Chapter 9 #2
He shrugs. “I’d love to be able to change that, be happy all the time, but…”
“But it’s not that easy.”
“It’s not,” he agrees.
“Being happy all the time is unrealistic and overrated anyway,” I say.
A raised eyebrow tells me he’s probably calling me a hypocrite in his head, but he doesn’t voice it. After we finish our food, Matteo balls up his trash and sets it aside. “I believe I was promised serving signals.”
I giggle. Sometimes in doubles, the player not serving will hold a number or signal behind their back to give their thoughts for where the player serving should aim within the service box.
More often, in professional tennis, we just talk between points and decide when huddled, but I find it fun, and Nic humors me.
“It’s not only for serving. I like to use them to trash talk our opponents without them knowing.” He chuckles, recognizing my joke for what it was, and my heart ricochets for a second. Matteo has somehow managed to laugh without moving his lips, and yet the sound feels an awful lot like victory.
“It seems like you have a lot of ideas, so let’s hear them.”
When I run through the numbers Nic and I use for serves sometimes, he asks, “Aren’t you worried about me knowing these? Aren’t they supposed to be private?”
I pat beside where his hand rests on the table. “First of all, she and I aren’t playing doubles this year. And second, as long as you don’t sell them off to other women’s doubles teams, I think we’ll be fine.”
Matteo nods. “I solemnly swear not to tell anyone.”
We slip into the ice cream shop next door, where I do, in fact, put every single topping on my ice cream. Matteo looks alarmed, but thankfully doesn’t comment.
“Did you play in college?” I ask once we’ve left the parlor to walk around the small shopping area.
“No. I knew I could do well on the tour and didn’t think it was worth it to tempt fate with an injury. You?”
I set the plastic spoon into my cup. “I wanted to try. Play with a team like in high school, find a subject I was passionate about. But despite having most of my tuition paid for with an athletic scholarship, I would’ve had to work a job or two to make sure my siblings were taken care of.
” The Wards offered to pay for any tuition not covered, but they had already done so much for me at that point, it would’ve been even harder to repay them.
“I figured it was better to go straight into the WTA and make as much as I could to ensure they were taken care of until they could take care of themselves.”
I try not to, but I think of my father. Of when I was younger, before alcohol became his greatest love, when he used to build forts for us to hang out in, blankets flung over the dining table and chairs.
The little treats he would bring me from the store every few months after he’d disappear for two or three weeks, like an apology for being gone.
The slow descent into total alcoholism and the calls I field from him now, some angry like the one I got only six days ago, others apologetic with words of affirmation that I’m a good player and that he’s cheering me on.
Rarely, I’ll get the third kind of call, where he asks me to send him money, and I do, even when I know I shouldn’t.
Even when I should be saving it for myself or giving it to Chase and the twins.
Enabling him isn’t something I want to be doing but I’m terrified that if I don’t, one day, he’ll just disappear and never come back.
Like Mom. And though he’s on the fringes of my life more and more nowadays and has been walking that path for years, I can’t stomach being the reason for him leaving.
“What about you?” Matteo asks.
“What about me?”
“Are you taken care of?” There’s a weight to the words. I can feel it moving from him to me, pressing against my sternum until I let loose a breath.
“I do okay. Once I pay everything off in a few years, I’ll be able to truly start saving.” I roll my eyes jokingly. “You know how it is with taxes and coaching and all the other stuff.”
Matteo peers at me knowingly, and I shift in my seat.
“Anyway, I just got an endorsement deal that’ll help a lot. Especially if you get us into the quarterfinals.” Remembering his practice outfits the last few times we played together, I ask, “Strato sponsors you too, right?”
He nods, grimacing. “Yeah. Though they and the rest of my sponsors aren’t very happy with me at the moment.”
“Not big fans of the breaking of their rackets?”
Lip twitch. He hums. “Among other things.”
I finish my delicious frozen treat, and we head back to my apartment, where Matteo takes my bags out and helps me get the straps on both of my shoulders in the “most efficient way.”
“Are you sure you don’t need help with this?” he asks gruffly, glancing at the entrance of my apartment building.
“You’re more of a worrier than I ever would’ve expected.” I laugh at his offended expression. “I’ll be fine.”
Matteo doesn’t move, eyes glued to mine and darker than usual, his pupils dilated, thanks to how poorly lit my street and building are.
His eyes drop for a split second before they’re back.
Something I don’t often feel in situations like this—want—shoves itself against my chest until I worry he’ll notice I can hardly breathe.
His fingers are still wrapped around one of my bag straps, keeping some of its weight off me.
I’m not sure how long we stand like that, but he breaks the spell, taking a step back and looking away from me. Rejection sinks its claws deep into my stomach, as if I’ve offered myself up to him on a platter and he’s decided I’m not what he wants.
Which is dumb. We’re only doing this so we can have a chance at a deep run in the Aussie mixed draw. I’m well aware of that.
Trying to make myself feel better, and to take back a bit of the power I lost today, I say, “Thank you for dinner, but I will be paying for myself next time. And for you.” I mean it too. I’m no one’s charity case.
Matteo’s jaw moves for a second, like he wants to say something but is biting his tongue. Literally. He nods. “Good night, tesoro.”
“Good night.” I turn and hoof it through the door of my building, then up my stairs, so fast I don’t give myself the chance to analyze whether that word means the same thing in Italian as it does in Spanish.
I may be learning more about Matteo Corsi with each day that passes, but I still don’t know a thing about the way he thinks. And I shouldn’t…no, can’t want to. My focus has always been, and will continue to be, on making enough money to support my siblings.
It would behoove me to remember that.