Chapter 4 Ben
BEN
After Elias left in his Uber last night, I sat at the kitchen counter dissecting our conversation.
He’d surprised me. All that cockiness he’d shown in the locker room was hiding a deep perceptiveness I would have never imagined.
He’s still cocky, sure. The way he just walked in and made himself comfortable.
Ate a freaking apple from the fruit bowl!
But there’s something more to Elias underneath.
I went to bed before the guys got home and listened to them coming upstairs, a little giddy and excitable. I briefly wondered if they all had a good time before drifting off to sleep.
I wake up to the sound of a full house with a bunch of very young guys milling around the kitchen. Usually I make the smoothies, but when I step into the kitchen, Nate has beaten me to it.
I try to apologize for oversleeping, but he brushes it off.
Evan’s at the counter, wearing one of Nate’s varsity sweaters. I have to paint on my best smile to greet him.
“Did Elias get home alright last night?” Nate asks, his back still turned as he pours another smoothie for one of the pledges. I hope no one notices how red I’ve gone.
“Yeah, I put him in an Uber.”
He turns to face me. “I wonder if he’ll be at practice today?”
“Why wouldn’t he be?”
“Because, he had a headache, right?”
“Oh, right, yeah. Well, I’m sure it’ll be better by today. Probably just needed some sleep.”
Nate waits until everyone’s left to get ready for classes and practice before dipping into the pocket of the sweater Evan’s wearing. I look away, feeling like I’m encroaching on a private moment.
“Here,” Nate says.
When I look at him again, he’s holding out his phone.
“What is it?”
“A phone number.”
“Who’s?”
“Mackenzie’s cousin.”
My face heats up instantly. “But he’s never even seen me.”
“I showed him pictures.”
I have to bite my tongue to stop from complaining. Nate’s only trying to be a good friend. He can’t know how much it hurts me—the way he keeps trying so desperately to set me up. It feels like being palmed off.
“He thinks you’re really cute.”
“Yeah,” Evan agrees. “He does.”
“You should give him a call,” Nate says. “He’s really nice. And good-looking.”
“Hey.” Evan complains, but he’s smiling.
I hold in a groan and tell them I’ll think about it before rushing upstairs to avoid their PDA.
I put the number in my phone to appease Nate before grabbing my racket bag and heading to practice.
I’m actually pleased to see Elias already changed into his tennis clothes in the locker room. He’s sitting in front of his locker and lacing up his shoes. His head snaps up at our entrance and he smiles at me.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
My stomach flutters a little and I push it down.
Stop being silly. I just like how he seemed to see things even Nate doesn’t notice.
That he took a genuine interest in what Nate and I are doing—or trying to do—with our business.
I also kind of, from a shallow point of view, like how tall he is and how good he looks in tennis clothes.
When we get out onto the courts, Coach Sanchez pairs me up with Elias again and tells us he wants us playing for one of the two doubles points in the match against Yale this Saturday.
Nate and Archer will play for the other doubles point.
Nate and I have never been official doubles partners, but I had assumed we might be this year.
I try to dampen my disappointment as I step onto the court with Elias.
We take one side of the net while Nate and Archer take the other. It quickly becomes clear that while Elias may be an excellent singles player, he has no idea what he’s doing when it comes to doubles.
His frustration is evident after the third time we bump into each other trying to go for the ball at the same time.
“That was on my side of the court,” I tell him, as gently as I can.
He looks like he’s gritting his teeth as he apologizes.
“Have you played doubles before?”
“A little.”
“You guys ready?” Archer shouts over the net.
I hold my hand up to give Elias some time, but he’s already getting into position, ignoring me.
“Ready.”
Archer serves, and it’s clear he and Nate have figured out who the weak link is here.
Serving straight to me will work out better for them, because I know how to keep to my part of the court, while Elias doesn’t.
He also finds it difficult to communicate with me, or delegate.
He clearly has issues trusting someone else to get to the ball.
When he accidentally hits me with his racket, I call a time out.
“I’m sorry, are you hurt?” he asks. He looks wired. Desperately seeking redemption for his bad playing.
“I’m fine. But listen, Elias, if you don’t like playing doubles, maybe you should just speak to Coach and tell him—”
“I’m fine,” Elias says abruptly, cutting me off. “I can do it. I’ll be better, I just have to practice more.”
I nod. “Okay.”
We jump back into the practice game and I spend the next hour trying to get out of the way while Elias tries to play tennis against two opponents at the same time. Needless to say, he loses.
I try to talk to him before we go into our cool down, but he turns his back on me, signaling that he doesn’t want to hear it.
Nate grabs me as we’re heading into the locker room.
“Why don’t you talk to Coach? Let him know Elias isn’t a good fit. He can find you another partner.”
As much as I’d like to do that, something about it feels off. I want to give Elias a chance. It’s not like he isn’t willing to put the work in. In fact, being too intense and hard working might be going against him here. He needs to learn how to relax. Dial it down a bit.
Elias storms into the locker room ahead of everyone and is already taking a shower by the time we get inside and start unlacing our shoes.
I catch him coming out, grabbing a towel, and almost gasp at the sight of his naked body, still wet from the shower.
Ohgodohgodohgod do not look down!
I keep my eyes on the ceiling and stub my toe on the tiles while trying to get to a free cubicle. Once inside, I shut the door and lean against the wall, trying to get the thought of Elias’ muscles dripping with water out of my head.
ELIAS
Schei?e!
I’m here to make a good impression on pro coaches and I can’t even play a simple doubles match.
Doubles was not something we really focused on when Papa was coaching me as a child.
And then later, my junior coaches always focused on my singles playing, as that’s what brings the glory and the big prize money.
But I’m quickly seeing that in college tennis, being able to play doubles is important.
Ben’s captain of the team, he could go to Coach and tell him we’re not a good fit, but I don’t want that. Winning at doubles and singles could be a good way to show my versatility to pro coaches. That is, if I have versatility.
It doesn’t help that I have to take classes while I’m here. But the second I walk into a lecture hall for my first introduction to psychology lesson and spot Joelle sitting alone in a corner, I relax a little.
Okay, so I’m not here to make friends, but I can have allies, right? Plus, she might know more about psychology than I do. Maybe she studied it at whatever the American equivalent of Abitur—A-levels—is.
She raises her head when I get near and I spot the relieved smile on her face too, before she replaces it with a scowl.
“Oh look who it is,” she says, discreetly moving her bag out of the way for me to sit down. “If it isn’t the not-frat-boy jock.”
“That’s a good one, you should write it down.”
She’s grinning when I look at her again. “Who says Germans don’t have a sense of humor?”
I shrug. “Never heard that before.”
“Aren’t you a little old to be taking freshman classes?”
“I’m a freshman in intelligence, not age.” Sometimes, the best way to win an argument is to be self-deprecating before they can zing you.
She doesn’t know what to say, so it must have worked.
Our professor walks in and everyone gets quiet.
I take my pen and notebook out while everyone opens laptops.
When I look at Joelle, she’s gone old school with pen and paper, too.
We share a knowing smile before the professor jumps into the lesson, not pausing our note taking until she calls time on the class.
Joelle massages her wrist as we leave the lecture hall.
“Dear Lord, I can’t believe that was the introduction class.”
“I think I need a new hand,” I say, cracking my knuckles. “Or maybe I should bring my laptop.”
“I hate the sound of people clacking on keyboards though.” Joelle groans. “Like, what’s wrong with pen and paper?”
I glance at the red mark on the side of her finger from where her pen was pressing into the skin and raise my eyebrow. She ignores me.
“By the way, you hold your pen like a caveman,” she says.
“Thanks.”
“You wanna grab a coffee? Maybe try to make sense of what the hell she said back there?”
I hesitate. I have too much research on doubles tactics to do tonight. And I should get an early night if I’m going to get in an extra practice tomorrow morning.
“Thanks, but I can’t.”
She shrugs. “See you at the next one, then.”
I watch her leave, weaving through the groups of friends walking across the grass, pushing down the hint of regret.
After grabbing some take-out falafel from a nearby café, I head back to my dorm—relieved when I find it empty—and set myself up in my room with my research while I eat.
I can hear my neighbors watching movies and playing video games, laughing, talking. I’m pretty sure someone upstairs is fucking. I try to block it out, remind myself to keep my eye on the prize.
All the research in the world isn’t going to make up for practical knowledge, so I text Nate for Ben’s number. When he gives it to me after a bit of convincing—seriously, what does he think I’m going to do with it?—I fire off a text, feeling better already.