Chapter 12
twelve
Matteo, get in here,” I insist three days later, gesturing for him to come into the frame of my video from where he stands beside a picnic table. “Stratosphere will love it if we do a fit check together.”
It’s funny what time can do for two people. Before, I might have thought the divot in his brow was a lack of interest or a vague distaste for me, but now I recognize it as uncertainty, a sign he’s nervous.
“Come on, it’ll be fun.” I grab his arm and lead him into frame, smiling when his grumpy face makes an appearance on screen, his dark turquoise shirt contrasting well with my light blue dress.
“See? Now turn around.” I do a small twirl, giggling, the flowing, pleated skirt of my outfit fanning out.
Matteo sighs deeply before following suit.
Beaming, I wave to the camera and click off the video. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”
He huffs a laugh. “If you say so.” We grab our stuff and stroll onto the court.
It wasn’t easy, but after our trip to Tampa, I made it through Wednesday practice, some of the weariness lifting throughout the day. Even more so when Sahar and Harper knocked on our door after dinner, sparing no details from their Italian vacation.
Thursday, the four of us girls used our rest day to go for a three-mile walk before Nic and I went to physio. When I finally got Chase on the phone, he told me it was just a bad day and that it won’t happen again.
“Has it happened before?” I asked.
“No. It was a one-time thing. Don’t worry about it.” But obviously I worry. When I said as much, he sighed. “Even if it wasn’t one time, I’m not hurting anyone but myself.”
I didn’t tell him that seeing him that way made my skin crawl. That it felt like someone thrust a knife into my stomach and twisted because I’m gone and can’t stop him from becoming Dad, if that’s what’s happening.
“It won’t happen again,” he reiterated, and that was the end of it.
I spent the rest of the afternoon pondering whether I believed that. Luckily, Thursday evening movie nights are back, so the girls came over for the first in almost a year.
This afternoon, I’m feeling better, excited to play our first practice match. Matteo and I warm up together, and there’s a clear shift between how comfortable we were with each other during Tuesday’s practice versus today’s.
Across the court, Sahar and Noah talk strategy for the match. They played mixed together until he quit the tour to take over as her coach, and they’re formidable when they’re on the court together.
“You ready to kick ass?” Matteo asks me when we high five before he’s set to serve for the first point.
I nod enthusiastically. “Sahar’s been gone for weeks and Noah hasn’t played for months. If we lose, we’ll never live it down.”
Matteo smiles, and I have to remind my heart, which has decided it’s a racehorse, that we’re about to play a match. “No pressure.”
“So, so, so much pressure, Matteo. More than you’ve ever felt in your life,” I joke, and he chuckles.
“I will do my best.”
“Great. And I promise not to hit you in the back of the head when I serve. Or at least I’ll try not to,” I amend.
“Very reassuring. I look forward to resting my head on a large bag of ice instead of a pillow tonight.”
Matteo’s service game goes off without a hitch when he hits two aces and easily puts away two returns.
“I’m not sure you need me for this,” I deadpan, and he rolls his eyes playfully, walking beside me to the bench.
“But then who would tell me where to serve?” he answers. We laugh, grab water, then swap sides.
The next few games go well, with us only dropping a game during Noah’s serve. At one point, Lilian and Eli, forever my biggest supporters, sit at the picnic bench right outside the fence to watch.
During a changeover, Sahar comes over to our bench.
I point at her with my water bottle. “I don’t think you’re allowed to be here. This here’s enemy territory.”
“Noah’s annoying me and I was gone for weeks. Will Francesca kill me if I hang out with you for a couple of minutes?” Behind her, Noah laughs, his head resting on the fence as he watches her.
When I glance at Francesca, she doesn’t seem happy but says nothing. She prefers that I take my practice matches seriously, but sometimes, when it’s Sahar or Harper, it’s hard. Especially when it’s been a while since we’ve seen each other and we’re still playing catch up.
Sahar leans against the net post. “You guys are getting good. How long did it take to play this in sync?”
“Two and a half weeks, believe it or not.”
She clearly does not believe it, her eyebrows rising suggestively as she observes the two of us. It is in no way subtle. “Wow. You read each other like you’ve been playing for months, so I figured you started practicing together when you got here,” she says, pointing at Matteo.
He and I share a look, one that Sahar catches. She sends me her excuse me? we need to talk eyes, and I stifle a laugh.
Matteo surprises me by joining the conversation. “How long have you and Noah been playing together?”
“That man has been terrorizing me in mixed since high school, but we’ve been friends for longer. We fell into it pretty naturally after years of reading each other’s minds.” Sahar laughs.
She’s right. It’s clear in every movement they make that they’ve known each other for forever. They manage to communicate with body language alone. I’m both jealous and impressed by it.
Francesca claps her hands, letting us know our break is over. During my second service game, I again manage not to hit Matteo once. During his, I continue my silly signals behind my back, which grow more ridiculous the longer the match stretches.
Playing with Matteo is nothing like playing with Austin or Nic.
With Austin, it’s always fun—easy and familiar, like goofing off with a cousin you’ve grown up with (or at least how I imagine that would be).
We have our rhythms, our inside jokes, and winning comes second to enjoying ourselves because we only get to play a few times a year.
With Nic, it was the opposite—focused, serious, like every match was a test. I knew most of my shenanigans wouldn’t be appreciated because winning was what mattered, and since we played at so many tournaments, I welcomed that grounding force because it meant more money coming in.
But with Matteo, it’s different in a way I never expected. Freeing. He plays like he wants to win, but also like he wants me here, even with all my chaos. There’s no pressure to be perfect beyond what I put on myself, just a strange, quiet sort of trust and the knowledge that he’s having fun too.
It’s another piece I was missing in the Matteo Corsi puzzle. Now I’m desperate for the rest.
We win the first set handily. The second set takes more work.
Sahar and Noah are finally getting warm and back to their higher level of play, but we get the win after a hard fight.
During the final point, I send Sahar’s powerful shot perfectly down the line of the alley, the ball moving so fast, Noah can’t get to it.
When Matteo looks at me, fondness seems to settle on his features, his eyes softening and the line I often find between his brows almost gone. And though he keeps saying he’s the one who asked me to do this, I can’t help but feel that, today, I proved to myself I belong on this court beside him.
Normally, the meeting rooms we use for game strategy and film are small, but they’re not too bad when it’s only me and Francesca. When it’s the two of us plus Matteo and Alessio? Another story altogether.
Alessio and Francesca murmur to themselves while they try to get the film set-up working on the small TV.
“I’m going to see if the tech people are around,” Francesca says, like it isn’t the end of the workday on a Friday evening. Alessio follows her out.
The little black leather couch Matteo and I are sharing in this closet of a room is probably meant for one person or two very very small people—something Matteo would not qualify for. My leg presses against his, and my pulse jackhammers in my throat.
After a few seconds, Matteo inhales deeply, looking pained, then stands quickly. At my questioning stare, he shakes his head.
“What?”
“You smell like honey.”
I rear back. “Oh, I—I’m sorry?” It’s the shampoo I bring for after practice. I like the smell, but clearly he’s not a fan.
Matteo pulls his hat off and runs a hand through his thick curls. “I didn’t say it was a bad thing,” he says quietly.
Before I can respond, he begins messing around with the cords behind the TV. Moments later, the cover image of a tennis court pops up.
“Not just a pretty face,” I tease, trying to get us away from whatever that was.
“I’m an engineer in another universe,” he deadpans. He takes a lap around the room—which is to say he walks two steps in every direction—and then he sinks back onto the couch, careful not to touch me.
His movements are tinged with awkwardness, and I wonder if the fun we had today has worn off and now he’s remembering what happened Tuesday.
“Hey, thank you again for taking me Tuesday. And for helping. I’m sorry you had to see all that. And that someone you hardly know broke down crying in your car in the middle of the highway over an hour away from home.”
Matteo turns his head to face me, though I keep my gaze averted. “It’s time you stop apologizing for things out of your control, Del.”
“No, I just meant—”
“I know what you meant. You feel embarrassed that I saw your family in the state they were in. That I was inside your home. You’re worried things have changed between us because of it, and I’m telling you they haven’t.
” Under his breath, so quiet I barely catch it, he mumbles, “At least not in the way you think.”
I chance a look at him, taking in his profile. Thick eyebrows, a strong nose, stubble down his jaw and around his full bottom lip.
“I don’t regret telling you about my family, and I hope you don’t regret showing me yours,” he finishes.