Chapter 14 #2
“They found their rhythm again,” Matteo says while staring at a ball rolling slowly toward us in the early December breeze.
He only lost his composure once, when he sent a ball long and lost us a game, but after I yelled an encouraging “It’s all good!
We’ll get the next one!” he shut it down, the anger slipping from his face and turning to indifference.
“It’s okay. We have another set in us. I’ll go for more down the lines, and you keep going at Anya until her volley breaks down,” I answer, knowing that Anya is probably telling Aleks the same thing about me. Matteo glances at me, his lips curving, eyes softening. “What?” I ask.
“Every day, you affirm my reasoning for wanting to play mixed with you.” He walks to our coaches, leaving me speechless.
Once again, I have to brush off the words to prepare for the third-set tiebreak. A minute or so later, when Francesca has given me pointers, Matteo hands me a ball. “Ready?” I nod. “Slice out wide if you can. She’s standing inside the baseline to intimidate you. Don’t let it work.”
Releasing a breath, I pocket a second ball.
We get set, and I bounce it a few times before tossing it up and hitting it to the far corner.
Anya barely gets her racket on it, and Matteo, who’s up at net, positions himself perfectly for an overhead, placing it just far enough out of Aleks’ reach.
It bounces far too high for Anya to get it back.
Matteo smiles at me proudly. I tap the balls over the net so they can serve for the next two points while Matteo walks over.
He stands close enough that I have to look up, his tall 6’3 frame not quite towering over my 5’9 one.
“Told you,” he says quietly, smiling before taking his place at the baseline.
We fight for every point, and by the end, we’ve pulled slightly ahead. It’s my turn to serve again. I go for the slice serve one more time, acing Aleks.
We’re one point away from the win.
Matteo strides over, offering me another ball. “Magnificent.”
Normally, I’d brush off the compliment, so used to my father’s hollow ones, given and then taken back with vitriol. But Matteo has consistently proven he’s not like that, and with how good of a tennis player he is, the word is enough to make me believe I could truly be magnificent.
I haven’t responded, so he continues, “Do it again. And if she gets it back, use the cross-court angle you’re so good at.”
The praise falls so easily from his lips, I could kiss him. Instead, I nod, ignoring the way his gaze travels over my face. If I let him take my focus off this final point, we might lose the little lead we have.
Match points don’t normally rattle me. Like Matteo pointed out once, I’m as cool as ice no matter the score. Still, I take a breath and then another, bouncing the ball a few times. I toss it up and slap it into play.
Anya gets it back to me, then I back to her, and back and forth until Aleks steps up and volleys down the middle.
I get my feet set and lob a backhand to Anya.
She takes the bait, hitting a cross-court forehand that sends me to the alley, where I flick my wrist and send it spinning onto the far alley line, right inside the service line.
Neither of them can get to it before it hits the fence.
My racket clatters out of my hand in awe.
We did it. Whatever test was placed before us under the guise of a “practice” match, we did it. Not only does this prove we have what it takes to win at Aussie, but it’s proof that agreeing to play with Matteo was the right choice. That my chance at some extra money is a very real possibility.
I’m so overwhelmed, I run to Matteo and jump into his outstretched arms. Whether or not he’s caught off guard, he twirls me around like I single-handedly won us the match. His chuckle ricochets through my body, his arms holding me to him tightly. I laugh freely.
I can’t believe we beat one of the top mixed doubles teams three weeks into playing together.
Remembering where we are, I tap Matteo’s shoulder with my palm a couple of times, and he sets me down softly. We walk to the net to shake Anya’s and Aleksandr’s hands.
“Good match,” we all murmur.
I skip to the bench, shoving my rackets into my bag. Matteo watches me. When I ask him, “Is this what it feels like to win a Grand Slam?” he shakes his head, smiling tenderly at me.
We thank the Morozovs, and Francesca and Alessio let us know we can go home.
We’ll go through strategy after our session Tuesday.
The Wards say their goodbyes, and then my cooldown routine and shower go by painstakingly slowly, but about two hours after the sun has set, Matteo and I meet outside of the locker rooms, where he insists on driving me home.
“It’s on my way,” he claims. He doesn’t talk much on the drive though, maybe lost in thought. I keep glancing at him out of the corner of my eye, anticipation swelling in my chest and setting my blood ablaze.
Anticipation of what, I’m not sure.
When we get to my building, he helps me with my bag, ever the gentleman. I’m not ready to say goodbye.
“So…” I start. Not sure what I thought he was going to be able to do with that.
“So.” He clears his throat. “You played some damn good tennis today.”
“The power I have when I take things seriously.” I chuckle, poking his shoulder. “And it helps that you’re able to ace the heck out of everyone.”
Matteo grabs the hand that still hovers near his shoulder, encircling my wrist like he did during the clinic yesterday. My breath hitches, and I think, finally it’s happening.
“If we were to have an MVP today, it was you.”
My mind has emptied enough that all I’m thinking about are his lips; the plush bottom one and smaller top one with the little scar.
Moments stretch and pass us by. When it’s clear that I’m, once again, reading this situation wrong, I laugh it off.
“I’d better go if I want to make it home in time for curfew,” I joke, pulling my hand away and walking toward my building.
Except Matteo doesn’t let go of my hand.
He tugs me back desperately, longingly. My body falls into his, and his lips press to mine, a warm hand cupping my cheek.
We break away—just for a second, a gasp—and then his mouth is back on mine, and he’s guiding me back, back, back.
I curl my fingers in the cotton of his T-shirt as he slips his tongue into my mouth, and only when he groans do I remember that we’re still very much in public.
I pull away, missing his soft lips and the scrape of his scruff already. Panting, I say, “You should come upstairs. Celebrate.”
Matteo’s eyes scan mine for a second before he nods.
And then, for the first time in my life, I sneak a boy into my room.