Chapter 2 Elias
ELIAS
Iam not here to make friends.
I remind myself of this as I step off the bus and check Google Maps for the location of the tennis center, because I am going to have to get used to having teammates for the first time. Teammates who are also my competition for the attention of coaches and trainers.
I studied the university tennis roster last night from my dorm while my very stereotypically named American roommates, Chad and Jesse, were playing Call of Duty on full volume in the shared living room.
I wanted to see who my biggest competition was. Who got the most attention from the press? Who had the highest ranking in the ITA? Who had played Challenger tours over the summer break? What were their junior careers like? Did they have any ATP points?
I was relieved to find that the tennis team seems to be made up of academic overachievers, people to whom tennis is a social event and a hobby.
A hobby they are pretty good at, considering they currently stand at number two in the overall standings, just behind Stanford.
Aside from their college records—most notable being a North Coast Atlantic Conference championship two years in a row—there are no stand-out future pros that I can see.
Benjamin Harris is the highest ranked player on the team at number twelve.
According to the team’s website, Benjamin Harris is a nice-looking guy with chubby cheeks that contradict his athletic frame.
His stats were all listed underneath his picture—age: twenty-one, height: 6’2, weight: 170 pounds, current year: senior.
There’s nothing on his pro career yet. I have no idea what he’s studying, but from looking up the boarding school listed on his profile, I’m guessing he’s from a wealthy family and expected to go into some sort of family business venture the day after graduation.
But as I stand in front of one of the most impressive tennis centers I have ever seen, the relief I’d felt last night before clicking off Benjamin Harris’ smiling face instantly flees my body.
I’d checked out the facilities before accepting my offer but standing in front of the newly built center is something different entirely.
Deep blue courts are pristinely maintained behind the fanciest log cabin you can imagine. A pine sundeck cut out of the cube-like structure is held up by metal beams and adorned with small, square windows for an office and a players’ lounge.
I am purposefully early, and as I walk across the grass out front of the main entrance, I try to still my heart as it thumps in my chest.
Pull yourself together.
I’ve played pro Challenger tours with actual crowds. Games where not only money is on the line, but points, reputation, players’ entire futures.
This year is an interlude. A means to getting a new coach after my last one dropped me when it became clear my wrist injury would require surgery and at least six months of recovery.
An easy way to get noticed while having my accommodations and coaching provided, free of charge.
This deal even comes with free meals and equipment—the upside to the Ivy League.
It’s an introduction to the luxury I’m sure will come with the ATP Tour—the best locker rooms in the world, the tropical gardens of Indian Wells, Centre Court at Wimbledon—my future.
No matter what I have to do to get there.
My father calls just as I’m pushing through the doors into the center. I ignore him for now. The last thing I need is another reminder of how well my brother is doing. Another lecture on the bad decision I’m making by being here.
Slipping the phone into my pocket, I paint on a confident smile and step up to the desk.
BEN
We’re expecting to see some new faces in the locker room during our first practice back.
New season equals new recruits. I don’t love all the change, but I’ve learned to accept it—though I’m not quite sure I’m ready to embrace it.
In my experience, change tends to bring bad things.
Tends to mess with the equilibrium you’ve spent years of your life balancing.
I only have to look at my friendship with Nate to know that.
Before Evan came along, we were … okay, it wasn’t perfect …
but we had a good thing going. At least, I thought we did.
Now, whether Nate knows it or not, things are weird.
We’re changing into our tennis clothes when Coach Sanchez knocks on the door and comes in. I like that he knocks, though no one else seems to give a hoot if Coach sees them butt naked.
A couple of new guys trail in after Coach. They look terrified. My heartbeat relaxes into something steadier when I see how harmless our new teammates are. Coach Sanchez introduces the two freshmen, Travis and Craig.
“I’m sure you’ll make our new teammates feel welcome—” Coach’s face lights up when his attention is taken by something behind me.
I turn around to see what he’s looking at.
Another new guy and this one definitely isn’t a wide-eyed freshman.
This one happens to be half naked and wrapped from the waist down in a towel. Sandy hair still wet from the showers.
“Everyone, I’d like you to meet another new teammate—Elias Liebrenz—all the way from Germany.”
The guys say hello, Nate stepping forward to shake Elias’ hand, while I stand there, gawking.
My pulse stutters as I take in Elias Liebrenz in all his six-foot-five—at least—glory.
Broad shoulders and a wide chest that tapers into slim hips.
An impressive six pack. I don’t even realize I’m holding my stomach in until his gaze meets mine and the confident grin he’d been wearing while Coach Sanchez introduced him slips into a more confused one.
I look away and expect him to do the same. The polite thing would be to ignore the weird moment and give me time to recover. But nope. Elias is stepping closer, saying my name.
“Huh?”
“Benjamin, right?” He holds a hand out and I take it, give it a tentative shake. His grip is firm and his skin is soft from the shower … warm.
“Just Ben.”
Elias nods. “Nice to meet you, just Ben.”
Oh, God.
“That’s Captain Ben,” Nate reiterates.
Elias raises his eyebrows before lifting his hand in a salute. “Nice to meet you, Captain Ben.”
After Coach leaves, Travis and Craig mingle with the rest of the team, answering their questions, allowing themselves to be reassured that we’re a friendly group and we’re genuinely happy to have them here.
Elias stays on his side of the locker room, dressing into his tennis clothes and custom Nikes. Messing with the strings on a Wilson Blade 98 before unwrapping the tape on the handle and re-taping it. I don’t realize I’m watching him until Nate says my name and I snap out of my trance.
Our coaches are waiting for us out on the courts when we finish changing.
I’m glad for the distraction from whatever weirdness that was back there.
I remind myself not to stress. Change is necessary.
Change can be good. So what if Elias isn’t a naive freshman?
It doesn’t mean he’s going to be another Priestley Rosenthal, making me feel small.
Pressing on all my insecurities, the way you’d push on a bruise.
Somehow just knowing where they are under the surface.
I ignore him while we stretch and do some basic warmups before going out onto the courts for some practice games. Nate and I are walking toward our favorite court when Coach Sanchez calls me back.
“Ben, I’d like you to pair up with Elias today. Nate, you can pair up with Travis, show him the ropes.”
I try to hide my disappointment while Nate jogs over to Travis.
Coach is already walking away while I stand there like a lost kid at the school gates. A thump on my back brings me violently back to reality.
The pressure is still there when I turn around and find Elias grinning at me, his hand rested between my shoulder blades.
“Ready, partner?”
He grins before marching to the other side of the net.
I square my shoulders and remind myself that I am the captain.
The decision from Coach may have been a no-brainer after Nate broke his wrist just before regionals last year and we had no idea how well it was going to heal.
But still, his choice was backed unanimously by the team, and that has to mean something, right?
Just as I’m about to take charge of the practice game, Elias calls over the net in that effortlessly loud, clear voice.
His German accent reminds me of a particularly strict teacher from my boarding school days in Lausanne.
Most of the teachers were French-speaking Swiss, all except Mr. Groth, who seemed pissed that no one took the optional German language lessons.
Why would we? Everyone in Lausanne spoke French.
Just as I did back at school, I take the easy road and let Elias take control.
And he’s just as bossy as I feared he might be. He has me running all over the court. At one point, he ‘accidentally’ hits me on the back of the calf with the ball. He apologizes, of course. But then adds, “You know you really shouldn’t turn your back during a point.”
Thanks, butthead.
I have to remind myself that I am captain of this team and Elias is part of it. So what if he’s … confident. A little overly authoritative? Intimidatingly tall and good-looking? I can handle this.
By the time we get back to the locker room, I feel a bit better. As I’m untying my shoes, Nate asks me if I’m alright.
“Of course, why wouldn’t I be?”
He shrugs. “The new guy seems a bit … intense.”
I frown. If Nate isn’t sure about Elias, this means the rest of the team are going to be wary around him, too.
I may be the captain, but Nate is the trend setter—the one everyone really listens to.
Plus, most of the team are in the fraternity, and Nate’s the president.
They’re so used to Priestley being president and captain, they often defer to Nate in both areas.
“He’s new here,” I remind Nate. “We should make an effort to make him feel welcome. Imagine how scary being in a new country all alone must be?”
“You’re right.” He puts a hand on my shoulder. I try not to react to his touch. “You’re so much nicer than me.”
Nice, urgh.