Chapter 7
seven
Our next doubles session doesn’t go much better.
On Wednesday, we did singles drills together to continue getting a feel for each other’s strokes.
At one point, Matteo hit a shot so hard that I barely got my racket on it, shanking the ball so badly, it almost hit Alessio’s head where he stood by the back fence.
My shouted “Whoops!” was just enough to get him out of the way a split second before the ball thwacked the metal.
I tried not to laugh, but a small giggle ripped through me, and Matteo looked at me like he didn’t know what to do with me. No smile though.
Yesterday was a rest day, so I only saw Matteo in passing in the health and wellness offices. I tried very hard not to notice the gray sweatpants he was sporting. Despite my smile and excited “Hello!” all I got from him was a nod and a quiet “Hi.”
I’ve been chasing the rush of that fraction of a smile since Tuesday, and yet I still can’t say with any degree of certainty whether he thinks of me as more than an acquaintance he hits with sometimes. My friends have been no help, the group chat full of impractical tips.
Shots Fired
I can’t tell if Matteo hates me or not
Austin
I highly doubt it
Sahar
Pull the zipper on your practice dress down more
I’m not trying to seduce him, S
Sahar
Phew, I would be
Noah
No. You don’t have time for that
Harper
He might just be very reserved! I’m sure he doesn’t hate you.
Austin
Yeah, he’s like Nic. Not very talkative
Nic removed themself from the chat.
Austin added Nic to the chat.
This afternoon is only our second time on the same side of the net, and once again, we’re out of sync.
Matteo’s volleying balls back even when I say I’ve got it—though I might not be saying it early enough for him—and when I’m at net, I’m letting more pass me than I should.
The gusts of wind hitting us sporadically don’t help.
Checking in on his temper has become second nature. The smallest part of me is stuck on Nic’s concerns like they’re honey, but the worst of it comes when he misses a shot, stares after it, jaw clenched, then mumbles something in Italian and shakes his head.
“I do that all the time,” I tell him encouragingly. “No biggie.” Though I’m not lucky enough to be rewarded with a smile, I can almost see him rolling the words over inside his head. The next time he makes the same mistake, he brushes off the frustration and gets set for another rally.
A couple of hours later, when we play a practice point—me on the deuce side, him at the net on the ad side—we get a good rally going until I smack a ball a little too hard and it sails out.
I tense, waiting for him to be upset or to tell me what I’m doing wrong.
Instead, he shrugs and takes his turn at the baseline.
“Move your feet, Delilah. You’re letting the ball get away from you,” Francesca calls from the other side, feeding Matteo the next ball. At least she’s giving me feedback. It’s when she isn’t providing advice that I know the situation is bad. This might just be salvageable.
I keep up my footwork, moving cyclically closer to the net to protect the alley, then back toward the service line as Matteo rallies with Francesca.
When he puts away a ball down the line, I throw him a smile.
He tilts his head in acknowledgement, then speaks in rapid Italian to Francesca and Alessio.
Francesca nods. “Get some water before you stretch out.” She continues talking to Matteo’s coach, and by the pucker in her brow, it’s nothing good. Are they worried we’re not going to make it through qualifiers? Is it obviously my fault?
No, Francesca would never say a bad word about me to anyone but me, and that’s reassurance enough.
I topple onto the bench, exhausted from a long day of tennis, and grab the last few sips of my water.
Matteo lifts his shirt to wipe sweat off his forehead as he walks toward me.
I have to cut my eyes away before I’m caught cataloguing the line down the center of his stomach and the subtle V of his Adonis belt.
He settles onto the bench beside me, sighing deeply.
“I’m sure we’ll get better,” I say reassuringly. “It’s only the first week. It took me and Nic some time before we were able to fall into a rhythm. It’s just a matter of time.”
Matteo doesn’t answer, staring out over the courts. He takes a long pull of his water, his Adam’s apple bobbing, then sets it back down.
“How long did it take you and Austin?” I ask.
He shrugs. “Hard to say, but it seems like it took a while.”
“But you pushed through. You guys were doing so well this season, especially near the end.”
“Yeah, but…lots can change over the course of a season,” he says cautiously. It makes me wonder what changed for him and if it’s the reason he seems so different from the picture painted of him by everyone else. “How long did it take you and Austin?”
I think back to the first time Austin and I played mixed doubles.
It was so long ago, sometime in middle school probably, that I don’t remember.
I tell Matteo as much. When he doesn’t answer again, my eyes fall to my hands clasped in my lap.
“We’ll find our rhythm. We can stay longer on Tuesdays and Fridays if you’d like.
Or we can make the full day doubles instead of doing singles work in the mornings. ”
Matteo shifts, and I meet his eyes. His eyebrows are drawn, but more in thought than frustration or regret. Or maybe that’s me being hopeful. “I’m not sure it’s just a matter of how much time we put in on the court. Though we would benefit from some practice matches.”
“Sure. I can see if Nic is interested. Potentially Aleksandr and Anya when she’s back since they played together until recently.”
Matteo nods, and I worry I’ve lost him. I glance over to where Francesca and Alessio are talking. Matteo says something to them I can’t understand, and the pair laughs.
I nudge him. “Now I know why you wanted to play mixed with me.”
“Why’s that?”
“Oh, come on. Clearly you just wanted to trash talk me with my coach without me understanding it,” I joke.
Matteo gives me a real smile. Nothing big, no teeth, but both corners of his lips turn up and stay, his eyes lighting from warm chocolate to cool amber.
I’m taken aback but not so much so that I can’t tease him.
“Quick! Hide it!” When he shoots me a questioning look, I gesture toward his face.
“Your smile. If you’re not careful, people will realize you’re not a robot. ”
I’m rewarded with a quiet chuckle. Maybe the day hasn’t gone the way we’d hoped, but I still feel like I’ve accomplished something big. Something worth being proud of.
“You’re ridiculous. All I said was we’re going to need your highly accurate down-the-line shots to get us anywhere near the finals at this rate.” His lips press together as if to subdue any further laughter.
I feel warm all over, and if I wasn’t pink from running around, I’m sure I am now. Matteo seems to have no qualms about complimenting me, doling them out like Costco employees with free samples.
Francesca and Alessio amble toward us. They’re clearly ready to be done for the day. Typically, we’d go through game strategy together, but until we’re more in sync, that’ll have to wait.
Matteo and I start our cool-down stretches.
As I reach toward my feet, Alessio says, “We think that in order to make this work, and with less than a month and a half to prepare, it might be best if you two begin speaking outside of practice. Sometimes, when a doubles team is struggling, it’s because they aren’t on the same page off the court. ”
“What does that mean, exactly?” I ask.
“Walk around the track and talk about your childhoods. Get a meal and learn about each other’s fears. I don’t care what you do as long as you push through this awkwardness and get personal.”
I wait for Matteo to protest.
Nothing.
I guess it’s on me. “I’m not sure we need to do that. Like I told Matteo, I can practice later into the evening. Or we can add more doubles work to Tuesday and Friday mornings. But I’m not sure getting that personal is a good idea.”
Francesca shakes her head. “Alessio’s being indelicate.
Whether you ‘get personal’ or not is up to you, but get friendly.
Two people who don’t know the first thing about each other will never succeed on a tennis court together.
If you can connect emotionally on some level, it might help how you move together on court. ”
I wait for Matteo to back me up, but he continues stretching. When I catch his eye, he shrugs. “Can’t hurt.”
I guess we’re getting friendly.
After I’m showered and dressed later that evening, I check my phone hopefully to see if any of my siblings called.
Nothing. I sigh, my fingers finding the worn photo of Mom, Chase, and me.
I could—should call them, but so much guilt builds up in my throat when I get ready to.
Guilt over leaving them behind. Wishing I could physically be there for them more than I have these last few years, desperate for the days when we’re financially stable enough to pick up where we left off.
The fact that they’re not calling either tells me they’re probably busy anyway.
Grabbing both my bags in one hand, I keep the photo in the other, allowing it to act as a balm for that guilt, a representation of hope for the future.
When I step out of the locker room, Matteo is in the hallway, hands in his pockets. The scruff along his chiseled jawline is more prominent under the fluorescent lights.
“Oh…You didn’t have to wait for me.”
His eyes fall to the folded square in my hand, then to my face, concern etching itself between his brows. “I figured we could talk. If you’re free.”
It takes me a minute to remember what we agreed to earlier. “I’m free, but are you sure you want to do this tonight? It’s Friday.”