Match Maker

by Alan Chin

  “Christ,” he said, “I’m such a stupid fuck. He deserves better.”

  I was wrong; he was still boiling about Spencer. My instincts told me to keep my mouth shut, but against my better judgment, I said, “He’s searching for what you’ve already found.”

  “I know, I know.”

  Still supporting him with one arm, I put my free hand on his shoulder.

  He sighed. “It’s just that everything’s getting complicated.”

  “Yeah, life does that, especially when you throw sex into the mix.”

  We started back. He limped at first, but soon his leg muscles loosened a bit and he walked without my support. Cold gusts blew off the ocean and chilled our sweat-drenched bodies. I began to fear that he would catch cold if we didn’t jog fast enough to keep warm.

  “How’s the leg?” I asked.

  “Better. But man, it was on fire a minute ago.”

  I nodded. “This will happen on tour. Your body will break down; it happens to everyone. All we can do is condition your muscles to their peak and minimize the stress.”

  “I’ve never hurt him like that before.”

  “An apology helps to speed through these kinds of disagreements. Try to imagine what he’s going through. You abandoned him when you took up with Shar. Now he’s alone.”

  “But Harman’s my uncle.”

  “Would it be easier if he were a stranger? Do you know why you’re upset?”

  “I’ll bet you and Jared never had these problems.”

  I laughed. From deep in my belly, I laughed hard. How sweet life would be if my problems were so trivial, I mused. But I realized how condescending that sounded. I shook the thought from my head.

  “Speaking of Jared. Looks like you’ve lost your doubles partner. Not showing for practice today means he won’t be playing any more tournaments.”

  “That’s total bullshit. He loved it. We’re a great team!”

  “He loved it until they cheated him out of the title. He doesn’t handle discrimination all that well. Anyway, we’ll need to find you a new partner.” In the back of my mind, I toyed with the idea of my being his partner.

  “I thought he had more spine.”

  A large part of me agreed with him, but that didn’t stop an intense anger from burning in my head. I didn’t know if it was directed at Connor or Jared—or Shar and J.D., for that matter.

  “What did I say about putting yourself in the other person’s shoes? You have no idea what he’s been through, so leave it.”

  “That fucking weenie! Is that what it means to be a fag, to hide like some spineless pussy whenever anybody says ‘boo’?”

  I turned and slapped his face before I could stop myself. The smacking sound ricocheted off the sand dunes, and we stood glaring at each other. Tears sprang to his eyes, and he slapped me back. I saw it coming: his arm cocked and his legs braced. I felt just bad enough that I stood my ground and let it happen. He poured all his pent-up frustration into that slap, and the whole side of my face stung like a bitch. Without a word, he turned and blue-streaked up the beach.

  I yelled for him to stop, chased after him. He ran all-out, and I had no chance of catching him. I pushed my anger into a compartment in my mind and focused on him running on that injured leg. He could damage it if he kept up that pace. I’m so stupid, I thought. Why can’t I follow my own advice?

  I slowed to a comfortable jog. All the way back, I expected to find him doubled over and holding his leg, but I made it back to the clubhouse without seeing him. Relief surged through me like a sea swell.

  Shar still sat on the deck overlooking the courts. As I ran up the steps, she said, “I need a word with you!” The edge to her voice told me she wanted more that a word, she wanted a fight.

  Might as well, I thought. I’d hate to leave a stone unturned on a day I’m batting a thousand.

  “Where’s Connor?” I asked.

  “In the locker room. What did you say to him?”

  “We need to rethink his diet and fitness training. He’s cramping, probably from magnesium loss. We either pushed him too hard or he’s not eating right.”

  “I’ve got a handle on his training, and I’m not overdoing anything. It must be stress triggered from whatever it was that you said to him.”

  “Shar, I didn’t say anything until after he cramped, so instead of getting defensive and pointing fingers, you need to take some responsibility and figure out what to change.”

  “The thing I need,” she bristled, “is for you to stop telling me how to do my job.”

  “You’ve worked with him for months, and his legs are as fragile as ever. Maybe it’s time to use your brain on him instead of your other body parts.”

  She swung her arm, trying to slap my face, but I caught it before she made contact. “I’ve had my share of that today, thank you very much.”

  I let go of her hand, and she stepped back, eyes flashing. “So that’s what’s got your nuts in a wringer. You’re jealous.”

  “I’m pissed because you’re not being professional, and that’s hurting everyone.”

  “Can’t you see that he needs to be loved? He needs what I’m giving him. He sure as hell doesn’t get it from you or his father, and Spencer’s a piss-poor substitute.”

  I heard a faint call from inside the clubhouse.

  “Daniel!” Connor’s cry carried an urgent note. I hurried to the men’s locker room. Bolting through the door, I saw Connor bent over the bench in front of his locker. His clothes were strewn on the concrete floor, and he wore his white cotton jockey shorts. His face scrunched into a teeth-gritting mask as he held his right thigh. His pain seemed monstrous. “Help!”

  I knelt beside him, pushing his chest until he lay on the bench. I lifted his leg over my shoulder and kneaded his thigh from knee to crotch. The muscles under his skin were locked hard as granite. I worked the leg while his body twisted in agony.

  The room was silent except for his panting, broken occasionally by sharp gasps. The muscles loosened by imperceptible degrees, and I massaged with more pressure. The cramp began to dissipate, but his body vibrated with tension, and his skin became burning hot.

  I took in the vision before me. His body lay quivering, lean and golden and perfectly defined. I had not seen him undressed before, and his sculpted loveliness stunned me. I understood why Shar couldn’t resist him. His burnt-coffee-colored hair cascaded toward the floor, one arm crossed over his eyes, his other foot braced on the floor. Sweat beaded on his breast and ribs, and under the glistening moisture were cool bluish veins weaving under the pale skin.

  My gaze inched down his abdomen until I stared at the soft fabric of his shorts. I looked away. My fingers labored up the length of his thigh and stopped just short of that fabric. I felt more muscle tremors, and I asked, “Feel better?” My voice was husky, and I felt my face flush.

  “Still burns.”

  Good, I thought. He wants me to keep going.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  About what, I wondered: our argument, slapping me, running away on an injured leg, the way he treated Spencer? Could have been everything or something entirely different, but I didn’t care. My concentration wouldn’t be drawn away from kneading that injured leg.

  His muscles turned supple under my touch. At the same time, I notice that the bulge in his cotton shorts had begun to swell. Now that his pain had retreated, it had occurred to him that we were in an intimate situation. I lowered my head and pressed my cheek to his silky inner thigh as I massaged his quadriceps. I glanced at his bulge again. It began to strain the material.

  He was straight, I knew, but he was turned on regardless. If I want him, I thought, I can have him here and now. My eyes traveled over his body. My mind wavered. Should I? A thought shrieked, “Get the hell out of here,” but my fingers seemed to have a mind of their own. They wouldn’t break away from caressing his sumptuous skin.

  As if reading my mind, he pulled his arm away from his eyes, lifted his
head off the wooden bench and gazed at me. I stared back. A long stillness passed while we came to a silent understanding that the situation had pushed us both over an invisible and inappropriate line, and we needed to back away quickly. As my fingers pulled away, I think we both felt a tinge of regret—and also relief. He looked beyond me, toward the door.

  I turned my head and saw Shar standing at the doorway. Her eyes were level, accusing, and furious. Her expression told me she’d been there the entire time.

  Chapter 11

  A TORRENT broke over the city sometime around midnight. Something woke me enough to hear rain lashing against the bedroom windowpanes but not enough to register in my consciousness. I was about to slip back into sleep when I heard a definite knocking, louder this time, more persistent. I sat up and looked around. I was alone. Jared had abandoned the bed without waking me.

  I slipped from the covers and pulled on my grey boxer shorts. The window was cracked open an inch, and my bare feet found where the rain had puddled on the hardwood floor. I closed the window and stumbled down the hallway, moving toward the front door.

  In the living room, enough city-light filtered through the bay windows for me to see Jared lying on the sofa. His breathing was heavy and regular, his body stretched and limp as a sleeping cat. His skin, taut and radiant, seemed to refract the man-made light, making him shimmer like a transparent child. A pair of jockey-shorts covered his glowing skin.

  Then I noticed the whiskey bottle on the coffee table.

  I felt heart-shot. My whole body sank into despair. Once again, I had been discarded for alcohol, but this time a switch had gone off in my head, and I knew we had come to the end of something. I could not, would not, go on like this. Half of me wanted to nuzzle my face into that soft valley where his neck met his shoulder and entice him back to bed, while the other part of me wanted to walk out the front door and not look back. I was still groggy from sleep, but I was thinking clearly enough to know something dramatic had to change. Waiting was no longer an option. But as I reached the sofa and began to kneel, a knock sounded again. I had forgotten someone waited outside.

  I hurried to open the door and found Grandfather Lin standing on the porch. His gray hair was plastered to his head; raindrops spotted his thick glasses. He wore a tan overcoat and carried a black umbrella.

  “I’m disturbing you,” he said, offering the polite Chinese greeting used when calling on someone unannounced.

  “Is there something wrong? Is Connor okay?”

  “I couldn’t sleep. It’s a very serious matter. We must talk.”

  I glanced at Jared. He had sat up and was rubbing the sleep from his eyes. I led Grandfather Lin into the living room and removed his coat. I turned on the room lights and scrutinized Jared to ensure he was relatively sober.

  “What’s wrong, Mr. Lin? Is Connor in trouble?”

  “No, Mr. Bottega. I’m afraid you are.”

  “We’re fine, as you can see.”

  “I think not. Connor tells me that Jared will no longer play doubles with him. He says Jared has given up, has lost his will.”

  Jared lifted himself off the sofa and shuffled our way. Grandfather Lin showed no sign of embarrassment standing before two almost naked men. He leaned very close to Jared and peered into his eyes. “You won’t play with my grandson?”

  Jared shook his head.

  “You make a winning team.”

  “You want me to help Connor become a champion, but….”

  “No. I want him to earn money for college. He will become a doctor, a healer of people. Tennis is a game; healing is a profession. Please, help Connor win money for school.”

  “It’s not worth the aggravation.”

  “What aggravation?” Grandfather Lin asked. “That they call you queer? That they do not play fair?”

  Jared’s face colored. “You don’t understand.”

  “I live with discrimination every day of my life, but I do not let stupid people keep me from what I need. You are a coward, afraid to face life.”

  “Connor doesn’t need me.”

  “Maybe this is true. Maybe you need him?”

  “I don’t need anybody, and I don’t need a lecture from you, old-timer.”

  “Stop feeling sorry for yourself and become a man. You think you have it hard? You think life is unfair? You are worse than a baby, crying, crying, crying.”

  “Leave my house, old man,” Jared growled.

  “I will tell you what a hard life is: being a fourteen-year-old boy chased from your home at gunpoint, watching aunts, uncles, cousins slaughtered like hogs, hiding in a cave, never seeing daylight, searching for food at night when there is no food so you cut meat from bodies that the Japanese soldiers leave along the roadside. When the bodies go rank there is nothing but grass, but that is never enough, so you watch your family grow weak and sick. Then you marshal the courage to sneak up behind a Japanese soldier and slit his throat in order to steal his food so that your mother and father might live a few more days. I will not bother to mention the trials of raising a family in a new country where you do not know the language and everyone spits at you. You say I do not know? You are a fool.”

  Jared and I stood like mannequins.

  “Someone cheats you out of a game and you crawl into a bottle and pity yourself. You have a life of comfort, and you act like it is a heavy burden. Your problem is that you are ashamed of what nature made you. Well, I am ashamed of you too, not because you are gay, but because you are afraid to be a man.”

  I was torn in two. On the one hand, I felt every iota of the pain that showed on Jared’s face, making it look as hard as a morning without breakfast. I wanted to comfort him, to protect him. On the other hand, Grandfather Lin had hit the target dead center.

  For him to be rude to us went against all Chinese etiquette. It showed how important it was for him to give Connor what he needed. Or could he be more interested in helping Jared work past his self-pity?

  Jared’s pain twisted into anger, and I wasn’t sure if he was mad at Grandfather Lin or at himself, but just in case, I stepped between them, taking Grandfather Lin by the arm, leading him to the door and helping him into his coat.

  I shut the door and spun back around to Jared. Was this it, the time that I should throw my two cents in as well? Should we get it all out and over with now, while he was already struggling with what had been thrown in his face? And what could I say that Grandfather Lin had not said, except that I couldn’t live like this another day?

  His expression seemed dull and lifeless as his mind puzzled through his emotions. A jolt of panic rifled through me, thinking that this was the moment. The support structure of our relationship had been deteriorating for years, and now it was about to collapse.

  What he said, though, was, “That old man’s a few cards shy of a full deck. Let’s go to bed.”

  Everything in me resisted. But fear of ending up alone made me take his hand and lead him back to bed. Vowing to give it one last try was so much easier than losing him.

  Once we slipped between the sheets, he pressed my head to his chest. His heart beat loud in my ear, and its vibration moved through my skull in waves. It beat a strong and even pace, but it skipped a beat and began to throb with a different rhythm.

  Chapter 12

  BYPASSING the Australian Open proved to be a sound decision. Connor struggled with inner demons that he refused to talk about, and those demons caused his performance to dip in November. Each week, his progress resembled a bouncing ball; one day, improvement, and the next, regression. It could have been any combination of issues: his falling out with Spencer, the growing tension between him and Shar, the fact that Shar and I had stopped speaking to each other, or Roy trying to take a stronger role in his training.

  The bright spot, however, was that Grandfather Lin’s midnight visit had somehow persuaded Jared to play again. He attended every afternoon practice session. I was so encouraged that I entered both him and Connor in the Long Beac
h singles tournament in November and, to everyone’s disappointment, Connor lost in the first round.

  Shar, to keep her distance from me, chose not to go along. That upset Connor, but his poor play seemed to stem from more than that. He went for too much power on every shot, and he couldn’t rein it in, like a runaway train highballing down a mountainside. He seemed intent on proving to himself that he could win on his terms—that he didn’t need my coaching, or Jared’s support, or Spencer’s love, or Shar’s intimacy. He was absorbed with showing us all he didn’t need us, but that self-absorption—being too concerned about the outcome—stifles silencing the mind and makes it nearly impossible for the chi to make the power-shift.

  It proved a painful lesson, doubly painful because Jared won all his matches by sticking to our game plan. Connor’s crushing defeat sent him free-falling into depression, and the more Jared won, the deeper he plunged. Jared fought his way into the final, winning it in a second-set tiebreak.

  During Jared’s matches, several line calls had gone against him, but rather than letting them upset his concentration, Jared played safer shots well inside the lines—item number one of our game plan.

  I sent Connor home with orders to be a couch potato for seven days, hoping that a break would smash whatever bug had crawled under his skin. But two days later, he showed up for practice with a new attitude burning in his eyes.

  In mid-December, he experienced a breakthrough, and his game elevated sharply. I had glimpsed his true potential several times, but now it began to shine through like the sun on a cloudless day. Something inside him had incinerated everything except the desire to win. In time, I came to believe that this new attitude sprang from his humiliating defeat at Long Beach coupled with having to watch Jared fight all the way to the championship. I became aware that he had set his sights on a new goal: beating Jared.