Trophy Son(49)

“What are you two boys talking about?”

I let him go. “Just getting to know each other a bit.” It was immature, but it was all I could do.

“Nice,” she said though it was obvious to her that it was anything but.

“Anton was just saying how many beautiful women are on the tennis tour. He seems to be quite the lady’s man.”

I looked from him to Ana. “Congratulations on marrying a real prick.”

Ana couldn’t get a word out, then, “What?”

“Bye.”

I walked to the double doors and didn’t look back at anyone. The damn elevator held me up.

“Anton.”

I was six inches in front of the closed elevator doors. I turned to her.

“What was that?”

“You must know. You must know him well enough by now to know exactly what that was.”

“What I saw was you insulting me and my fiancé at our engagement party. Which isn’t like you.”

“You missed a few gems prior to that and anyway I call ’em as I see ’em. That guy doesn’t care about you. Go ask Minkoff the definition of malignant narcissist and tell me it doesn’t line up. He thinks he deserves you and any other girl he wants at the same time because he puts himself first.”

She was listening close. There had to be a voice in her head saying the same thing.

I went on. “I may not have my shit together. Entirely together,” giving myself a little credit, “but I would never treat you that way. Never even think of you that way.”

She nodded. Did I get through? Did she see the light? “I shouldn’t have invited you.” Oh well.

Caleb stuck his head out the double doors. “Let that jerk go.”

The elevator doors opened, and she did.





CHAPTER

34

Moving up the thirty spots in rank from fifty to twenty is much easier than moving the ten spots from twenty to ten, and every spot up from ten is hard as hell.

After a great finish to the year before, I’d started this year the same way. I won the Australian Open. My first major. Of the four, it’s the one that I and the rest of the world care the least about, but it got that monkey off my back. I lost in the finals of the French Open even though clay was not a naturally good surface for my game and I didn’t have it figured out then. I’d entered four other tournaments and won all four.

Grass court season started next and I entered the Queen’s Club Championships in London, a grass court warm-up event to Wimbledon. I hadn’t dropped a set on the way to the finals. I was healthy, strong, focused. I sat in the locker room before the finals match drinking Bobby’s energy drink, watching the clock to time the candy popper exactly.

Gabe walked back in. “I just confirmed it with the ATP. If you win today, when they publish the points tomorrow, you’ll be the new number one player. Number one. In the world.”

I sipped my drink and nodded. “Well, I better win.”

Gabe smiled. “No pressure.”

I looked at the clock on the wall. Took the popper. Number one in the world. It was what I wanted. I wanted to add some more wins at majors to that but I wasn’t worried about them coming. They would. I was playing with confidence. Beating the best players. There was nobody whose game I feared. “Showtime,” I said.

Ben Archer. He was quietly having a good year. He’d cracked the top ten but top five was tennis royalty and he wasn’t there yet. He showed no frustration about that. He was sure of himself, ever-present, plodding along, always dangerous. I’d never known competitive tennis without Ben in the game. He was always there, a constant companion, doing it a little different, like a reflection of me on a warped surface.

“Good luck today, Anton,” said Ben.

“I wish you’d be an asshole for once.”

“Break a leg,” he said.

It didn’t matter that Gabe had told me I could take over the number one ranking with a win. He only confirmed with the ATP what everyone around the tournament had been saying for a week. Gabe just took the speculation out of it, which I suppose was a good thing, but I started the match tight.

I knew Ben’s game, knew my game was better, if I played well. He always played the goddamn same. Steady and good. His mental toughness was unnerving, especially when I was already nervous.

My first serve percentage was low, I sprayed my forehand around though I wasn’t even going for much and I knew that was part of the problem. I couldn’t bring myself to swing out.

When a player is tight, it’s the same involuntary response that brings blood to the vital organs when a person is cold. Muscles constrict, bringing everything closer to the core. There can be no fluid, full extension. I dropped the first set 6–3.

The saving grace was that the set ended on an odd number of games so I had a changeover to collect myself. The match was best of three sets. If I didn’t turn my play around, someone else would be number one.

I burned some energy trying to hype myself up. I was nursing no injuries. It had been an easy week of matches so I wasn’t battling fatigue. I remembered how early in Rafa’s career he would jump around at net in front of his opponent before a match then sprint from the net to the baseline. It was weird behavior and it threw people, like a fighter who stands in his corner between rounds instead of taking his chair.