Chapter 7 #2
The lip twitch. “Is it? Well in that case…” He turns and starts toward the exit.
Instantly dejected and a little shocked, I scramble to find a reason to keep him here.
Luckily, when he gets a few feet away, he turns back.
“I know it’s Friday.” He hooks a thumb over his shoulder. “Want to walk and talk?”
I peer down at my gym and racket bags. Before I’ve even responded, he’s taking them both from me with ease and walking out of the building toward the rec area. “Wait! Where are we going?”
“Up to you. Courts, pool, track. I’m open to anything.”
“Let’s do the pool.” There is something so soothing about the indoor pool at night, serenity in the chaos of the reflection across the large room. I tuck the photo into my sweatpants pocket and follow him.
The sharp tang of chlorine clings to the air outside the pool room, crawling into my nose as he swipes us in.
Our sneakers squeak against the tile with each step.
Matteo sets my bags down on a white slatted bench pushed against the wall, grabbing a white towel from the millions stacked in the closet near the bench and laying it on the ground inches from the overflow gutter, where water ripples peacefully.
He gestures for me to sit, and I do, bringing my knees to my chest. A second later, he joins me at a respectable distance, leaning back against the bench.
It’s quiet for a minute or so before I decide to break the ice. “Where did you grow up?”
“Florence, until I was six. Then New York City to be closer to my dad’s brothers. Mom’s mom followed, so most of my family was there. I still spent summers in Italy for a few years after that, but New York was home base.”
“And what was that like? Moving your whole life to another country?”
“Easier for me, I think. I struggled to make friends, for sure, even with a couple of cousins near my age. Learned quickly how to mimic the American accent so I wouldn’t be made fun of.
Kids are brutal.” I chuckle, though my heart breaks for the small boy who had to shed a piece of himself to feel he belonged.
“But at the end of the day, I was young. I hadn’t built a life somewhere else.
The adjustment was harder for my parents. ”
I set my chin on my knees. “I can imagine.”
“Where did you grow up?”
“Tampa. I try to stay nearby for my family, but, you know. Being gone nearly ten months out of the year is hard.” The guilt I just managed to tamp down materializes in my throat once more. If Matteo notices, he doesn’t say.
“Are you close with them?”
“My siblings? Yeah.”
“Are they around the same age as you?”
“Chase is twenty. The twins, Hazel and Finn, are seventeen.”
“And you’re, what? Twenty-five?”
I nod. “You?”
“Twenty-eight.”
I laugh quietly. “Sorry, I meant do you have siblings?”
Bowing his head, he admits gruffly, “I’m not good at this.”
“At what?”
He shrugs. “Making friends? Being friendly? I’m not sure. But I suspect between the two of us, you might be the expert.”
Though the words are spoken casually, there’s a touch of woe that makes me want to reach out and hug him. I’m lucky to have the friends I do. I picture Matteo and how he might fit into our group chat one day, how my friends would act around him during game nights and movie nights.
It’s odd how vividly I can imagine it, like proof he’d click with everyone.
“That’s not true. You’re great at talking to me. That one was my fault, anyway.”
“You make it easy,” he answers quietly.
This time I really have to stop myself from reaching for him.
“So, siblings?” I ask.
I can’t tell if his eyes flash or if it’s the reflection of the light from the pool dancing across his face like lightning flickering through dark clouds. “None that I’m close with.”
He doesn’t elaborate, so I guide us elsewhere. “When did you start playing tennis?”
“Pretty much the moment I was born. My whole family played. Nonno, my mom’s dad, played professionally for a while, and her whole side of the family enjoyed it rather competitively. Didn’t begin training hard until I was seven or eight.”
“That’s nice. I bet having family members who play made it more fun.
” Matteo doesn’t respond, just looks out over the eight-lane pool.
He doesn’t ask, but he let me take the lead, so I say, “I didn’t start until I was eight.
Austin and I became friends and—I’m sure you know this—the Wards played professionally.
They took me in like I was their own. Trained me, helped me with coaching. Got me to where I am now.”
“You’re not related at all?”
“No, no. Though the way they tell it, it might seem that way.”
“Yeah.”
Silence settles over us, and though I’m great at finding threads to pull in order to learn more about someone and gain their trust, Matteo has shared more with me today than I suspect he’s shared with most others.
I can’t be sure why.
“If you’d rather not do this, we can, like, make sheets with all our likes and dislikes and say we had the conversations they want.
In case they give us a pop quiz or something.
” He begins answering, but I jump to finish my thought.
“I don’t want you to feel obligated to talk to me.
I know how tiring these offseason days are, and I’m sure the last thing you want is to be spending an extra hour a couple of times a week getting to know me.
You’re already having to play with someone at a lower level than you.
I don’t want to cause any issues.” I feel weak enough as it is when it comes to my family and our situation, the last thing I need is to feel powerless in this relationship too.
“You misread my silence as inattentiveness or disinterest. It’s not.
I just enjoy the quiet and, like I said, I am not the poster boy for making friends.
” When I look over at him, his eyes hold on mine.
“And I think you forget that I, ‘Matteo the Malignant Narcissist’ asked you, tennis’ golden girl, to play, not the other way around.
You are the one who has no obligation to do this. ”
A smile blooms across my lips at his reassurance, even as something wiggles free in my head at the nickname he applies to himself so nonchalantly, like he believes wholeheartedly what others call him. Or at the very least has no interest in fighting it.
It makes me surer than ever that they’re all wrong about him.
“I certainly don’t feel an obligation either. I’m glad you asked.” Surprise slips through me when the words ring true. “Maybe in a couple of weeks, we’ll be able to win a point.”
“Right. After we’ve gotten to know each other’s favorite tennis stroke, color, foods, bird…” He trails off, but there’s a ghost of a smile on his face too.
A laugh breaks free from my chest, light and easy. “Yes, after that.”
We sit in silence for another few minutes, only broken when one of us thinks of a favorite to share.
His favorite stroke is his forehand (shocking), and mine is my offensive slice.
His favorite court is clay, since it’s most common in Italy, and mine is hard court.
He prefers to spend off days swimming laps at the pool because it’s the place he feels closest to his mom, while I typically walk or jog around the track on my off days.
When the lights outside flick off and the facility starts to shut down for the evening, we stand. I toss my bags over my shoulder, and he drops the towel into a bin for cleaning.
“Will you be at game night?” he asks when we’re about ready to leave. “At the Wards’ on Sunday?”
“You’re talking to the poker champion of the last two years,” I answer, flexing my biceps. “Of course I’ll be there. Have to keep those sharks away from my title.”
Matteo blesses me with that muted smile that makes my heart dance victoriously. “Allora, I’ll be there.”