Match Maker

by Alan Chin

  The room went silent except for the sound of my chair as the momentum carried me to the bay windows. Behind me, Carrie and Shar gathered their things.

  Billowing clouds of low fog drifted over the bay like a fluffy comforter being pulled over a mattress. A sharp, crescent moon edged above the Bay Bridge, and to its right, Mars shone brighter than the cluster of stars surrounding it. It was the kind of night that made me long to run barefoot on wet grass on the Marina Green and lose myself in the fog.

  I cranked the handle until the window stood wide open. Cool air reached in and took hold of me, and with it came the scent of mist and saltwater and a hint of spice from the roses in the garden. I leaned over the windowsill and peeked at the patio two floors below.

  Thoughts gnawed at my insides like a live rat swallowed whole. Could I help rather than hinder? I struggled with the question long after Shar and Carrie said their goodbyes and the front door closed.

  The pressure in my head built until something burst. I whirled my chair away from the window and pushed off, bumping into the back of the television. I snatched the wires from its back-plate and heaved the damn thing onto my lap. Its weight was substantial, but my legs couldn’t feel it. I turned and pushed off toward the open window, building up speed. As I struck the windowsill, I heaved the TV with all my strength.

  A moment of sweet silence hung in the air, then an ear-splitting crash rose from the garden. I didn’t bother to look down. I glided back to my computer and continued my email. Jared, I wrote, I am just beginning to realize what I’m capable of.

  Chapter 22

  I SPED past a stream of anesthetized-looking travelers that stretched the entire length of the terminal corridor. They all glanced at me, seemingly embarrassed and fearful as they scurried out of my way. Did I scare them in the same way that drunks and beggars do? Did they cringe at the idea that, but for the grace of their god, the same thing could happen to them? I wanted to know what was going through their minds. They all had that same weary and frustrated look of people on the move. Some had come to the end of their journey. For others, this was merely a pit stop before moving on. We swam against the flow, salmon fighting their way up stream. Carrie pushed my chair as fast as people could jump out of our way. Shar lugged a backpack and a carry-on case in our wake.

  I read in the newspaper on the plane ride across the Atlantic that Jared had rallied his concentration in the second set and won the Barcelona championship. He surpassed that achievement an hour later by winning the doubles final with Connor. That was a colossal relief. It proved that Jared was mentally steadfast and didn’t need my emotional support. Now I could focus on getting him those three wildcard entries that Karl Diefenbach had reneged on. I had no idea how to achieve it, but I had no choice. This journey had an inexplicable importance, and I vowed to risk everything.

  Cold fear crept into my gut, like those gigantic swirling butterflies before a championship match. My fear came from the uncertainty of the people around me. Even though I was in a post-9/11 airport, my experience in Miami made me feel as if any one of them could have slipped a gun by security—a man in a tan trench coat, a blonde lady lugging a backpack, three soldiers in their dress uniforms. What if they recognized me? Away from my apartment and adrift in a world of religion-bred hatred, you never knew. My only confidence came from knowing I would not make this journey alone. In this grand game of life, I partnered with Jared, and doubles was the game I played best.

  I scanned the terminal, not missing a detail as this new pursuit unfolded. The Munich airport resembled a shopping mall: bright, austere, designed to move foot traffic and lure shoppers into stores. It resembled every airport terminal I had ever seen: sparkling duty free shops, fast food restaurants, bars serving tankards of beer at nine a.m. to men in business suits who sat next to neo-hippy backpackers. We passed luxurious fashion shops—Gucci, Chanel, Hermes, Versace, Giorgio Armani—where narcissistic patrons primped like Hollywood starlets on Oscar night. Only the information signs posted in German gave any indication of which country we were in.

  We reached gate twenty-eight as flight 402 rolled up to the ramp. Carrie positioned me across the waiting room, facing the exit ramp. She stood behind my chair with her tense fingers digging into my shoulder blades. Shar hid behind her, ready to jump out and surprise Connor.

  I gazed across the terminal, feeling a thumping in my chest. A man wearing a blue security uniform sauntered by, two Muslims under headscarves, five Japanese tourists dressed in loud Hawaiian shirts—in a world of religion-bred hatred, you never knew. A shiver raced across my shoulders as a dozen people sprinted out the exit ramp and cut across the waiting area.

  Jared emerged, sporting his habitual lightweight blue suit and soft hair brushed across his tan forehead. He looked weary and thankful to be off the plane. Directly behind him marched Spencer, fresh as spring rain. Jealousy leaped through me as I, once again, wondered if they had behaved themselves. I dismissed the thought. I simply didn’t care. I was back with my man, and only that mattered.

  They followed the crowd toward the baggage claim area. As Jared shuffled across the carpet, I couldn’t peel my eyes from him. I loved his inner strength, his calm dignity. Our eyes met. He stopped dead. A heartbeat later, he dropped his carry-on bag and began to run. The force of his taking me in his arms knocked my chair backwards and it tumbled over. He held me aloft, my feet dragging on the bluish-green carpet. I felt his heart thumping and heard a muffled sigh.

  “Bastard,” he whispered, burying his face in the curve of my neck. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  I felt an extra two or three pounds around his waist since I’d seen him last. He and Spencer had not eaten properly, and they had probably hit a few beer halls. That stops now, I thought. I would make him eat right, work him hard during practice, and have him in fighting trim before the Italia tournament. Assuming I could get him into the Italia.

  Spencer jogged up and dropped their bags. His broad smile made me laugh at myself for being jealous. He leaned close and gave me a tender, loving kiss. It amazes me how much emotion can be conveyed by simply touching lips.

  Someone screamed from across the room, and I froze. It was Connor’s voice as he came out the exit ramp and saw Shar. She literally leaped into his arms. Roy, J.D., and Harman gathered around them, visibly dumbfounded.

  I nibbled on Jared’s ear before whispering, “With you two calling every night, I thought it would be cheaper to fly here and save on the phone bill. Are you surprised?”

  “I ought to slap you silly.” He gazed at Carrie and smiled. “Thank you. You have no idea what this means.”

  Carrie shook her head. “Don’t thank me. Wild horses couldn’t hold him back.”

  Spencer hauled my chair back upright, and Jared set me in it. He knelt beside me and kissed me again, ruffling my hair with his rough paw.

  “Come on,” I said. “Let’s pick up your luggage and grab a cab. I want a sausage and sauerkraut dinner before we hit the hay.”

  “Amen,” Jared said.

  Wheeling along the corridor, I happened to see Karl Diefenbach gliding toward the first-class lounge. He wore an impeccably tailored gray suit with a burgundy handkerchief peeking out of his breast pocket. His neatly groomed head swiveled away from me, studying something down the corridor. I followed his gaze to see the bouncing hips on a trio of young stewardesses.

  My euphoria fled. Anger rose from my solar plexus, driving right up through my brain. I grabbed my chair’s wheels and lunged forward. I breezed up to the door of the first class lounge just in front of Diefenbach. I spun around to face him. Jared and the others ran to catch up. Diefenbach glanced left and right, as if determining the most convenient escape route.

  “You gave us your word.” I almost succeeded in keeping the emotion out of my voice, even though my heart pounded.

  “I can’t tell you how happy I am to see you—” He suddenly blushed. “My apologies,” he continued. “I was about to say: on your feet again.
But you’re obviously not.”

  That velvet voice could charm the skin off a snake—or anyone who prefers tone to substance—but it didn’t charm me. I don’t know how, I thought, but from here on, I will change his life as well as my own. Both he and I will think of our lives in terms of before this moment and after it. I wanted desperately to start by smacking that patronizing smile off his face. “Obviously.”

  “It’s terribly good to see you out and about. We must do lunch.” Diefenbach became lavish, his standard response anytime he felt uncomfortable.

  “Just because I’m in this chair does not make me less formidable. A wounded animal is the most dangerous.” My voice became even and flowing, betraying none of my excitement.

  “The ATP and I did everything we could to protect you. You have only yourselves to blame.”

  “I don’t believe that, and neither does my lawyer. The ATP could and should have done much more,” I persisted. “Speaking of my lawyer, I’d like to introduce Carrie Bennett.”

  Carrie hid her surprise like a Broadway actress who had just been thrown an impromptu line. She stepped forward and held out her hand, saying how she had looked forward to meeting him.

  I stared into his cold gray eyes and he into mine. I saw them flicker when he realized that I was on a mission to battle him personally. He broke our gaze by glancing at Carrie’s outstretched hand. He removed his wallet from his inner coat pocket, extracted a card and, instead of shaking her hand, slipped the card into her fingers.

  “That is the law firm you’ll want to contact regarding the shooting.” He turned back to me. “I told you that it was dangerous to push me. You have no idea what you’re up against.”

  “Whatever it is, I promise to make myself a unique problem for you and the ATP.”

  “I’ve just flown in from Japan, where I heard a curious expression the Japanese use for people who don’t conform: ‘the nail that sticks up needs to be hammered down’.”

  “You’re going to need a bigger fucking hammer.”

  “Daniel, I don’t want a battle. That helps nobody. Let’s meet for lunch and talk about the summer hard court schedule.”

  “The only way to avoid a battle is to give Jared those wildcards.”

  He scowled as his fists rested on his hips. “I’m afraid that’s out of my hands.”

  “Well I’m certainly relieved to hear that,” Carrie said. “My practice really needs a drawn-out, expensive case like this. The publicity alone is priceless. A huge, mega-rich organization like the ATP openly discriminating against gays and the disabled? Wow! And the longer it drags on, the more publicity there is. I figure we’re talking a hundred-million-dollar settlement, easy.”

  A distrustful frown crossed Diefenbach’s carved lips, but his eyes made no comment. A pause stretched into an awkward silence before his voice rose a dozen decibels. “If you think you can draw the ATP into some convoluted legal farce, you’d better think again. I’ve discussed these matters with our legal team, and they assure me we are on firm ground.”

  “Oh my goodness,” Carrie said with a sadistic little laugh. “We’re not simply going to sue the ATP for negligence and discrimination. There are the tournament sponsors, the tournament organizers, the security firm hired by the tournament, the gun manufacturer that made the weapon, and that’s just for starters. We’re even thinking about suing the French for inventing the game of tennis in the first place.” Carrie’s lips spread into her most confident smile. “Win, lose, or draw, by the time I’m through with you, Mr. Diefenbach, no company on this planet will risk sponsoring one of your tournaments.”

  Chapter 23

  JARED lifted me onto the bed and fumbled with the buttons on my shirt. I ran my fingers through his hair, becoming excited. I needed him badly, and he obviously felt the same. I pressed my hands to the sides of his head and kissed him. Pulling away, I said, “Much as I want you, I’ve been traveling for fifteen hours. Let me unpack a few things and take a quick bath. After that, I’m all yours.”

  “Don’t unpack. You fly home tomorrow,” he said, unable to look me in the eye.

  “I came to help. I can get you into Rome somehow.”

  “It’s too dangerous, and besides, you should be at home recuperating. It’s too soon for you to be active.”

  “You want to lock me away where it’s safe while you flirt with danger?”

  “It seems that way.”

  “Danger’s over here, and I’m over there.”

  “Let’s not do this now. We can argue in the morning,” Jared suggested, using his most placatory voice. He stroked my cheek with the back of his fingers.

  “Can we?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you’ll be objective?”

  “Of course.”

  “Okay, but after we’ve made love and before we drift off to sleep, I want you to think about something.”

  “Anything.”

  “Think about the fact that if you send me home, it’s the worst thing you could do to me. I’m dead in that apartment, living moment by moment in an existence I hate. My life, the life I was meant to live, the only life that means a damn, has been stolen from me. I’m not willing to settle for crumbs. If it comes down to a choice between sitting in that apartment like a vegetable or being shot down like a dog, I’ll stay and take my chances.”

  Jared turned his head to look out the window.

  I took a deep, audible breath, and continued. “Remember how you were before you started to play again, how you died a little each day, how the pain grew unbearable? Well, that’s precisely what I’m going through. If you still want to sentence me to that, I’ll go.”

  His eyes gradually closed, and his brow creased with three deep lines. His urge to make love had vanished. I wasn’t sure why—whether caused by anger or painful memories or fear—but something inside him simply shut off.

  I unpacked everything in my bag before relaxing in a hot bath. By the time Jared hauled me from the tub, Shar was there for our afternoon therapy session, after which room service delivered our dinner. We ate silently, brushed our teeth, and went straight to bed. He held me to his chest as if he were protecting me from something frightening, and, without a word, his breathing deepened. In sleep, he shifted so that his face rested a few inches from mine. Across the short expanse of white linen pillowcases, I felt his breath on my face, imperceptible except for the warmth he gave off.

  Morning’s pale light was breaking through the curtains when Shar knocked on our door for our A.M. therapy session. Jared stumbled to the bathroom while she administered my comfort shot. As she rubbed me down, I told her I wasn’t sure if I would be on the next plane home or what, explaining how I’d left the ball in his court.

  “I’ll fly back with you, no problem,” she said. “But what a shame after all this.”

  “Connor needs you more,” I said. “You stay.”

  She kissed me, crossed her fingers, and began my stretches.

  After she had gone, I bathed and dressed. Jared and I had breakfast with Spencer and Carrie in the hotel dining room. I took charge of ordering a low-fat, high-carb meal for Jared, and he didn’t protest. Neither was there any mention of my flying home.

  After breakfast, we put Carrie into a taxi for the airport. She flew on to Rome for a two-week vacation on her own while we drove to the tennis facility. Jared submitted his urine samples for drug testing. I verified that the urine bottle went from him directly into the hands of the independent testing agency, just to be sure.

  On our way to the practice courts, I scrutinized the crowd—two tennis players carrying bags on their backs, an ATP official wearing pink-shaded sunglasses, three women wearing polo shirts and jeans—in a world of religion-bred hatred, you never knew.

  I noticed something else, something about Jared. He had always been quiet, only speaking when he had something useful to say, but he had become quieter. He seemed to absorb sound rather than emit it. I realized that his silence came from an intensely focus
ed stillness at his core, like a tiger poised to strike.

  At the practice court, no more than two minutes after we set our bags down, the press arrived en masse, literally running down the concrete walkway between the courts, pressing from all sides, snapping pictures and shouting questions.

  In a forceful, no-nonsense voice, Jared told them to leave us the fuck alone. We were here for a workout and only a workout. He said I was not giving interviews, nor would I answer questions. He explained that if they didn’t leave, he would have security remove them.

  The crowd hushed, then began to disperse. I knew this would be a situation we would face often, perhaps every day, but there was no way around it.

  Jared shot me a look that could freeze mercury.

  After they left, we began our standard workout, starting with tai chi. I couldn’t perform all the intricate leg moves, but as I directed Jared and Spencer through the meditation, I performed the upper body moves, which helped ease the pain in my chest.

  I saw Connor and Shar watching from a distance. He wore his light-blue warm-ups and had his tennis bag slung over his shoulder. She wore a yellowish middle-eastern outfit complete with a black shawl wrapped around her head. I didn’t pay them much notice, but I did see a pained expression cut across Connor’s face.

  Next came the physical conditioning exercises. I was determined to work those extra pounds off Jared’s waist. But before we began, Connor strolled up to shake my hand, and Shar bent to give me a tender hug.

  Her smoky voice became a croon. “Looks like you’re back in the saddle.”

  “Yippee-kai-yay. That’s me, bustin’ broncs and takin’ names.”

  “Can you wrangle another hot-blooded colt into your stable?”

  “What will Roy say?”

  “I’m the star,” Connor snapped. “What I say goes.”