Trophy Son(9)

She drank the wine and kissed my neck, then pushed me down and sat on my stomach. My hands instinctively went inside her miniskirt and grabbed the flesh of her ass with no panty to buffer my palms.

“I hope he does come. Asshole.”

“Who?”

“Your dad.”

“Oh,” I said. “I’m not really hoping for that.” I squeezed her ass. I had big hands and had a firm hold on her like a suction cup. She allowed it and seemed to like it.

“You’re such a good athlete, baby. The way your body moves when you’re out there. It’s like you can do anything, like you’re magic. And then your dad browbeats you and runs you down. Makes it ugly.”

It was nice to have someone express outrage on my behalf. It calmed my own outrage even though it was also a validation. “Well, that’s his way,” I said, surprising myself, even as I uttered the words, that I made any defense of him.

“Then it’s an awful way.” She leaned forward and kissed me then said, “Roll over. I’m going to massage you.”

We were in a remote part of the park. One other couple was a hundred yards away playing with their baby. I obeyed. We hadn’t had sex of any kind in our four months together. We’d played around in underwear before, but that was it. She worked her fingers over my shoulders and lower back while I pointed my erection to the side so it had a place to go though it still raged against the weight of me on top of it.

Then Liz said these magical words to me and my erection. “Roll over again.”

She lay down beside me and pulled a corner of the blanket up over our legs and hips. I had loose athletic shorts on which were easily shifted to let me out. She took me in her right hand.

Of course I had taken myself in my own hand before and done just fine, but there was something about the first touch of another. The first in my life. Her grasp of me sent a pulse through my body that arched my back and pointed my toes and was better than any orgasm I’d had prior to that time.

She kissed my ear and stroked my erection while I alternately stared at the sky and clenched my eyes shut.

In less than a minute I had come. She wiped me and herself with the blanket then poured us more wine while I lay back feeling that my time on Earth had been good.

We lay together, certain we were more wise than our adult tormentors, confident in the righteousness of our rebellion, smug about it, even.

My feelings for her were more powerful having overcome the adversity and isolation of my home. She was also my only escape, my only window into the real world, and the only competition that had ever tested Dad. “I love you,” I said. I thought I did. No question I needed her and loved the thought of her.

She squeezed my neck and kissed me.





CHAPTER

6

I started losing. Bad, first-round losses that I couldn’t explain. I didn’t think the losing had anything to do with Liz. I didn’t think it then and don’t now. From today’s perspective I’d say I was confused, unhappy and mentally spent when I’d step on the court so I had no mental toughness left for the match. I was emotionally exhausted. But at that time I had no understanding of what was happening to me. I had no answer for the question of why I was losing.

For most people, a kid losing some sporting events is the regular hard knocks that is a healthy part of growing up. But my whole world was so small. The only thing of value was winning at tennis and losing was Armageddon. Losing was real trauma for me.

And then there was Dad. He was more invested in tennis than I was. A loss to an inferior player would not be tolerated. If putting a physical beating on me would have helped, he’d have done it. With pleasure.

In Atlanta I lost first round to a player I should have toyed with. We drove back to the hotel in total silence. Eerie silence. We almost always stayed in a Marriott and these were the same damn hotel anywhere in the country, just as much as the McDonald’s Quarter Pounder is the same burger anywhere. Between the hotel and the courts in any town there is nothing but sameness, but I’ve been to Atlanta many times in my career and it was a town especially devoid of personality. Everything with charm was burned to the ground during the Civil War, then everything was paved and rebuilt in a hurry. What I remembered of Atlanta was that it was hot and that I always had to squint my eyes from the sun reflecting off all the glass and new construction.

Dad was so angry, I could see him listening to his own thoughts, the screaming in his head. All his motions were fast and abrupt as though he wanted to smash whatever he touched. I could see the anger in his muscles. He jammed the key in the hotel door, he slammed his bag into a chair. He turned to face me and with open hands and his arms like engine pistons he rammed the butt of both palms into my chest and launched me horizontal back over the bed and my body crumpled in a tangle at the headboard.

I had an upside-down view of him. He stared down at me. I lay in a pile with legs overhead but afraid to move at all. His face was twisted and he wanted to continue to beat me.

I still observed the little things and I noticed he seemed to be running the calculation in his head of how much a beating would set back my training. He had enough calm to run this calculation and it saved me. “I don’t like you seeing this girl, Liz. Not until you get a handle on yourself.” He walked out of the hotel room and left me there. We had no flight booked because we hadn’t anticipated losing so early. Dad came back five hours later with dinner, acting nice and talking about how to get my game back on track. He hugged me, told me he loved me. He told me Liz seemed nice enough but he was worried about me.