Chapter Twelve #2
“Right, second problem.” She’s already walking toward me. “You’re swinging from the shoulder like you’re chopping wood. The power’s not in your arm, it’s here.” She taps my hip, then my torso. “You turn your body. You step into it. Watch.”
She moves back to her side and demonstrates, slow and exaggerated, turning her shoulders, stepping forward as she swings, and even at half speed there’s an easy precision to it that I clearly don’t have. The ball lands deep, kicking up a small puff of orange dust where it bounces.
“Now you,” she calls out. “Don’t think about your arm at all. Think about turning. Step into it.”
She feeds me another ball, gentle, right to my forehand.
I turn my shoulders the way she did. I step.
I try to forget my arm exist. I just let the racket come around with my body, and the ball comes off the strings with a sound I haven’t made before.
It’s a clean low thock instead of the slap I’m used to, and it clears the net and lands in.
“Yes. Good job.” Giulia points at me with her racket. “Did you feel that? That’s what it’s supposed to feel like. That came off the body, not the arm. Do it again.”
She feeds me another. I get it wrong, overthinking, and it hits the net. The clay’s soft under my feet, giving slightly with each step, and I’m already sweating. The sun is more intense than I’d anticipated, but even though it’s warm, I’m so happy to be outside moving.
“Stop thinking so hard,” she calls. “You’re in your head. I can see you doing math up there. There’s no math in tennis. Turn, step, swing. Let your body do it, it already knows how.”
She feeds me a few more in a row, and somewhere along the line I stop calculating and start just moving. Three of the next five come off clean, that satisfying low thock, deep over the net. By the fifth one I’m grinning like an idiot.
“Genuinely better.” Giulia plants her hands on her hips, pleased. “Am I an amazing teacher or what?”
“You’re amazing.”
She laughs. “Now your feet, because right now you’re standing flat like you’re waiting for an earthquake. Stay light. Little steps, always moving, weight forward on the balls of your feet so you can go any direction.” She bounces on her toes to show me, light and quick.
I try it, bouncing slightly, staying on the balls of my feet. When she sends the next ball wide to my right I actually move to it instead of lunging at the last second. I get my body turned and step into it and it goes back over clean.
“That’s it!” She’s laughing now, delighted. “Oh, Marcello’s going to be furious that I’m such a better teacher than he is. Be sure to brag about how amazing I am. If his face isn’t beet red with steam coming out of his ears, you’re not singing my praises enough.”
“His ego will be non-existent by the time I’m through.”
We keep practicing and I’m having such a good time. Sweat runs down my back and the clay dusts orange on my shoes, but it’s just what I needed. I’m able to let go of my stress about Fabio and Marcello. All I think about is hitting the ball and staying light on my feet.
We end up playing a couple of friendly games with a mother-daughter pair who are also not tennis superstars.
I feel self-conscious at first, but Giulia continues to teach me as we play.
We end up winning one and losing one, which I consider pretty freaking amazing, considering my lack of skill.
By the end I’m sweaty, happy, and I’ve stopped caring whether anyone’s watching me.
As we’re toweling off, Giulia studies me. “We both needed that, although I think you needed it even more than me.”
I grimace. “I have to make this a routine. I’m getting out of shape. My life is too sedentary now.”
“We can play as often as you like. I’m here at the club almost every day.”
“You sure you want to keep playing with me?” I grimace.
“Of course. I had fun.” She smiles at me. “Trust me, I don’t bother calling people I don’t like. I have trouble faking niceness.”
I laugh. “I prefer that to fake people.”
“Then you’re in luck. Renato says I’m too brutally honest. I think he’s too sensitive.” She slips her arm through mine. “Now, let’s go drink. We’ve earned cocktails, and I want to show off that Marcello Foschini’s young husband is my new BFF.”
We head to the veranda that runs the length of the club’s western face.
It’s shaded by a long awning, and it looks out over the lawns toward the water.
Giulia steers me to a cluster of chairs and a table already half-occupied.
When the people sitting there look up, I brace myself.
Last time I was here, there were a lot of snooty people.
I’m pleasantly surprised when they all smile at me.
“I’m Pasquale,” a thin male omega says, holding out his hand. He’s draped sideways in his chair like he’s been poured there. “I’m surprised you came to the club without Marcello. From what Bianca Russo said he wouldn’t let you out of his sight last time.”
My face heats. “It was my first time at the club. I kind of made him promise not to abandon me.”
“Good call. You especially don’t want to be left alone with Bianca. She’s a barracuda.” Pasquale runs his fingers through his dark hair. “Or is it a bitch?”
“Be careful, Pasquale. The walls have ears,” Giulia says, dropping into a seat and pulling me down beside her.
“So?” Pasquale shrugs. “I’m not saying anything I wouldn’t say to her face.”
“Enough about Bianca. It’s my turn to be introduced.” The woman next to Pasquale leans across to shake my hand. She’s older, sixties maybe, with enormous sunglasses pushed up into silver hair and rings on every finger. “I’m Costanza,” she says.
“Nice to meet you,” I respond.
“You’re very pretty.” Costanza looks me up and down. “Good heavens, between your genetics and Marcello’s, your babies will be like little Greek gods and goddesses. It’s not fair.”
My face gets even hotter and I have no idea what to say to that.
A chubby-faced, anxious-looking male omega leans forward.
“I’m Tullio. Don’t shake my hand. I think I’m coming down with something.
It could be the bird flu. My throat’s been a little scratchy since this morning.
” He makes a harsh, cawing sound in the back of his throat.
Something between a crow and a faulty garbage disposal.
“Do I look flushed to you, Elio? Be honest.”
“Well, I… er…” I mumble.
“You look fine, Tullio.” Giulia rolls her eyes. “You don’t have the bird flu.”
“It’s probably allergies.” Costanza says. “Everything in the world is blooming right now.”
“I hope so.” Tullio presses the back of his hand to his forehead. “I feel like I have a fever.” He turns to Pasquale. “Do I feel hot to you?”
Pasquale laughs. “I’m not touching you. For all I know you have the plague.”
“Don’t say that,” Tullio wails. “Last time you said that I ended up with walking pneumonia for three weeks.”
“You had a head cold,” Pasquale says patiently.
Tullio stands abruptly. “I’m going to go get a green juice at the juice bar.” He hurries off.
Pasquale scowls. “He didn’t even ask if I wanted a smoothie.”
While the group is quirky, at least they don’t have that malicious undercurrent Bianca had. They’re pampered and self-absorbed, but I don’t think any of them resent me. They certainly don’t seem interested in brainwashing me against Marcello, the way he thought Bianca might do.
Drinks arrive even though I never said what I wanted.
But that’s fine. The drink I’m handed is something Costanza ordered for the group.
It’s a very refreshing concoction of gin and pineapple juice and a few other things I can’t remember.
But it’s ice cold and delicious. I drink the beverage faster than I should because I’m thirsty from the tennis.
“So how is married life?” Pasquale asks, not lifting his head from the chair back. “Is Marcello terrifying at home too? I’ve always wanted to know what he’s like when he’s not around us.”
“He’s different around his family and me.” I hesitate.
“Meaning what?” Costanza asks.
“He’s… gentler,” I say softly.
“Gentler?” Costanza repeats, sounding surprised. “That isn’t a word I’d connect to Marcello.”
“Me neither.” Pasquale grins. “I heard he’s beaten men half to death with his bare hands.”
Giulia gives him a warning look and then glances at me. “That was before. When he was an enforcer. He’s not like that now. He doesn’t need to be.”
“Not sure about that.” Pasquale sips his drink. “I heard he slit a man’s throat for hurting Elio or something.”
The blood drains from my face. “What?” I whisper, horrified. “What did he do?”
Pasquale looks a little guilty. “Sorry. I guess you hadn’t heard that particular rumor.”
“That’s exactly the point, Pasquale. Those are just rumors. You have no proof anything like that happened,” hisses Giulia. “Stop gossiping about Marcello. You’re being reckless.”
“I agree.” Costanza looks uneasy. “If he found out you’re saying these things, you could be in trouble.”
My stomach churns because I believe Pasquale is telling the truth. Or at least, he’s telling what he believes to be the truth. Marcello said the people who tried to hurt me had been handled. Would he actually have slit a man’s throat because he was upset about the attack on me?
Pasquale huffs. “How would Marcello find out about what I’m saying?”
When all eyes turn to me, I grimace and hold out my hand. “No, I… I wouldn’t tell Marcello anything. I’m not here to spy. I’m just here to play tennis.”
“Right.” Pasquale nods, but he doesn’t look convinced.
Giulia makes a disgusted sound and she puts her arm around my shoulders. “Elio is one of us. He’s not going to run and tell Marcello everything we say. Why would he?”
“I wouldn’t,” I say.
“Also, I called him to come here today. He didn’t call me.” Her laugh is mocking. “What? You think he agreed to play tennis with me today just so he could come here and set up his big bad spy operation? Don’t be ridiculous.”
Pasquale gives a sheepish smile. “I guess that wouldn’t make much sense.”