Chapter 14
fourteen
After the kids leave, I’m in dire need of a shower, so I head to the locker rooms. Theoretically, since I don’t have anything else to do today, I should go home, but the water pressure is significantly better here, and the fact that Nic and I both shower at the facility most days keeps our water bill to a manageable number.
I step out of the locker room feeling much cleaner, hair tied up in a loose bun. Searching through my bag for my keys and phone, I pull them out and notice a voicemail from my father. Rather than guess the contents, I listen.
“Hi, sweetheart. I wanted to say I’m sorry for the last message I left you and the way I treated you when you were here. I wasn’t in a good place. You know how these things are.”
I really don’t.
“Anyway, I was watching highlights of one of your old matches and phew! You’re a rock star. Wanted to let you know I’m thinking about you, kiddo. Hope you’re doing well.”
I wait for the ball to drop. For him to ask me for money. But it never comes, and the message ends. Which means I’ll be getting another one soon unless he finds work fast.
The door to the men’s locker room opens, and I glance up, then double take when I notice Noah and Aleksandr beside a shirtless Matteo.
His sweatpants are slung low on his hips, the subtle V overshadowed by the trail of hair that travels below the waistband of his pants.
A lean but defined torso. Toned biceps and forearms. Not quite bulky, but strong enough that he could lift me. His hair is dripping, and…
Wait, lift me?
Suddenly, my mind drifts to the press of his body against mine on the court this afternoon, to what it would feel like to trace the smattering of hair from his chest down, down, down.
I realize my mouth is agape when Noah smirks, so I snap it shut.
“You okay?” he asks teasingly.
I clear my throat. “I’m great.” My eyes dart down to Matteo’s chest, then back, my father’s message long forgotten. “Uh, what are you guys doing here?”
Matteo’s raised eyebrows and Noah’s and Aleks’ smirks tell me I’ve been caught. I have nothing to say for myself.
“Sahar and I finished game strategy early, so I got a workout in with Aleks. We’re getting dinner at the players’ restaurant,” Noah answers.
“Oh.”
Noah snorts, clapping Matteo on the shoulder in goodbye. Aleks does the same, and by the time the guys walk away, I’m grinning.
Matteo is making friends.
“Byeeee, Delilahhhhh,” Noah calls as he leaves, drawing out the syllables in a way that tells me we will be having words in the group chat tonight.
“Don’t forget to bring your A game tomorrow,” Aleks chimes in.
Sundays are typically my day off, but because I didn’t play today, the rest day shifted.
Anya and Aleks agreed to spend their free day playing a practice match against us.
Since we only have a few more weeks to train together and Anya, who is so busy, was nice enough to agree, who am I to complain?
Especially after the scolding I got because of yesterday’s practice match.
“Are you going home for dinner or eating here?” Matteo asks like it’s our routine.
I pocket my phone and keys, throwing my bag over my shoulder. He glares at the strap, so I make a big show of putting the second strap on my other shoulder.
“I’ve got a date with some pasta, chicken, and reality TV. You?”
He shrugs, taking the towel around his neck and wiping his dripping hair. “I can drop you off.”
“Oh, no. That’s fine. It’s a quick walk.” Nic didn’t do the clinic today, so she’s probably still in a game strategy session with her team.
“This again?” he grumbles. It’s almost comical how much he dislikes when I try to leave the facility without him. “Then I’ll walk with you.” He moves toward the exit, and after a moment of hesitation, I fall into step beside him.
“Are you going to put on a shirt?” I ask without thinking.
“Sorry to offend. I dropped my bag off at my car, and since you insist on walking, I will have to manage.”
I pat his bicep in what is meant to be a reassuring motion but is somehow erotic enough that I have to rip my hand back quickly. “I do insist. Luckily, we’re in Orlando and it’s sixty degrees, so I think you’ll be fine.” I certainly won’t mind.
“It’s my first December not in New York in a long time. I knew it wasn’t going to be as cold, but yeah”—he chuckles—“it’s much warmer than I expected.”
“You New Yorkers. Always waving it around in our faces that we’re not from New York.”
“Do you want to be from New York?” he asks seriously.
“Heck no. Far too much hustle for my liking. Of course, the politics there are more my speed, but that’s the price I pay for training at one of the best facilities in the world.” And for being close to home.
“My mom loved New York. She preferred the city to most in the US because it was walkable. ‘The way our ancestors intended,’ she used to say.”
“So true. We should be walking everywhere.”
Matteo hums in agreement. Is he thinking about her? Or the rest of his family? Is his father’s new family still local to New York or have they moved somewhere else?
He’s shared so much with me, I feel bad prying, but I so intensely want to collect every piece of him until the puzzle falls into place and I can perfectly understand him.
Know what makes him tick and what makes him smile.
Though I pride myself on the fact that I seem to be getting better on the latter front.
When we reach my apartment, I turn to him, ignoring his glorious chest. “I had fun today. I’m glad you agreed to help out.”
“I didn’t hate it.”
“Wow, what a glowing endorsement.”
He smiles down at me. “It is from me.”
“True. Translated from Matteo, you’re basically saying it was the best day of your life.”
Matteo takes a strand of hair that’s fallen loose from my bun between his thumb and pointer finger, rubbing them together before tucking it behind my ear, his movements slow, his finger lingering.
“Big match tomorrow,” he mumbles softly.
“Yes. I think we’ve got it though.”
“I think so too.” His eyes drop to my lips.
Is he going to kiss me? I scarcely breathe, worried that if I do, I might shake myself from this reality.
Slip into another where Matteo never asked me to play mixed with him.
Where Matteo didn’t notice me and never insists on taking me home.
Where I don’t get to learn about his family or the things that make him him.
I hate that reality.
A honk down the street jolts us apart, and he shakes his head, his standard unreadable expression back. “See you tomorrow.”
“Good night. Thank you for walking me.”
He doesn’t respond, but when I get to my room and peer out the window, he’s still there, hands in his pockets, staring at the ground.
And when I get into bed a few hours later, after watching what Nic described as “an astounding amount of reality TV,” all I can think about is my arm on his chest, his hand wrapped around my wrist, and the distinct warmth that flooded my body when I thought about him kissing me.
Matteo
You left your visor in my car.
Keep it. You should wear it to our match today
Matteo
Only if you wear my hat too.
You drive a hard bargain, but I accept your terms
Though I’ll be wearing it backward in true Matteo fashion
Matteo?
Matteo
I’m not sure you understand what the thought of that does to me.
Sunday afternoons at the Morozov Tennis Academy are much quieter than the rest of the week. Even with players back from their vacations, the rec areas, gyms, and courts are almost entirely empty.
Except for Nic, of course, who’s on the far court practicing her serves.
This morning, she examined my practice match outfit before I left the apartment and said, “Well if you insist on playing today, I’m certainly not going to rest either,” ignoring the fact that I had yesterday off when she did not.
After drills this morning and a break for lunch, during which I wondered if Matteo was picturing me with his hat on backward, he and I got warmed up and ready for our match, Alessio and Francesca monitoring us like hawks.
The Wards, Austin included, settled onto the bleachers beside our court to watch.
I can’t explain why, but this match feels more important. Like if we win it, we’ll be elevated to another level. A doubles team worthy of winning matches at the Australian Open.
Matteo serves first, and we take the first game easily.
The next game, I struggle with Aleks’ serve, and after a few deuces, we lose.
During my service game, I note Aleks’ focus is down the row of empty courts where Nic is getting ready to leave.
When I bounce the ball, he refocuses, but clearly not well enough because I ace him.
It’s enough to throw them off their feet, and the rest of the set goes easier.
When we sit down after winning the first set 6–3, I try to keep my beaming to a minimum.
“Only one more,” I whisper in awe. I don’t want to jinx us, and I’m well aware that the siblings haven’t played together in over a year, but we’re playing better than ever. It’s almost intoxicating.
Matteo chuckles like he can read what’s running through my mind. I swallow over what the sound does to me, still new to hearing it out of him. “I don’t know if I’ve ever seen you bounce this much, and that’s saying something.”
I still, not realizing I was doing anything. “Sorry.”
“Not sure why you’re apologizing. It’s one of my favorite things about you.”
Francesca and Alessio walking over to give us pointers for the next set saves me from having to answer. I desperately need him to stop saying these things mid-match because all they’re doing is making me feel fuzzy and lightheaded, and now is not the time for that.
We battle hard for the second set but lose in a tiebreak. The mood on our bench after is somber, a stark contrast from after the first.