Julian squints against the copper-coloured dim of the restaurant. He can’t see well in this kind of half-light. What’s lacking in illumination, it makes up for in volume, though, the clatter of the pots and pans from the kitchen filtering through the loud conversations of the diners. Julian can barely hear what Luca is saying. He pulls out a heavy oak chair, and it drags on the terracotta floor. It’s all a bit overwhelming — he’s sweating under the collar of his polo shirt.

Fabio and his father arrive nearly fifteen minutes late. Fabio is wearing a white shirt, neatly ironed, that’s slightly too long in the sleeves but too tight in the shoulders. His father, Salvatore, is short and stocky, with a dark complexion. He apologises profusely in Italian and Julian gleans that the car wouldn’t start. Fabio stands there looking sullen, he doesn’t say much.

Aperitifs and red wine are poured for everyone except Fabio, who sips at his sparkling water demurely. The antipasti are brought out, and when Julian digs into the caponata, he almost tears up at how good it is. The group dynamic unravels immediately. Salvatore talks to Luca in rapid-fire Sicilian while Julian and Fabio have a quiet conversation in stilted English.

“I watched you on the TV all the time,” Fabio says. “I was happy when you won Wimbledon. Wimbledon was my favourite to watch.” 

Julian asks him about the surfaces he likes to play. 

“I like grass,” he says thoughtfully. “Of course I like clay the most. I don’t like hard court.” 

“I’m right there with you,” Julian smiles, and Fabio gives him a grin. Then his expression turns solemn. He casts his eyes down and picks at the white tablecloth.

“I’m sorry you got injured. I was sad when you retired.” Something in Julian’s chest constricts a little. “I hope Thiago never retires,” he says, with the mournfulness of a child, and Julian can’t suppress a smile. 

“Fabio!” Luca attempts to take back some control over the conversation. “Do you want to know why we invited you here? We have a question to ask you.”

Fabio stops mid-bite, lowers his fork back onto his plate. He raises an eyebrow, his face completely blank. He shakes his head slightly. Julian can tell he has no idea what to anticipate. 

“How would you feel,” Luca stops, and pauses for a second to take a sip of his wine, and, as Julian knows full well, for dramatic effect, “about Julian being your coach?” 

A deafening silence descends onto their table. Salvatore leans forward in anticipation, his glass of Limoncello momentarily forgotten in his hand. Julian guesses Luca must have filled him in at some point. The seconds tick down in silence. Then Fabio breathes in deep and unloads a series of expletives onto Luca in Italian. As far as Julian can tell, the gist of it is something like,

“Have you lost your mind, Luca? Where do you get your ideas from, Julian Foster my fucking coach? I don’t have that kind of money. I can’t even take my car to get fixed. How the fuck am I supposed to pay a Grand Slam winner to teach me how to hit a fucking ball?”

“Basta, Fabio,” Salvatore scolds.

Fabio goes quiet and leans back in his chair and crosses his arms, his cheeks flushed in anger. Julian, surprised, covers his mouth discreetly as he thinks it would be crass to laugh. Luca seems unfazed. He replies in English, with a wave of his hand,

“Don’t worry about all that stuff. The academy will pay him until you start winning big. We’ll do a budget, draw up a contract so everyone is safe and happy. What do you say? Do you want it?”

The silence continues, and Julian can hear his own heartbeat in it. He has made his decision earlier today, and now it’s Fabio’s turn. Julian has never considered he might say no, but now, with the moment of anticipation dragging out forever, he feels something unpleasant at the notion that this might not go anywhere after all. Fabio looks up, finally, his chest still heaving as if he had just finished a sprint. He locks eyes with Julian, and despite the urge to look away, Julian holds his gaze for a long time, understanding the question in it. When it feels safe enough to do so, he gives Fabio the smallest nod. A smile breaks out on Fabio’s face, spreads from his mouth to his eyes. 

“Sì,” he says, quietly, still looking at Julian. “Sì. When do we start?” 

“Va bene, Fabietto.” Luca laughs, visibly relieved. “We start at your match tomorrow. Now finish your pasta, go home and get some sleep.” 

That night, in Luca’s guest room, Julian cancels his return ticket, even though it’s too late to get a refund.