Chapter 25 Elias
ELIAS
I’m trying not to be too disappointed that Richard Kingsley didn’t stick around for our match against San Diego. Maybe he is still hanging around somewhere?
When my father texted last night to ask if I’d seen or spoken to him, I tried to make it sound like he hadn’t just disappeared. Like my chance was still just around the corner.
But I can’t deny the disappointment as I sit at breakfast the next morning.
Everyone else is in high spirits because we’re through to the second day of the tournament and get to spend another night in Palm Springs and eat the incredible breakfast spread the hotel puts on every morning.
But my stomach is in knots and it’s an effort just to shovel something down.
What if this opportunity passes me by? What will I tell my father?
Ben tries to talk to me as we head out onto the practice courts.
I shake him off as kindly as I can. I want to speak to him, I do, but I can’t afford to get distracted right now.
I need to make sure I make the most out of this opportunity.
Even if the best coach in the sport has left, there are other coaches here, I’m sure. Kingsley was a pipe dream, anyway.
I’ve almost convinced myself to forget about Kinglsey, but as we’re stepping out on the court to play our match, there he is. He looks slightly less relaxed today, more focused.
Ben squeezes my elbow and gives me a reassuring smile.
Our next match is against Princeton’s biggest rival—Stanford. They knocked Arizona out of the competition yesterday with a convincing win and now we go head-to-head for the tournament final.
It’s tense as we wait. I catch Ben chewing his lip.
Something instinctive in me wants to comfort him—to reassure him.
But what would I say? It doesn’t matter if we lose?
That’s not true. I’m not going to leave you if Kingsley asks to snap me up?
He knew the deal when we started this thing. So why does it feel so terrible?
We jog out to meet Stanford at the net for the first doubles point.
We’ve checked out our opponents at Stanford intensely by now. I’ve shown Ben videos of the best players and Ben’s studied their stats. In theory, we know how to beat them.
But theory isn’t reality.
They start strong, winning their service game easily.
I look up into the stands to check that Kingsley is still there.
“Hey,” Ben says, squeezing my shoulder. “We’ve got this.”
I take a deep breath and look at him. Now the moment is here to impress a pro coach, my insides have turned to jelly. I don’t know if I can do it.
I’m wobbly on my service game. Ben manages to pick up some of the slack when my serve is easily returned.
I try to ignore the fact that my dream coach is watching right now. Try to focus on each point as it comes.
But I can’t get it together and we lose our first service game.
“Schei?e!” I raise my racket to throw it, but I catch Ben’s eye before I can bring it down on the court and the way he’s looking at me stops me dead. That disappointment and concern in his eyes kills me. Come on, Elias, pull yourself together.
“I’m sorry,” I say as Ben edges cautiously closer.
“Hey, it’s okay. We’ve got this, okay? No matter what happens here today, you’re awesome.”
My heart swells. Hearing someone say that even when I’m playing badly is like honey being dripped into my ears.
I want to win this, for him, for this stupid school, those stupid frat boys who accepted me, weird accent and cocky demeanor and all. That bunch of guys who smiled at me holding their friend’s hand.
We narrowly lose the next game on Stanford’s serve, but when it’s time to serve again, we’re better.
I’m calmer and Ben serves two aces to bring the score to 1-3.
It’s a scramble, we don’t manage to break Stanford’s serve and we lose the first set.
But in the second, we’re ready to claw our way back.
We take the second set to a tie-break. Ben serves up another ace masterclass to clinch us the second set and bring us into a third.
Kingsley is on his feet in the stands and the roar of the—albeit tiny—crowd has my adrenaline pumping.
The third set goes by in a blur. It feels so good to be out there playing with Ben that I barely notice the scoreboard. Yes, I want to win. And yes, I absolutely want to impress Richard Kingsley. But what I want in the moment, more than anything, is to enjoy it.
I admire Ben as he plays clutch in every game.
His cheeks flushed and his hair mussed. His Princeton t-shirt stuck to his shoulders with sweat.
When we slap hands after every point, his eyes are glowing and his hand is clammy.
I want to pull him in and kiss him. But we have to be professional.
No kissing on the court. I’ll save that for when I win Wimbledon and run up into the stands to … no, Ben won’t be there then.
We are swallowed up by our teammates as we make our way back to the baseline victorious. I try to keep the smile on my face as the realization that this might be it for my college career—and my time with Ben—slowly sinks in.
Richard Kingsley sticks around to watch my singles match and a couple of others.
Did he see anything he liked? Did I play well enough to impress him? Did I do enough to pull it back after a clumsy start?
We’re tied with Stanford when it comes to the last two singles matches. Despite playing some of their best tennis, Archer and Nate fall in their matches and we lose the tournament 5-7.
We’re commiserating in the locker room, congratulating ourselves on giving it our best shot when Coach Sanchez comes in and asks to speak to Ben outside.
My stomach drops, but then I remind myself that he’s the captain, it’s probably press duties or something. The guys talk amongst themselves about why they think Ben has been pulled away.
“Ben was on fire out there today,” Archer says. “I saw the way Kingsley was watching during his match. Maybe he wants to sign him?”
“Ben doesn’t want to play pro,” Nate says, reminding me why I don’t need to worry.
But it’s too late. I’ve taken my eye off the ball. I came here to shine. To stand out. To be the best player in the ITA and I got distracted. I couldn’t even be the best player on my own team. I was too busy fucking the best player on my team, and getting all starry-eyed over him while I was at it.
BEN
“Richard Kingsley wants to speak to me?” I ask.
Coach’s grin widens. “Yes, that’s what I said.”
“But … I’m not going to play after graduation. He should speak to Elias, he’s the future superstar.”
“He didn’t ask to speak to Elias. Ben, he wants you.”
There’s a flutter of joy at that statement before I push it down and my heart sinks. What’s Elias going to think? He’s going to be so disappointed.
“I thought you and Nate were starting your tennis business next year?”
“We are.”
“So …” Coach looks at me like I’ve lost a few brain cells. “Wouldn’t it be a good idea to start building contacts? Like one of the most influential pro coaches on the tour?”
“Oh, yeah, of course.”
Coach pats me on the shoulder, leading me away from the locker room toward where Richard Kingsley is talking on his phone. He raises his hand in greeting before telling whoever he was talking to he has to go.
“Ben Harris,” he says, holding his hand out for me to shake.
“It’s an honor to meet you, sir.”
He chuckles, his eyes shining. He’s super tall and handsome in real life. Not as handsome as Elias, but then, no one is as handsome as Elias.
“I was impressed with your playing over these past few days,” he says.
“Thank you, sir.”
“Please, call me Richard.”
I nod. I don’t think I can refer to the Richard Kingsley by his first name.
“I’d be interested in working with you, Ben. You graduate Princeton this year, am I right?”
“Yes, sir, I mean … yes, I graduate in the spring.”
“And you won’t be staying on as a grad student?”
I shake my head. Before I can elaborate on my plans, he goes on.
“Excellent. How would you like to come and train with me? I’m based right here in California. You’re from Connecticut, right?”
I nod.
“Closer to home than those Madrid training programs. And a lot cheaper than Monte Carlo.”
I nod, my face aches from forcing a smile.
“So, what do you think? You want to go pro, Ben? We’ll have you in the US Open main draw before you know it.”
I can see he’s expecting me to snap the opportunity up, no questions asked.
For a second, I’m tempted. I’d never understood how easy it could be to get swept up in the imagined glory of fame and fortune—your own fortune, not your parents’.
The idea of people chanting your name. Lifting a prestigious trophy.
I imagine telling my dad I’m going pro. Would that match the success of my siblings?
Would he want to show me off to his associates then?
Brag about me while smoking cigars? But I only have to think about how hard Nate and I have worked on our business these past few years for it to be an easy decision.
“I really appreciate the offer, sir, but …”
Kingsley’s smile drops instantly. It’s a disarming sight—to see someone so confident suddenly waver.
That speech he just gave me is the tennis equivalent of someone telling you that you just won the lottery and offering you a check for ten million dollars and I’m about to say ‘thanks, but no thanks.’
“I’m actually planning to start a tennis-based business after graduation, well, actually, I’ve already started working on it, it will go live after graduation.
It’s a database that will connect athletes with trainers and coaches all in one place.
” I rub the back of my neck, feeling suddenly self-conscious about the fact I’m pitching my business idea to the Richard Kinglsey.
His expression of confusion slowly transforms into one of intrigue. His raised eyebrow urges me to go on.