Trophy Son(27)

“We’re with them.”

We walked to the table where everyone hugged Rufus and looked me up and down. The tables were black, the floors were black and white. The clothes people wore were black. There was almost no color in the room except for red roses by the hostess. After they had all hugged and slapped and messed up each other’s hair, Rufus put a hand on my shoulder and pushed me in front of him. “This is my buddy, Anton Stratis.”

They all looked so happy and together and the girls were so pretty that I felt lonely.

The biggest friend came around the corner of the table to shake my hand. “Of course we know Anton. You took a set off the badass Russian. That was beautiful.” He stopped short of messing my hair but he was drunk and while we kept our handshake going he held my shoulder with his other hand and shook my whole body.

I’ve never thought of myself as needing or seeking praise, but we all naturally like people who like us. What better thing could I have in common with someone than the fact that we’re both rooting for Anton Stratis. “Nice to meet you,” I said.

“I’m Tony.” He turned to the guy next to him. “This is Rick. And the little guy at the end is Andy.” They were all dressed like Rufus. Dark suit, bright shirt, no tie. A posse.

“Hey guys,” I said. I could feel how stiff I was, but I was getting more comfortable.

Tony said, “And this gorgeous flower here is Amanda. I don’t need any handsome Greeks for competition, so don’t even think about it.” He belly-laughed at himself and waved to the other girl. “This is Cici who is also spoken for, but they have friends on the way.”

Amanda smiled and did the ladylike handshake, palm down as though reaching in a cookie jar. Cici waved to me from across the table. They both had blonde kinky hair with Miami tans.

Even though the restaurant was full of people eating dinner, there was club music playing and the DJ by the front door upped the volume. Tony swept Amanda up to the banquet seating to dance. People at other tables got on chairs to dance. It was an Americanized fantasy of Italian nightlife.

On our table was a two-gallon glass bowl of green liquid with eight colorful straws. Rick slid it toward me. “Party Mojito. Price of admission.”

Here we go. I was just fitting in and didn’t want to hesitate so I leaned in and pulled from a straw and in my imagination heard the scream of Dad’s voice, “Are you out of your mind—drinking booze and sharing germs with six idiots four days before the US Open?”

It was syrupy and tart with enough alcohol that I could taste that too. “Thanks.” I sat in a chair facing the table with Tony and Amanda dancing across and above.

Andy, the runt of the pack, sat next to me. “What was it like going up against Kovalchuk?”

“Hard,” I said. I realized I’d never talked about that match socially, only in a press conference when I measured what I said, made sure I was a good sport. “He just keeps coming at you.”

“He’s a machine,” said Andy.

“He’s tough. Very tough mentally,” I said. “I think my best game is better than his best game, though. I could have won that day if I just stopped thinking and played.” I’d never said that out loud before. I hoped it didn’t sound cocky.

“That was obvious to anyone watching,” he said. “I don’t mean about the thinking part or you faltering. Just about who can elevate their game to a higher level. You’re going to be the number one player in the world one day.”

Compliments from strangers could boost my spirits. It was right in this moment of feeling great and accepted that over my right shoulder I had a glimpse of a stunning brunette woman. She was visiting from another realm, superimposed on the room, like the character in science fiction who can still walk around when time is stopped and pluck things from the fingers of frozen people and rearrange everything before time starts again.

Her face reminded me of Audrey Hepburn only less fragile, lips more full, facial features elegant but with the bold and broad cheek bones more like a Chinese woman, her body more athletic, built for the modern age. I turned in my chair to have a full frontal gawk. Just as I had her square in my sights, Amanda screamed behind me and I rotated back around. Amanda was in a deep knee bend on the banquet seating, one hand to her face and the other pointing across the restaurant. “Ana!”

By the time I turned back around to Ana, she was on top of us. She stopped right in front of me. “You must be Anton.”

Holy crap. “Yes.” I put my hand out, fast, like I’d seen something flying at me at the last moment. She took my hand in a grip. My brain was stimulated to the point that it recorded very little. I stood up in the middle of the handshake.

She was about 5'4" and her eyes followed me. “You just keep going up and up,” she said.

“Hi, yes, sorry about that.”

She was with another girl, the poor thing. Practically invisible next to Ana. The two women walked to the side of the table by Amanda who had stepped down to ground level and the three of them hugged then said hellos to the rest of our group.

I dropped back into my seat where Andy was still waiting by me. “Kovalchuk is a beast, but you have more raw talent. It’s like Lendl and McEnroe. Lendl ruined tennis, especially for guys like Rufus. If everyone partied like Rufus, level playing field, he’d be ranked twenty spots better.”