light. We hug goodbye, and I thank Eli and Lilian for breakfast. If I were to thank them for everything they’ve done for me, I might never leave.
If I kept a list of names of all the people I play for, everyone I think about as I put my blood, sweat, tears, and everything else into this sport day in and day out, the Wards would come in very close second place to my siblings.
Nothing I do will ever be enough to thank Austin’s parents for helping me get out of the life I was born into, and that’s something that pushes me to prove I was worth their investment.
Despite the three times Austin reminds me that it’s his left ankle that’s injured and that he’s perfectly capable of driving, I navigate his car to the facility, ruminating. I promise myself I’ll take a couple of days and decide what my offseason will look like by Monday.
After my practice match, I cool down on a stationary bike in the players’ gym.
Francesca went in search of Aleks, our strength and conditioning coach, for some resistance bands.
Or something like that. I’ll admit I wasn’t paying attention.
Winning my match in straight sets despite Lina’s dangerous backhand has left me extra confident and cheery.
I open the group message that has been going off, making sure to continue pumping my legs slowly.
Shots Fired
Sahar
D, in case it helps you make your decision, here’s a thirst trap of Matteo
She sends the link, and I stifle a laugh.
Oh my god, you kid
Noah
This page has fan edits of all of you, by the way
Waiting for them to make one about me being a hot coach
Austin
Wow, they got all my best angles
He proceeds to send every single video of himself, then the rest of us.
Nic removed themself from the chat.
Austin added Nic to the chat.
Harper
Some of these are gold!
Sahar
Oh Delilahhhhhhh
Did that help you?
The moment I bite the bullet and click on the original link she sent, swiping away the notifications from a video I posted a few days ago that went minorly viral, the door to the players’ gym rattles.
If I thought I wasn’t going to see Matteo until I made my decision, I was sorely mistaken. The Morozov Tennis Academy may be a big facility with many players, but a good chunk of those players have the same weekly schedule as I do. It really shouldn’t come as a surprise when he appears.
There are a few other players in the large gym: Lina on a treadmill facing the track and field we use on rest days with her team whispering beside her, a couple of guys over by the weight racks, and Nic and another woman stretching in the free-weight area with their teams beside them.
And yet, the moment the door squeaks open, Matteo’s eyes land on me.
His hat is backward again, covering his wet hair. I imagine he just finished up a practice match too, though his coach is nowhere in sight. When he starts walking toward me and the bikes, I make a high-pitched noise I didn’t know I was capable of and toss my phone to the floor.
Unfortunately, it lands face up, a video cycling through photos of him wearing only underwear interspersed with a few shots of him on the court, wiping sweat from his brow with his shirt.
I now know my fight or flight reflex gives me a third, less useful option: freezing. My eyes feel as wide as saucers as they meet his two bikes away.
“I—I. My friends…they—” I can’t finish any of my sentences, apparently. Matteo’s eyebrows twitch, but he says nothing. Mortified, I finally regain the ability to hop down and click my phone off, tucking it under the bike.
Matteo bends down, casually changing the settings on his bike, and I pray he saw nothing. The lights in here are quite bright. The glare would make seeing it from his angle hard, I bet. Plus, there’s some distance between us.
Yes. I’m going to play this like it didn’t happen.
Clearing my throat, as if that will shove the remnants of my embarrassment away, I joke, “I don’t bite, you know.”
Matteo’s head snaps up so fast, he nearly slams it into the handlebars. I hide a giggle in the shoulder facing away from him before giving him a small smile. Maybe he really didn’t see anything.
“I know,” he grunts, like the joke went right over his head and he never had me pegged for a rabid animal.
It takes a few seconds—and I can almost see him doing the math on something in his head—before he moves to the bike beside me, changing the height and distance to his body’s specifications.
“Did you win your match?” I ask him.
He nods.
“Are you always this jovial after winning?” The answer is yes. I’ve seen the neutral expression on his face after dominating in a Grand Slam final. Still…
“I prefer to save my emotional outbursts for when I’m losing,” he deadpans, and I have to look at him to figure out whether he’s joking. I learn nothing. When I don’t respond, he says, “You played well.”
I’m shocked he noticed me from four courts over. Inexplicably, my cheeks—which have cooled considerably over the last few seconds of semi-normalcy between us—warm again. “Oh, thanks. Had a hearty breakfast or whatever it is they say you need these days to keep energy levels up.”
This joke is far more subtle, and probably not my best, so it’s no shock when his eyebrows tip toward each other for a second before he sets his hands on his handlebars and starts pumping his legs, the muscles in his calves and quads flexing. I have to look away.
“You’re doing something new with your serve.” Matteo leans back, setting a hand on his thigh. “Worked well.”
I’m once again blushing but saved from responding when Francesca comes back with three resistance bands, her eyes bouncing between me and Matteo.
She says something to him in Italian, and he responds with a couple of words.
When I raise a brow quizzically, she smiles.
“Just making sure he’s not bothering you. ”
She doesn’t let me answer, gesturing with the resistance bands toward the free weights. I slow my legs and hop off, wiping off the seat and pocketing my phone as subtly as I can so as not to remind Matteo of what he didn’t see. When I throw him a smile, he simply blinks.
Though we don’t speak for the rest of our shared time in the gym, our eyes meet more than I should let them. His offer, which has been resting in the back of my mind since I learned of it, pushes itself to the front every time they do.
Still, I have no answer.