Chapter 12 #2
And I realize that I don’t. I don’t regret that he saw it. I worried that he would see me differently because of it, but if he doesn’t, then a small part of me is glad that I got to share a personal moment with him.
I like Matteo. He’s got a tough exterior, and an obvious reason (and potentially some not-obvious reasons) for being the way he is.
But to me, at least, he’s very kind. And I appreciate the care he showed me and my family.
I’m glad I listened to Austin about taking him up on his doubles offer, and I’m glad that, on some level, we can call ourselves friends.
I also hope that someday soon, people see him as something other than tennis’ malignant narcissist.
When Francesca and Alessio return, sans a tech person, they’re excited to see it’s working.
“See, te l’ho detto.” I told you. “It just needed a second,” Alessio says, as if he were the one who got it up and running.
Matteo and I exchange an amused look, but he doesn’t say anything.
I watch video-Matteo for signs that he’s upset, whether at himself or at me—I lost us a few points today, so I’d understand—but I find nothing.
No hands fisted or jaw clenched. Nothing but a small smile aimed at the back of my head when I lose us a point, despite my shoulders slumping.
When video-Matteo pulls his shirt up to wipe sweat from his face and I get a shot of his abs, my body goes warm and I become incredibly aware that his leg is pressed against mine again.
I don’t know if he’s noticed it. If he has, he hasn’t done anything about it. My other leg bounces as I analyze whether I should move away slowly.
Right as I begin moving, Matteo’s calloused hand lands on my bare leg and squeezes softly. “Relax,” he says quietly, and my body nearly shuts down, perhaps taking his words a bit too literally.
I’m hyper aware of the point of contact for the rest of the hour we spend strategizing and analyzing, well after he’s taken his hand away.
When Francesca and Alessio deem us done, about to dismiss us, Francesca adds, “Vabbè. One more thing.” Alessio crosses his arms, and I get the distinct feeling whatever her criticism is, it’s about to be directed at me.
“Delilah, you have to take this seriously. I don’t mind you saying something to Sahar in passing, but talking to her during every changeover to the point that you go over time on your breaks isn’t going to help your game.
It leads to you losing the sense that you’re playing a real match. ”
Alessio takes over. “We shouldn’t have to remind you that you have less than a month to practice together before the tour begins and you’re in separate places.
These are your last few practices before the week of the Australian Open, which will move quickly since you’ll both be playing singles too.
Practice matches and drills should be taken seriously. ”
I nod, embarrassment warming my cheeks, probably turning me bright red. “I’m sorry. It won’t happen again. I’ll be very serious.”
“Not too serious, I hope,” Matteo chimes in.
He shifts, his leg pressing against mine more firmly, as if communicating something to me.
“I find that her cheerfulness and joy on court makes me want to be cheerful too. Makes me play less angry and helps me focus on having fun, which, in turn, allows me to play better.” He runs a palm over his leg, brushing mine.
“So not too serious, I hope,” he reiterates.
“You wanted them playing mixed for a reason,” Francesca says to Alessio.
“Whose side are you on?”
Francesca smiles at me. “Delilah’s. Always.”
Matteo gives me that same tender smile as before. “Plus, we won. Easily. So we can find a better balance of fun and seriousness, but clearly, our tennis isn’t suffering.”
Alessio grumbles about it being three on one, and I smile. “How about I join your side and make it an even two on two? I’ll take things more seriously. I promise. Today was just a bad day. Next week’s match, I’ll lock in.”
He sighs but shoots me a smile and nods. “That’s it then. Roll out before you leave,” he says, more to Matteo than to me, but it’s a good note and something I’d already planned to do.
Our coaches leave for the evening, and Matteo and I walk to the player’s gym, grabbing foam rollers from the large bin, and lie beside each other on the rubber flooring.
“Excited for tomorrow?” I ask him.
The Morozovs run clinics for young kids in the summer and on weekends during the year but are short-staffed at the moment.
They sent an email to the players, asking if anyone could help in the coming weeks, and I volunteered for tomorrow.
I got a second email a few days ago thanking the three of us who agreed to help, and because I’m nosy and the Morozovs apparently don’t know how to use the BCC function, I noticed Matteo would be joining me.
If he’s surprised I know he’ll be there, he doesn’t show it. “More like worried. I wouldn’t describe myself as good with children.”
“I’m shocked. I had you pegged for someone who loves kids.”
He rolls his eyes playfully. “Yes, I’m sure that’s the energy I give off.”
“Why’d you volunteer then? The money’s not that good.” Not entirely true. The Morozovs are very generous when they’re in a pinch.
Matteo lifts a shoulder as he pushes the left side of his lower body over the roller. “Figured it would be good to give back.”
I grin. “I knew I was a good influence.”
We talk for a few more minutes before I realize what time it is. “Shoot! I have to be up early, so I’m going to head out.”
Matteo checks the clock on the wall behind him, standing and grabbing both our rollers. It’s clear he’s not going to let me go home alone; he hasn’t since the first time he dropped me off at my apartment. “Before the clinic?”
“Yeah. Ward family breakfast on Saturday mornings.”
That same muted smile he’s been blessing me with more and more appears. “I thought you said you weren’t related.” After putting away the rollers, he guides me back to the locker rooms.
“Not by blood, no. They just like to include me in family things.”
“I truly thought they were your family for a long time. I didn’t realize you weren’t their daughter until I looked you up after we all had dinner at the French Open and someone said something that made me think…” He stops when he sees me grinning. “What?” he asks.
“You looked me up?”
He scratches the back of his head. “Yeah. Only to see if you were Austin’s sister.”
“Can’t imagine what you found when you searched for Delia and not Delilah.”
He chuckles, and the sound vibrates through me. “Yeah…Except I knew your name…” he trails off again.
“What?”
He shrugs. I poke his decidedly hard pectoral, but he simply shakes his head.
We grab our bags from our respective locker rooms and make it to his car. “Can’t believe you thought Austin and I were siblings. We look nothing alike!” I exclaim, still thinking about it.
Matteo shrugs, helping me into the passenger’s side. “I didn’t say I was smart.”