Chapter 6
six
Matteo is late on Monday, so I busy myself, taking cute pictures in my new Stratosphere practice outfit to prove I can keep my side of the deal.
“Linger” by The Cranberries plays quietly from my speakers while I attempt selfies, my phone propped against my water jug on one of the picnic tables beside the outdoor hard courts.
A couple of women from the tour pass by, jumping into the photo, and we share a laugh.
“Del! Do you need help?” Lina calls.
I shake my head, smiling. “Nah, it’s too early for good lighting anyway.” I’ll get Nic’s help later.
When they disappear onto the courts to stretch, Matteo rounds the corner, looking more frazzled than I’ve seen him.
His curls are tousled, less like he just woke up and more like he’s been running his hand through them for half an hour.
His usual frown, which seems etched deeper today, softens when he spots me mid-photo, my foot pulled to my butt so I can show off my shoes in what can only be described as a ridiculous pose.
I drop my foot and grab my racket and phone, turning off the song. “Good morning,” I chirp. “You’re late.” I smile so he knows I’m teasing.
He sighs. “I’m sorry. I promise I’m usually punctual.” When I don’t respond, too busy dissecting the weariness on his face, he asks, “How was your rest day?”
I blink, surprised. “Oh…It was good, thank you. But that’s not why I asked to meet.”
“You didn’t ask Francesca to tell Alessio to tell me to meet you here so you could tell me about your rest day?” This is now the second or third time his words sound like a joke yet are said without a hint of a smile.
I bite back a grin, moving past his joke-but-maybe-not-a-joke. “I’ll play mixed with you. Until Austin is back. But I have conditions.” And they were entirely concocted by Nic, Sahar, and Harper after I mentioned in our group chat that I was thinking about agreeing.
Matteo sets his racket down, pulling a leg to his chest to stretch it out. “Okay. Shoot.”
“I would prefer it if you didn’t swear loudly during matches. Or slam your racket. Or hit tennis balls up into the stands.” I squint, trying to figure out if there is anything I missed. “Oh, and ideally no yelling at our box or the chair umpire or me.” I put a finger up with each entity I mention.
He looks away, tongue wetting his bottom lip before his teeth sink into it. I realize I’m watching him far too closely and look away too.
“I can’t even swear when we win a point? No well-timed ‘hell yeahs’?” Once again, is he joking? When I glance back, his face tells me absolutely nothing. Again. He drops his leg from his chest. “And what about if fans want me to hit balls toward them after we win? What then?” he continues.
My head cocks. This is the most I’ve heard Matteo speak uninterrupted. His lips twitch, and I can finally, finally, tell that he’s messing with me.
There’s a small hiccup in my chest, an excitement that I was somehow able to get him to joke with me when moments ago he seemed so unhappy. I memorize that twitch of his lips, the way the brown of his eyes seems to dance, just a little.
I pretend not to be thrown by his sudden change.
To go from a man who hardly glanced in my direction for over half a year—who didn’t so much as say a word to me when he got here—to a man making jokes about knowing my name and teasing me about the rules I’m putting in place… I can’t figure him out at all.
“I didn’t know you had a bossy side,” he says.
“I didn’t know you knew everything about me,” rolls off my tongue. Another twitch at the corners of his mouth. “And I’m not being bossy. I just want to make sure this is a good partnership for both of us.” Jokingly, I add, “Wouldn’t want to get hit with a fine, you know?”
His jaw clenches, the ghost of a smile gone, and suddenly, I feel chided. Isn’t my entire motto not to judge people because I don’t know what they’re going through? And yet, here I am, making jokes about his behavior.
“You’re right. I agree to all your terms, though if a ‘hell yeah’ slips out, I hope you’ll forgive me.” After a few seconds, he continues, “Anyway, I’m hoping your cool, calm, and collectedness on court will rub off on me. You’re like ice. Doesn’t matter what’s going on, you don’t show your hand.”
Him knowing this much about me is such a shock, I lose my grip on my racket and it clatters to the ground. He steps closer, bending to grab it and hand it back to me, even though getting it for myself would have taken fewer steps. I accept it hesitantly.
“You keep dropping your racket around me like this, I’m going to develop a complex.”
My brain is lagging, processing his words about my disposition on court and adding it to the things he said to me about my serve like little building blocks.
Except I’m only in possession of a few of them and have no idea what they’re building up to.
“How do you know what I’m like on court?
” Or anything about my game, for that matter.
His dark eyebrows knit together. “Why do you seem so convinced that I know nothing about you? Is it so unimaginable that people might pay attention to someone like you?”
My thoughts stutter. Someone like me? What could he possibly mean by that?
Recovering, I say, “You’re answering my questions with more questions.”
He huffs, an almost laugh. The most I may ever earn from him.
“I’ve watched you play, Delilah. Both with Austin and in singles.
I’ve never seen you get emotional on court save for a ‘let’s go’ here and there to get the energy of the crowd flowing.
For someone who knows so much about my on-court behavior, you seem awfully shocked that someone else might know yours. ”
“Not someone else. You. You’re you.”
“And you’re you?” he asks, confused.
“Exactly.”
The word seems to stymie the conversation. I’m glad for it since it’s gotten away from me. “Are you warming up with your team or someone else this morning?” I ask.
“Was planning to hit with my coach.”
“Do you want to warm up together? To get a feel for each other’s ground strokes?”
Monday is a singles day, but we’ll begin training together Tuesdays and Fridays since neither of us are playing regular doubles. Maybe hit with each other in the mornings on singles days, especially since so many players are still on vacation.
“Good idea. Did you want to stretch first?”
I nod and follow him onto an empty court, setting my stuff down against the bench.
We stretch for a few minutes, his expression solemn, and a part of me is left wondering if I made up the amusement on his face and in his words earlier.
When we’re ready to start, we face each other on the service line, a few balls in his pocket and a couple in my skirt.
Francesca and Matteo’s coach, Alessio, speak in rapid Italian by the bench, having joined us as we finished our stretches.
I observe Matteo’s movements closely—his strokes, his footwork, the fluidity with which he hits the ball.
I’ve seen him play plenty, but I’ve never been on the other end of the court from him.
After a few rallies, we move to the baseline.
He hits clean, deep shots, his forehand powerful as it slices through the air, his backhand less so but still strong and reliable.
His footwork is sharp, never sitting still, which allows him to set up for each strike with ease.
It’s a work of art. Despite him pulling his punches so that I can keep up, I can tell how stunning his game truly is. Only once does he miss a shot, and when it sails out, all I see is a tightened hand at his waist before he shakes it off.
When we’re warm, we go our separate ways for singles practice, and I move through the day like any other. That evening, as I lie in bed, ready to fall asleep, my phone vibrates.
Unknown number
Matteo Corsi.
I snort, adding him to my contacts before jokingly texting back my name.
Delilah Anderson.
Have you ever texted anyone in your life?
Matteo
***
No “hi”? No “looking forward to playing with you”?
Matteo
Hi. It’s Matteo Corsi. Looking forward to playing mixed doubles with you.
I laugh at the entire text, down to the period he makes sure to include at the end.
I’m glad you don’t play as stiffly as you text
When he doesn’t respond after a few minutes, I click my phone off, embarrassed. I shouldn’t have said anything.
Only when I wake up do I see his response.
Matteo
Once upon a time I thought you were nice.
I guess your meanness is rubbing off on me
If someone were to describe us as out of sync, it would be the understatement of the century.
A person who has never watched tennis in their entire life would be able to tell this isn’t going well.
Scratch that, an alien who just touched down from outer space would recognize how poorly we’re doing right now.
This time, Matteo wasn’t late, but he still seems completely out of sorts.
I don’t know if that’s why we’re struggling or if we’re just not meant to be playing together.
Our styles are mismatched. His shots are fast and aggressive, where mine are more measured and precise.
He hits a forehand from the baseline to Alessio on the other side so hard that suddenly it’s ping-ponged its way to me at the net in a matter of seconds.
The footwork I’m used to while I’m at net isn’t good enough to keep up with his pace.
It’s frustrating me, and I’m sure it’s frustrating Matteo, even if the most he’s shown it is with a couple of briefly tightened fists and a clenched jaw.
Though those have only come after his own mistakes.
Francesca gives me feedback. Alessio too. I keep trying, changing up the speed of my footwork so I’m more prepared to volley back powerful shots from Alessio, who stands at the other baseline, alternating between hitting to each of us.
Upbeat and trying hard to make it work on the outside, struggling and positive it won’t work on the inside.
Finally, after Matteo slaps a shot like a whip to Alessio and it’s sent back to me at lightning speed, my racket barely getting to the ball enough for it to be a shank, the shock absorber on my strings flies off.
I put on a smile, setting my racket against the net beside the ball I just missed. “I think I’m going to take a breather,” I say, as if I’m not already two steps to the bench.
Matteo strides toward the net, picking up my racket and shock absorber and sitting beside me. He takes the small rubber absorber and artfully gets it back in its rightful place on my strings, his fingers moving quickly, hands flexing. It’s so hot, I almost miss his words.
“It’s fairly obvious we should switch you over to the forehand side.
” Matteo slaps the strings in the center a couple of times to make sure the dampener won’t fall off again before he sets the racket down between us.
“I thought it made the most sense before this drill, but Alessio and Francesca wanted to try it out this way to be sure.”
I’m not positive this is recoverable, but I nod enthusiastically anyway. “That’s a good idea. Your forehand is so powerful that the point will move too fast for me. If I’m on forehand, the pace will decrease a little with your backhand. Plus, I’m more comfortable on forehand.”
My forehand may not be as powerful as his, or even in the top twenty-five most powerful women’s shots, but it’s damn good and very consistent. With me on the deuce side and him on the ad side, I do think we have a better shot.
Smile turning rueful, I half joke, “I bet you’re regretting choosing me now. If we come up against any player with a shot as powerful as yours, I’m toast.”
“No,” he answers without hesitation. Like he won’t give the words a moment of thought because he’s so certain they’re wrong.
“Del, let’s get you on the deuce side!” Francesca calls to me. When I shoot her a thumbs up, she goes back to talking to Alessio.
“I’m not sure why you’re acting like you haven’t dominated in mixed doubles before,” Matteo murmurs before taking a swig of water.
“I’ve watched you hit winner after winner.
Down the line, cross court. Against the man or the woman; it doesn’t matter.
Your awareness of where your opponent is at all times is something you wield well, Delilah.
Credimi,” he says, tapping two fingers against the bench between us.
Believe me. “Power isn’t the only way to win a point. ”
He stands, picking up a few of the balls that litter our court and hitting them over the net to Alessio so they can go into the basket for the next drill. I don’t realize my mouth is open in shock until Francesca frowns my way. I snap it shut.
He’s right. I know he is. The din of my inner voice telling me this might not work fades, replacing my negativity with hope.