Page 91 of The Don’s Omega

Thirty minutes later I’m in the car with Dante at the wheel. When we arrive at the club, Giulia is waiting out front in a white skirt, shirt, and visor, leaning against one of the white colonnade pillars.

“Yay, you made it.” She kisses my cheek and loops her arm through mine, steering me up the steps, past the valets and the people drifting in and out. I’m glad I’m walking in attached to someone instead of alone under all those curious eyes. It’s so weird that people know who I am, when I haven’t a clue who they are.

Once I’ve changed into tennis gear, we head to the courts. I don’t have to worry about making conversation because Giulia has lots of gossip. I don’t know anyone she’s talking about, but it sounds like a lively group.

When we reach the courts, Giulia insists on giving me a tennis lesson. I’m not opposed to the idea. I know I need help.

“Just twenty minutes or so to loosen you up,” she says. “You haven’t played tennis since we played, right?”

“Correct.”

She nods, pushing a racket into my hands. “Then it’s worth brushing up on a few things.”

I need more than a little brushing up, and we both know it. I cross the court, my shoes leaving pale prints in the clay, and she walks around to my side and stands behind me the way Marcello did, except where Marcello’s nearness scrambled my brain, Giulia is simply a guiding presence.

“First problem, I noticed last time you’re choking the life out of the grip.” She pries my fingers loose. “It’s a handshake, not a strangulation. Loosen up your fingers. More. More. More still. Honey, if your knuckles are white, you’re doing it wrong.”

“Okay,” I mumble.

“The racket’s a tool, not a weapon, let it swing.” She trots to the other side of the net and feeds me a soft ball. “Now hit it without trying to kill it.”

I hit it and it sails long. Well past the baseline, the way half my shots did last time.

“Right, second problem.” She’s already walking toward me. “You’re swinging from the shoulder like you’re chopping wood. The power’s not in your arm, it’s here.” She taps my hip, then my torso. “You turn your body. You step into it. Watch.”

She moves back to her side and demonstrates, slow and exaggerated, turning her shoulders, stepping forward as she swings, and even at half speed there’s an easy precision to it that I clearly don’t have. The ball lands deep, kicking up a small puff of orange dust where it bounces.

“Now you,” she calls out. “Don’t think about your arm at all. Think about turning. Step into it.”

She feeds me another ball, gentle, right to my forehand. I turn my shoulders the way she did. I step. I try to forget my arm exist. I just let the racket come around with my body, and the ball comes off the strings with a sound I haven’t made before. It’s a clean low thock instead of the slap I’m used to, and it clears the net and lands in.

“Yes. Good job.” Giulia points at me with her racket. “Did you feel that? That’s what it’s supposed to feel like. That came off the body, not the arm. Do it again.”

She feeds me another. I get it wrong, overthinking, and it hits the net. The clay’s soft under my feet, giving slightly with each step, and I’m already sweating. The sun is more intense than I’d anticipated, but even though it’s warm, I’m so happy to be outside moving.

“Stop thinking so hard,” she calls. “You’re in your head. I can see you doing math up there. There’s no math in tennis. Turn, step, swing. Let your body do it, it already knows how.”

She feeds me a few more in a row, and somewhere along the line I stop calculating and start just moving. Three of the next five come off clean, that satisfying low thock, deep over the net. By the fifth one I’m grinning like an idiot.

“Genuinely better.” Giulia plants her hands on her hips, pleased. “Am I an amazing teacher or what?”

“You’re amazing.”

She laughs. “Now your feet, because right now you’re standing flat like you’re waiting for an earthquake. Stay light. Little steps, always moving, weight forward on the balls of your feet so you can go any direction.” She bounces on her toes to show me, light and quick.

I try it, bouncing slightly, staying on the balls of my feet. When she sends the next ball wide to my right I actually move to it instead of lunging at the last second. I get my body turned and step into it and it goes back over clean.

“That’s it!” She’s laughing now, delighted. “Oh, Marcello’s going to be furious that I’m such a better teacher than he is. Be sure to brag about how amazing I am. If his face isn’t beet red with steam coming out of his ears, you’re not singing my praises enough.”

“His ego will be non-existent by the time I’m through.”

We keep practicing and I’m having such a good time. Sweat runs down my back and the clay dusts orange on my shoes, but it’s just what I needed. I’m able to let go of my stress about Fabio and Marcello. All I think about is hitting the ball and staying light on my feet.

We end up playing a couple of friendly games with a mother-daughter pair who are also not tennis superstars. I feel self-conscious at first, but Giulia continues to teach me as we play. We end up winning one and losing one, which I consider pretty freaking amazing, considering my lack of skill. By the end I’m sweaty, happy, and I’ve stopped caring whether anyone’s watching me.

As we’re toweling off, Giulia studies me. “We both needed that, although I think you needed it even more than me.”

I grimace. “I have to make this a routine. I’m getting out of shape. My life is too sedentary now.”