Chapter 9
nine
The two doubles sessions after game night went better. Tuesday we found a little more rhythm, and yesterday, we communicated better, even sharing smiles (or whatever his lip twitch is) after particularly grueling practice points.
I’ll be the first to admit our three meetings at the pool after practice and poker night probably helped, though we’ve kept things mostly surface level.
I don’t know much about his family other than they’re immigrants, but I do know that his favorite color is blue, he tries to steer clear of Italian food unless he’s in Italy, and he doesn’t have any cravings for things during the season that he’s not allowed to eat.
Like ice cream. Which, right now, I’m desperate for. Going home Wednesday and Thursday for Thanksgiving and not eating within my normal guidelines reminded me of how good non-sanctioned food is.
Aleksandr’s strength and conditioning sessions, I’m finding, are significantly more difficult than those of the previous fitness trainer. Though I often felt exhausted after the latter’s, Aleksandr is doing his best to make all of us puke. Luckily, none of us have. Yet.
When we finally finish our two sets of bleachers with a lap around the track to cool down, I pair up with Nic for some resistance band work.
She holds the long band while I move from center toward the deuce alley, doing a shadow forehand before coming back to center and doing the same on the ad side.
After three minutes, we switch. Next are medicine ball tosses, then ladder work, and finally, reaction time drills.
By the end of the hour, me, Nic, Matteo, Anya, and the few other players not on vacation are in various positions on the court, panting hard and wishing not so good things on Aleksandr (I assume I’m not the only one).
“I want ice cream. No, I need ice cream,” I groan to no one in particular, though Nic turns on her side to look at me.
Normally, she’d do strength and conditioning with her own performance coach, but Amelia’s been out of town the last couple of weeks.
“With everything on it,” I continue. “Chocolate sauce. Caramel. Sprinkles. Oreo pieces. Reese’s pieces. ” My mouth waters, and I have to stop.
Nic snorts. “Be strong. What would Francesca say?”
We do this sometimes when one of us is having late-night cravings, though I won’t pretend I’m not 95% of the problem.
I recognize Francesca wouldn’t genuinely care if I had ice cream, but I pay her so much money, it would be absurd not to follow her recommended diet. In the end, she’s almost always right about this sort of thing.
“Ten-minute break, and then meet me in the player’s gym for lift,” Aleksandr says, grinning wickedly as he high-fives down the line.
When he reaches Nic, she rolls her eyes and pushes to a stand, stomping past him to get water.
His smile widens as he watches her walk away, then he turns back to me.
I slap his palm as hard as I can—which is to say not hard at all—dreading the lift that will inevitably leave me feeling even more like a spaghetti noodle during my game strategy session with Francesca.
“Is this going to get easier at any point or will you be torturing us throughout the year?” I tease.
Aleksandr chuckles, picking up resistance bands and cones. “I saw what the last guy called ‘strength and conditioning,’” he jokes. “It’ll get easier. It’ll also make those long matches less painful. At least that’s the hope.”
The strength session goes slightly smoother, and by the time I’ve talked through strategy with Francesca, showering feels like a chore. Thankfully all I have tomorrow is stretching, yoga, and physio.
I stagger out of the women’s locker room after seven, glad I foam rolled while talking to my coach. Now I can figure out dinner and pass out.
Nic wasn’t in the locker room, so she’s likely back on court or in a meeting room working through her game strategy. I’ve waited up enough times to know it’ll be a while, so I head out the door and start the few minutes’ walk to my apartment.
Just before I cross the street, a dark car pulls out of the facility parking lot and cruises beside me. I fumble for my keys, palming my pepper spray, but when the window rolls down and I see Matteo, I tuck them back into the pocket of my bag.
“Oh, hi! I didn’t know you were still here,” I say, pulling the strap of my gym bag further up my shoulder.
“Do you walk home alone every evening?” he asks so quietly, I hardly hear him over the purr of his engine.
“Sometimes Austin takes me when we finish at the same time or I walk back with Nic, but for the most part, yeah.” At his furrowed brow, I continue, “It’s only a few blocks down that way.” I point in the direction of my building. “Doesn’t take me long at all.”
“I didn’t realize. I would’ve dropped you home.”
I let out a disbelieving laugh. “You definitely do not need to do that. I enjoy the walk, and like I said, it’s not far.”
“Do you still want ice cream?”
I blink at him, confused, until I remember he was nearby when I blurted my urgent need for the cool, lactose-laden goodness. Embarrassed, I duck my head. “I don’t need it.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“Do you want ice cream?” I ask incredulously.
Matteo parks, turns off the car, and steps out, coming to my side and gently pulling my gym bag from my left shoulder.
“Che cavolo.” I know that one. What the hell.
A favorite of Francesca’s. “This is too heavy. What do you put in this? And why are you only wearing it on one shoulder? You’re going to hurt yourself before the season even begins,” he mutters, almost to himself.
I let him take it, still shocked and confused.
“We can make tonight one of our weekly check-ins. Alessio will love that we’re making such an effort. ”
He puts my bags in his trunk, guiding me to his passenger’s seat.
When I’m comfortable, he closes the door softly.
I take in the black leather seats and sleek dashboard, inhaling the rich scent of bergamot.
I’ve never pictured what his car would be like, but if I had, this is exactly how I would imagine it.
“You don’t like ice cream,” I state when he gets in.
He gestures to the bag of what appears to be homemade trail mix on the center console. “I’ve got this,” he says.
“And we haven’t eaten dinner yet.”
The right corner of his mouth moves, his eyes scanning my face. “Del, would you like me to drop you off at your apartment, or do you want to tell me a place where you can eat dinner and get ice cream?”
I laugh, caving. “Okay, okay. We can go to Hoagie’s. There’s probably something green and gross there that you’ll like.”
He huffs a laugh, typing the name into the navigation and taking the car out of park.
Hoagie’s is a cute sandwich shop five minutes away with exposed brick walls and mismatched cushioned chairs tucked beneath wooden tables. Soft lighting turns brighter at the front of the shop, where chalkboard menus hang behind employees and ingredients are displayed in glass cases.
I make my choices and pull my card from my wallet, but because Matteo is ahead of me, he beats me to it.
A flash of unpleasantness spears through me, my brain working five steps ahead to start a dedicated debt calculator.
He doesn’t seem to notice, setting a hand on my back and directing me to a table despite my gentle grumbling about being able to buy my own food.
“I know you can,” he murmurs.
When we reach a far table and set our food down, Matteo looks around, confused.
“What?” I ask.
“They have ice cream here?”
I laugh. “No, no. Next door. I’m easing you into this. If you see me eat what I go for there, you’ll run screaming before we can talk.”
“Why’s that?” Amusement dances over his features.
“I do not hold back. Everything goes on my ice cream. I’ve been told it’s disgusting.”
“I’m certainly intrigued.”
Settling into our seats, we begin eating. After my first few bites, I say, “Told you they’d have something green for you.”
“I’m not sold on this wrap.”
“Well, Matteo, you didn’t ask me for nice places. You asked me for places that have dinner and ice cream.” I grin.
“Yes, and I’m not sure you abided by that guideline.” Lip twitch.
I shrug. “Close enough.”
His eyes scan my face. “You do that a lot.”
“What?” I ask, putting my cheeks in my hands, a hint of self-consciousness cresting.
“Smile.”
Laughing, I question, “Is that a problem?”
He shakes his head, eyes widening. “Not at all. I like it.” Under his breath, he says what sounds like “Mi piace molto” but even if I were positive, I don’t know what it means.
His previous words make me smile wider. “You don’t smile much. And when you do, it’s never a full one.” Instantly, I feel like I’ve said the wrong thing, the air sucked out of the space between us. Matteo looks away, out the window, where his car sits in the parking lot.
“I’m not sure I’ve had much to smile about in a long time.” The idea is so incomprehensible to me, it must read clearly on my face. Now he does smile, a small one I can tell is more for my benefit than anything. “Our outlooks on life are different. Very different.”
“How do you mean?”
Matteo clears his throat. “I lost my mom.”
Oh. An ache spreads deep in my chest for him. “Matteo, I’m so sorry.”
“Years ago,” he adds quickly, like that decreases the impact. “It was…sudden. Life seemed so harsh afterward. As if someone added a dreary, red-tinted filter that left me confused and angry all the time.”
It strikes me then. His struggle making friends, when he was a kid and now.
How nervous and uncomfortable he sometimes seems. The coaxing required to pull him from his shell.
How much of that is because he’s scared to get close to someone again?
It was something I experienced right after Mom left, but with how overwhelmed I was and the support I got from the Wards, it passed me by quickly.