Trophy Son Read online

  “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.”

  I looked at Rufus who was taking a long pull off the Party Mojito. Maybe Dad had a point. “That may be true,” I said.

  “Lendl ruined modern tennis. He started training so hard, then winning. Vitas Gerulaitis wasn’t made to play tennis that way. Vitas was made to be either a rock star or a tennis player in the pre-Lendl era. Rufus can’t compete like this either. He might hold his ranking a couple more years but he’s pretty much peaked. It’s too bad. Tennis weeds out some of the greats just because it’s too grueling, same way people don’t want to run for president because it’s such a nightmare to campaign.”

  I looked over at Rufus who was standing with a waiter now, ordering lots of food to the table and dancing while he did it. The restaurant was filling up and feeling more like a nightclub. The DJ raised the volume again so the patrons raised their voices and conversations had a maximum distance of three feet.

  Andy knew a hell of a lot about tennis. He could go on. I was an oddity for him. I was just a young kid, someone he could put an arm around, give advice, act paternal with. But he was in awe of me. He loved tennis and I was a tennis god to him.

  Food came to the table family-style and most people sampled things while standing and dancing to the DJ. I sat and talked a little and listened a lot to Andy. Rufus kept circulating around but never stopped dancing, even when talking. I sipped the same glass of beer.

  “Why so sad?”

  Ana was behind me, pulling up a chair. “Not sad. Just not drunk.”

  “You don’t need to be drunk to stand up and dance.”

  I smiled. No way I was dancing in front of her. “Maybe later.”

  She sat. “Big match in a few days, I guess.”

  “Are you going to watch any of the Open?”

  “I’ll come for one of the early rounds, then I’m going out of town.”

  “Where to?” She was so beautiful it was impossible to know how old she was.

  “New Zealand.”

  “That’s where they make all the movies these days.”

  “Exactly.”

  “You’re going to make a movie?”

  “I am.”

  I should have known who she was but she didn’t mind. She was amused. Truly. She wasn’t miffed or pretending amusement. “Have you been in other movies that I would know?”

  “You might know some, but I’m pretty new to this. I played Bradley Cooper’s daughter in Hell’s Kitchen that came out last year. Small part. I have a bigger part in a Sam Mendes film that comes out this fall.”

  “Great.”

  I didn’t know who Sam Mendes was which must have been apparent because she said, “He’s a director.” She smiled. Charming, and again not miffed. She found my cluelessness about her and her industry to be refreshing. I could relate to that.

  “You know anything about tennis?” I said.

  “I like to watch it on TV sometimes. That’s about it.”

  It felt safe to know so little about each other. “That’s how I feel about movies.”

  She laughed. “I hear you’re pretty good but I’ve never seen you play.”

  “How do you know Rufus?” This question was loaded. I was very interested in this girl and starting to feel less awkward. I was having a real conversation. With a girl. In a restaurant. Drinks on the table. The whole situation felt impossible, like I was playing out a scene alone in my bathroom mirror. I kept pretending, trying to fake bravado.

  “We met only a couple times. I’m friends with Amanda who’s dating Tony. She did publicity for the Bradley Cooper movie and we’ve been friends since.”

  “How long will you be in New Zealand?”

  “Nine months. Maybe more.”

  Damn. She’ll probably be naked on a beach with
a co-star by month three. “Do you mind if I ask how old you are?”

  “How old do you think?”

  I was young but old enough to know this could be troublesome. Thirty seconds alone with Wikipedia could have gotten me out of the jam. I decided honesty was best. “How old you look and how old you seem are two different things.”

  “Okay.”

  “You look twenty. You seem maybe twenty-five. In a good way. Together, poised.”

  “Eighteen.”

  Eighteen. Just like me. This was meant to be. I had just finished Love in the Time of Cholera. I felt like the poor, young boy who met the only girl he’d ever love but couldn’t be with her, so decided he’d do whatever it took, wait however long. There was a fate connecting these characters in fiction, there was a fate connecting Ana and me. A fate as strong as my fate with tennis, both planned for me long before I was born. Or so I hoped in that moment. “Me too,” I said.

  She smiled. She had this big, booming smile like Rachel McAdams. The kind that had spirit and must come from the inside. There was so much understanding in that sweet, beautiful smile. “Young,” she said. “For all this.” She nodded her head to our table but kept her eyes on me.

  “You must be a good person,” I said.

  “Oh?”

  “You can’t be a bad person and have a smile like that.” I believed that and so I didn’t think it came across as a line. “How old were you when you started acting?”

  “Serious acting has been only three or four years. I gave up regular school for tutors about a year ago. I’ll go back to school, to college at some point. In some way.” She wasn’t defensive but she was still making peace with these decisions.

  “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?”

  “Nothing. Girl I met.”

  Gabe dropped it, thank God. I knew he’d pick it up with Dad later.

  We took the Mercedes to the tennis center and walked right to the practice courts. I would sometimes practice with other guys on tour. Sometimes Rufus, sometimes with guys that Gabe would arrange for because they had a playing style that Gabe thought I should see. But on match days I always hit with Gabe. It was a good routine to settle me and Gabe was still a solid player and a great rally partner.

  My heart rate was up before I took the court so my muscles responded to the already elevated pace of the rest of me. I was ripping shots past Gabe.

  “Easy, Anton. Let’s take it slow, work the drills.”

  “Sorry, just feels good today.”

  “Keep the beast in the cage another couple hours.”

  Daytime matches at the Open can be brutal. August in New York. That day was sunny and ninety degrees so it was a hard day even to spectate a match without shade.

  I was up against the twenty-eighth seed, older guy, smart, steady, no big firepower. The stadium was about two-thirds full, normal for a hot day, early ro
und match with middle seeds playing. The heat had sedated everyone so when we took the court there was almost no applause to greet us. I looked for the Nike swoosh at suite level.

  I tried to find it with a series of looks that covered about a tenth of the stadium at a time. I’d get a towel from one of the kids on the court, wipe my forearms and look around.

  Found it. My vision was always good, better than twenty/twenty. I saw that she had been watching me try to find her. Big smile, waving. I smiled unconsciously and waved only semi-consciously. Gabe would have seen it and wondered what the hell was going on. Ana tipped a baseball cap to me. Article number one.

  I served first and pinned three aces in a row past the guy. He was the higher seed but he knew who I was and that if my game was on I could beat anyone. He looked to his player box with an expression that said please don’t let this be one of those days for the kid.

  I kept up the pace and blew him out in the first set, 6–1. At the changeover I looked to the Nike box and pointed my tennis racket at her. She took off her baseball cap and flung it like a Frisbee to the seats in front of her then stood clapping. I did a short bow. This was the most fun I’d ever had playing tennis.

  I rolled in the second set, winning 6–2. It was an even number of games so there was no changeover. I walked to the back of the court to get a towel and pointed my racket to her suite again. She took off her spaghetti-strap tank top. Underneath was a blue sports bra. Her stomach was tan and trim. I could see her little belly button. I had the vivid image of rubbing sunscreen over her. She folded the tank top into a ball and threw it from the Nike suite. I bowed again.

  People noticed Ana and I were having an exchange. For all I knew Darren Cahill was remarking on it to the ESPN television audience. What I didn’t see because I had stopped paying as much attention to the actual match was that my opponent also noticed and was pissed. He didn’t want to be a prop in my show.