Chapter 12 #2
He exhales sharply, maybe surprised I’ve called him out.
“You know how it is being the child of top players. There was a lot of pressure to be the best from the moment I was born, particularly as the oldest. They’re great parents, but there was…
an insane amount of pressure,” he reiterates.
“Four major titles wasn’t enough to get them off my back.
So I lifted to blow off steam and it stuck, an outlet when I’m frustrated. ”
“And I frustrate you that much?” I ask, gesturing at his bicep.
A gruff chuckle. “Sometimes, but no. I’ve been…
” A beat as he collects his thoughts. “After I quit, my parents were more upset than I’ve ever seen them.
They took that out on my siblings, ratcheting up the pressure on all three of them.
Natasha is on the cusp of quitting because she can’t stand it, and Dima and Anya are struggling.
It’s part of the reason I was working with them.
So I could be there to guide them through our parents’…
wishes. And while I’m not training them, you all play the same tournaments, which allows me to be available when they, Natasha especially, need me. ”
And suddenly it’s all clear. The guilt I’ve noticed when he talks about leaving the sport has nothing to do with regretting it being over. He believes it’s his fault his parents are pushing the other three so hard.
Before I can stop myself, I set a hand on his. “You shouldn’t blame yourself for that. Their aspirations for the four of you are on them. The pressure on your siblings isn’t your fault, Aleksandr.”
There’s an unconvinced tilt to his brows when he glances at where we’re touching, and I snatch my hand back.
“And what about your parents?” he asks.
I’m not ready to leave the conversation behind, but I sense he’s done.
“I don’t know much about parental pressure, I guess.
The last time I saw my parents was”—I tilt my head, contemplating—“in Madrid two years ago. They happened to be there visiting my mom’s friend.
Didn’t tell me until the day of, though I’m sure they knew I’d be there for the tournament. ”
“Do you talk on the phone much or…?”
I think of the last time I spoke with my mother, nearly a week ago.
How they’ve made no effort to plan the next call and ignored the one text I sent to set it up.
“We pretend we do. Claim we’ll talk every week, but it’s more like once a month.
For a couple of minutes. Mostly about their trips.
” I lift a shoulder. “They don’t have much to say to me unless I’ve won something. ”
“Jesus fu—” He cuts himself off with an angry laugh, shaking his head. “That’s a different kind of pressure.”
“Maybe.” I shrug once more, feigning nonchalance. “I don’t mind. What twenty-five-year-old needs to be talking to their parents all the time?”
“I would argue a lot of people in their twenties talk to their parents often. More so for people born outside of the US.”
“One more thing that makes me ‘not like most people,’” I say sullenly.
“Do you have any other family you talk to?”
I clasp my hands. “It’s been just me for a while now. It’s not a big deal, Aleksandr. I have the girls and Karolína and Pen. Noah and Austin. I’m good.”
“And me. You have me.”
Scoffing, I say, “I don’t have you. Who knows how long this will last? You’re just here to help me with my strength and conditioning temporarily.”
“Wow.” His eyes flash. “And Karolína is just your coach and Pen is just the person who helps you with press and sponsorships.”
“It’s not the same.”
“Why not? I’ve spent more time with you the last week than they have.
Do they know about your parents? Do they know how much you miss Greece?
How much you hate being touched without warning?
Do they know that you have to bounce the ball four times before you serve, and if you mess up, you have to start again?
Or that when you return, you have to fix your strings and hit both your shoes to feel prepared for the next point?
Do they know that, when your eyes turn stormy gray, it means you’re going to be at the gym, training when you shouldn’t be?
” At my shocked expression, he finishes with a, “That’s what I thought. ”
“So just because I’ve been a little vulnerable with you a couple of times, you think that means we’re…what? What do you think that means?”
“It means more than you’re making it out to be, that’s for sure.”
“I…”
Aleksandr sighs, running a hand through his hair until the locks stick up at a funny angle.
“I know it takes you longer to trust people, but I’m not sure what else you need from me to believe that I’m here for you.
That I want to watch you succeed. That I want you to win a slam, not because it will get you your parents’ attention or the adoration of the public, but because you work harder than anyone and you deserve it.
” He pulls two small boxes from beside him.
I eye them, one a glossy white with a gold foil tie, the other more unassuming, made of thick brown paper, the corners taped. I didn’t notice them until now.
“What is this?”
“You talked about how much you missed home, so…” He nods for me to open them.
I do, finding baklava in the first. Five pieces cut into neat diamonds, the top layers crisp and glistening with honey syrup that’s pooled at the corners.
Walnuts and pistachios peek through flaky phyllo layers, and the warm, sweet, and unmistakably familiar smell of my yiayia’s house wraps around me.
Instantly, I regret my attempt to push him back into my mental box labeled strangers. I claim I want to be prioritized, but when someone finally does that, I don’t allow them to.
“Open the other too.”
I listen and find three golden-brown triangles nestled in the bag, the combination of butter and spinach enough to make my mouth water. Spanakopita. “Where did you get this?”
He stands. “Like I said, I know how much you miss Greece. Found a couple of places after dinner last night.”
“Dinner ended at nine.” I’m not sure there’s a single Greek restaurant or bakery around this area, which means he took a rideshare. Probably far.
His right shoulder lifts. “I’m persistent.” He starts to walk away. Sharp movements tell me he’s upset. Over his shoulder he says, “See you at warmup tomorrow. I trust you can do your own cooldown today.”
I stare at the gifts in awe, then obliterate half of each box. When I finish cooldown, half an hour of film with Karolína, dinner, and finally make it back to my room, I stare at my phone.
After changing Aleks’ name in my contacts, I text him.
I’m sorry.
You’re right. You are more to me.
You’re my sweet treat delivery man.
Aleks
Wow, three texts in a row and you made a joke?
I’m so capable of change.
Aleks laughed at “I’m so capable of change.”
He doesn’t respond, and for reasons unknown, I’m desperate to keep our conversation going.
How did your night go?
Aleks
Do you really care?
I frown, knowing it’s my own fault that he would believe otherwise.
Wouldn’t ask if I didn’t.
Aleks
It was good. Sketched. Natasha needed to talk so we went on a walk.
You liked “It was good. Sketched. Natasha needed to talk so we went on a walk.”
Biting my lip, I type then delete three different messages. The first is a question about sketching, the second is to ask if his sister is alright, and the third is a frustrated string of letters that mean nothing. Before I can find the right thing to say or fling my phone at the wall, he responds.
Aleks
I’ll forgive you if you share.
Too late, I ate them all.
I include a photo so he can see the damage I’ve managed in a matter of hours. He never stood a chance.
Aleks
Then you have nothing more to offer me for my forgiveness.
Drama king.
Aleks
Says the woman who nearly drowned herself in a non-ice ice bath.
Good night, Aleks.
Aleks
Good night, solnyshko.