While autumn is already in full swing in England, the sun in Sicily is still burning bright. Julian takes off his jacket and swears. Luca himself is waiting for him at the airport, and they greet each other with a handshake-hug and a clap on the shoulder. Luca is shorter than Julian and balding now, his broad, muscled frame giving an impression of middle-aged stockiness. He looks like the picture of a tennis coach in the dictionary. They begin the drive through dense olive groves, sunlight filtering through the thick dark leaves. 

“So why am I here?” Julian asks over the gentle hum of the engine. 

“There’s a challenger at the academy,” Luca explains and pauses.

“I know about it,” Julian says softly. He knows how important this is to Luca. “Congratulations. But what is it that you want to show me?”

“You will see, you will see,” Luca waves him off impatiently, and launches into a story about a golfing trip gone horribly wrong. 

The next day is Saturday. 

“Semifinals?” Julian asks as they make their way through the gates of the academy. Luca nods. It’s early in the afternoon and the September sun is blinding and relentless and Julian didn’t think to bring his sunglasses from London. As they head towards the court encircled by the stands. Luca, who seems to know everyone in the audience, keeps stopping for a chat. At first, Julian tries to follow the animated Italian mixed with Sicilian, but soon he zones out. Some people look at him and seem to do a double take, but no one says anything, mercifully. They take their seat up front, right by the court. 

The players are announced, one of them Italian and the other Slavic-sounding, probably Croatian, Julian doesn’t quite catch their names. The crowd erupts into an almost deafening cheer when they walk on. Julian certainly didn’t expect this for a local challenger, but then again, he’s British through and through. Julian misses the coin toss — the players are already warming up. Luca tugs at Julian’s sleeve and leans in to whisper,

“I want you to watch that kid.” 

Luca glances at the Italian one. He looks young, his features stuck somewhere between adolescence and adulthood. He’s bouncing from one foot to another, the lean muscles of his leg tensing up as he does. He’s got an olive tan across his skin, and he looks lean and strong, but something about the way he holds himself suggests to Julian his muscle wasn’t sculpted in the gym. A few tattoos are sprinkled across his body, the sun on his right thigh, peeking out from under his shorts, and what looks like an ocean wave around his left biceps. The boy brushes his overgrown dark hair from his forehead, then gets ready to serve. Before he does, he glances at Luca for encouragement, and then his green eyes lock with Julian’s for a second. His expression gives way to surprise, his lips parting in an o shape for a flash. But then he fixes his attention on the court, dark brows drawn together, and serves. 

“Fault,” the linesman shouts.

The boy bounces the ball, tosses it up again, and hits an ace on the second serve.

“What the fuck.” Julian sputters a laugh. 

But then the boy struggles to find his rhythm and he’s two breaks down at 3-0. Julian can tell he’s angry — his body language is expressive and wide open and very easy to read. The boy squeezes his eyes shut, taps the rim of his racquet to his forehead very gently and exhales with pursed lips. He gets into a return position, twirling the handle of the racquet in his hands. The Croatian serves and the boy moves with the speed of light and hits a winner on return. The crowd erupts in cheers again, and as if feeding off of the energy, the boy keeps going for every ball. He reaches each of them, even the drop shots — exquisite footwork, Julian thinks, he’s a natural — and soon he breaks back, and then holds to love. The crowd goes insane, forzas and bravos going off left and right, and Julian has never seen anything like this at an event with approximately 200 people in the audience. 

Julian can see that the boy is impatient and doesn’t really know how to construct points, but he keeps coming up with insane solutions, leaving the Croatian standing there, not knowing what hit him. Once, he runs back from the net to catch a lob, and hits a passing shot with his forehand, his back turned to his opponent. 

“Fuck me,” Julian whistles. “Who is this guy?”

“His name is Fabio Costa,” Luca shouts now through the rumble of the audience. “He’s been a student at the academy since he was a kid.” Then Luca pauses and takes a deep breath. “And I want you to coach him.” 

Julian, who has been following the rally that Fabio has just won goes completely still, his hands hovering mid-clap.

“I don’t coach,” he says grimly after a moment’s pause. 

“Hear me out,” Luca says, then pauses to applaud Fabio and shout. The umpire announces Costa winning the set 6 to 4. Julian follows Luca’s gaze to where Fabio is sitting on the bench, his head covered in the towel like a ghost. 

“He’s twenty-one,” Luca continues. “He either commits to pro tennis right now or we lose him forever. He’s had some success in Juniors, and now in Futures. But he doesn’t have money to travel, and can’t afford a coach. He works for his dad, who is a builder, then comes in the afternoon to train. Can you imagine?” 

“God.” Julian runs a hand through his hair. He can’t afford to even consider this, he thinks. Tennis has given him everything, then promptly took it back. He can’t go back to that kind of life, those highs and lows. 

“Why don’t you do it?” he suggests to Luca. 

Luca gestures around him. “I can’t travel with him. I need to be here. I have a duty to all the other kids like him. To get them out of the mess, start them on a path. I can’t give that up for one person, no matter how… well, you saw.” 

Fabio bounds up from the bench and jogs to his end of the court. The Croatian does the same, except he trudges. He gets ready to serve. Luca leans in and lowers his voice.

“Money’s not an issue. The Academy will pay you until he starts winning. I would pay you out of my pocket if I had to.”

The Croatian double faults and swears. 

“It’s not about the money,” Julian murmurs. The crowd gasps as Fabio returns a shot that Julian was sure would be an ace. But he overshoots and the return goes out and the Croatian wins the point nonetheless. 

“What is it about then?” Luca asks, and Julian doesn’t have an answer for him. 

“I think it would be good for you too,” Luca continues, and grins at him. “Don’t you want to get out of the house a little, play some tennis in sunny Sicily? Help a friend out?”

Julian sighs. “Let’s talk after the match.” 

It takes less than half an hour to “Game, set, match, Costa.” After the handshake, Fabio jogs up to them, claps Luca’s palm, leans across the banner to hug him. His ratty Asics are caked in red dust, his white socks speckled with it. 

“Bravo, Fabio,” Luca says, patting him on the back profusely. Then he switches to English, gesturing to Julian. “I want you to meet my friend,” he says. “Julian Foster.”

“I know who he is,” Fabio says in accented English and extends a hand to Julian without looking at him. Julian shakes it. It’s a rough and calloused hand, all taped up, but the fingers feel slender under the bandage. Fabio steps back and swings his racquet around at his feet expectantly. 

“Fabio, will you and your dad join me and Julian for dinner tonight?” 

Fabio looks briefly at Julian with narrowed eyes.

“I don’t speak English that well,” he says, his voice morose and quiet. “My dad not at all.” 

“Parlo un po’ d’italiano,” Julian finds himself saying, and Fabio’s face lights up in surprise.

“How?” 

“My ex-wife,” Julian shrugs. 

“Ah,” Fabio grins, putting two and two together. “Elena Moretti.” Then he hesitates.

“I have to play tomorrow,” he says to Luca. “The final.”

“We’ll keep it short,” Luca promises. “And you won’t drink.” 

Fabio laughs, and Julian notices that he smiles easily and with his whole face, a little lopsided, and as if his teeth were slightly too big for his mouth. 

“Va bene, ci vediamo stasera,” he says to Luca, and with one last glance at Julian, full of suspicion, he jogs away to find his family. Julian watches him being swept up in a multi-armed group hug by his parents and a number of siblings. 

“Fine,” he says between gritted teeth, hiding his eyes behind his palm. “Fine, I’ll do it.”

Luca laughs heartily, radiating happiness, and claps him on the back.