Trophy Son(29)

“And your parents? They want you to act or stay in school?”

“They left it up to me.”

“Really? That’s fantastic.”

I sat straighter in my chair. She laughed. I was embarrassed at how elated I was for her. “I heard from Rufus you have a different situation.”

“I do.” It never occurred to me until that moment that other players had a perception of me and my family that could be discussed around the tour. “What did he say?”

“How shall I put it? You have a very involved father.”

“Mmm. Correct.”

She sipped her drink. “People express love in lots of different ways.”

I sipped my beer because I’d seen her do it and it gave me a moment. “Who do you talk with?”

“What do you mean?”

“A conversation like this. Who is usually on the other side?”

“Well, it’s not always the same person.”

“Isn’t that hard, though? To have it be a rotation? They need to know you.”

“They do, at least at the time of the conversation. I had good friends in middle school, ninth grade. I see them less now, but, you know, I see other people.”

“Work people?”

“Sure.”

“Friends?”

“A few.”

I nodded. I didn’t want any more beer.

“And I see someone. You know. A psychiatrist.”

I perked up again. “Yeah?”

She misinterpreted my interest as fascination with the concept of therapy but I was only happy for another piece of common ground. “He’s more like a friend with no other connections. A smart source of advice. I’m not in crisis and they say that’s the best time to be in therapy.”

“Sure, yeah,” I said. “I see someone too. He sucks though.”

She sat forward with concern. “Why do you say that?”

“He’s another drug my dad wants to put me on to get me to play better.” I knew this sounded plaintive and juvenile.

I wanted to rephrase but she let me off the hook anyway. She looked more concerned and a little confused.

“What I mean is, the guy’s not fixing me, he’s just fixing me up to get me back on the court. We’re never talking at a level where the possibility of not playing tennis is on the table.”

“That’s bullshit.” She was mad. She cared. I liked that.

“He’s paid by my dad to help my tennis.”

“That’s not helping you. That’s abusing you. They can’t mess with you like that.”

I shrugged. “Too late.”

She took her purse off the table and pulled out a pen, then wrote on a cocktail napkin. She handed the napkin to me. “I don’t want to interfere. This is the name of the guy I see and he’s great and if you ever want to try something else, I think he’d be good for you.”

I put the napkin in my pocket. Something from her. A physical connection now that we would share forever and I’d keep it with me, on me, always, even during matches I’d put it in a plastic zip-lock bag in my pocket so I wouldn’t sweat through it. “Thank you.”

She nodded. “You should call him, Anton.”

The second time she said my name. “Do you read books much?” I said.

“All the time.”

“I want to send you one.”

“Which book?”

“I’ll surprise you. It’ll be something to read in New Zealand.”

“Good,” she said.

I had the social experience of a four-year-old but I could tell she liked me. I knew. Even a four-year-old can know.

She said, “I’ll email you my address when I get there.”





CHAPTER

19

Four days later I won my opening-round match. Two days after that I woke at 7am to a high-carbohydrate breakfast. Two plates of french toast and cut fruit. I was the third match in the daytime schedule on Arthur Ashe, after a mixed doubles match and a women’s singles, so I’d probably get on around 2:30pm.

I met with Gabe then stretched with Bobby and was getting dressed to have a light practice round at the tennis center at noon when my phone beeped with a text message.



Euphoria started in my chest and moved to every molecule. She would have had to ask Rufus for my phone number.

I texted back.



And back from her.



The more famously underage a person, the less anyone checked ID. I tried to think of something funny to write back. Don’t get too drunk and yell during my service. No, obnoxious. Wear sunscreen, it’s a hot one. Pathetic. I’ll play my best for you. Loser. Meet me in the locker room after, maybe we can shower off together. Wow, that one just popped in there. I wrote:

She wrote back.



This was great. Real contact. Not exactly flirtation, but it was too early for that anyway.

Another beep from her.



Boom. Euphoria, times ten.



Beep.



It was a three of five sets match. Time to get to work.



Gabe was staring at me while my hands shook with the phone. I didn’t know if this was a great motivator or a terrible distraction. “What’s up, Anton?”