In just a few days, they will head to Portugal and then Spain for the last two clay challengers of the season for which Luca has serendipitously secured spots for Fabio. Julian arrives at Fabio’s family home for the dinner that he promised. He didn’t quite know what to bring, so he’s carrying a bottle of wine. He doesn’t know the town very well, but he recognises a rougher neighbourhood when he sees one. Still, the house is tucked away on a quiet street, and looks very neat on the outside, with a lush row of potted herbs, basil, rosemary, parsley with curled leaves. An assortment of Adidas and Nike t-shirts are fluttering on a clothesline. He knocks on the door. Fabio’s father, Salvatore opens the door with a gesture that could be described as dramatic and ushers him in.

He steps into the room that seems to be the hall, the living room, dining room, everything. The Virgin Mary looks back at him from the wall across, from above the washing machine. Every single centimetre of the room seems to be utilised, schoolbooks, football cleats, tubs of tennis balls among porcelain decorations and doilies of actual lace. There’s a commotion in the kitchen, raised voices and a clatter of pots. Fabio pokes his body through the kitchen door, wearing a faded black t-shirt, joggers and socks. A small troupe of siblings files out after him, a teenage girl and two smallish boys. Fabio’s mother is the last in the line, wiping her hands on her apron.

“You’re early,” Fabio says, grinning, and reaches for the wine. He introduces his family in the form of a list while he sets the table — his mother Lucia, his sister Gabriella, and the two boys are Matteo and Nico, 12 and 9. Julian helps Lucia carry the food out of the kitchen and hopes that his Italian will not let him down.

They try to enunciate carefully for him, avoiding mixing in Sicilian words, but they are enthusiastic, they slip up. Salvatore tells him stories from Fabio’s childhood — how he washed cars, at the age of seven, to raise money for his first racquet and a pair of shoes that he would outgrow in three months anyway; how he used to skip school to play and Salvatore pretended he didn’t know; how once Salvatore had to collect him from the police station because he snuck into a fancy tourist resort to try out their tennis court.

“You’re exaggerating,” Fabio says with a frown, picking at his pasta alla Norma. As if cued in, Lucia and Gabriella join in with a running list of stupid things teenage Fabio has done. Matteo talks about the football team he’s in, while Nico asks technical questions like,

“Can you hit as big as Fabio?”

“Not anymore, no,” Julian laughs. He’s full by now and warm from the wine, picking at the cannoli on his plate.

“Are you going to eat that?” Matteo asks wistfully.

“Matteo, behave!” Fabio scolds, but Julian pushes the plate to the boy anyway.

After dinner, the boys play cards with Salvatore while Fabio shows Julian his room. The walls are painted sage green and there’s a bunk bed in one corner, Fabio’s narrow single bed pushed against the wall in the other under a massive poster of Thiago Navarro and a slightly smaller one of AS Roma. A half-packed suitcase and a duffel bag are lying at the foot of the bed.

Fabio looks down under his long lashes.

“It’s so surreal that you’re here in my house,” he says quietly. “I wasn’t sure if I wanted you to see it. Not ashamed but… you know. It’s difficult.”

“Oh, Fabio.” Julian suddenly feels clumsy and inadequate. He thinks something along the lines of there’s nothing embarrassing about having a loving family and working hard, but he has a hard time wording it right, and doesn’t quite know how to comfort with physical touch. He tentatively claps Fabio on the back anyway. “Your family is lovely. And I understand better now what it all means to you.”

“You do?” Fabio’s face lights up. “I would do anything to help them. So my dad doesn’t have to work that much and my brothers have better chances. Better than I did anyway.”

Julian can’t find the right words to say, but he doesn’t have to. Fabio suddenly smiles at him with his whole face and presses a socked foot to the top of Julian’s toes.

“Now get out of my room,” he teases. “We need to get back to work.”

After a cup of espresso, Salvatore walks Julian out.

“Grazie, Julian,” he says, and Julian feels hollow, like he hasn’t earned it yet.