for a while. I hit gentle shots straight to her, while she tries to get anything at all back to me. I shouldn’t be, but I’m appreciating the sounds and feelings of tennis again: the grip of my feet on the court, the thwack of the racket strings against the ball. My mind stops churning, and my senses take over. It’s sweet relief, like when a good, strong pain pill kicks in.
Emily’s hitting balls out of bounds, into the net, and even backwards, gritting her teeth and saying, “I’ll get it! You’ll see!” And after a while, she does get it, hitting three shots in a row back to me.
“Good work!” I tell her.
A guy I know, Alex, who’s a really good player, stops to talk to me. Emily, out of breath, invites us to play together.
“Sure,” I say, acting cool and casual.
I stand at the service line, bouncing a ball up and down. Emily is watching me. A few brown tree leaves tumble across the court.
As I look across the net at Alex, sudden rage floods me, and all the good feelings vanish. I hate the guy just because he’s not Michael. I bounce the ball again, tensing as I get ready to serve.
My first serve blisters its way over the net, practically spinning Alex around.
Point, Ryan.
I do it again, and then again, serving three aces in a row. When Alex finally does get a volley going with me, I push him back behind the base line, then tap over a little drop shot that he misses by a mile. I run him all over the court with my deadly topspin shots and end the match by ripping him a forehand that leaves a cloud of yellow fuzz in the air beside me and skitters the ball into a far corner of the court. He tries for it, but he’s not even close.
“Jeez, Ryan,” Alex says and leaves, scratching his head.
We kicked his ass, didn’t we, Michael? Serves the guy right for trying to take your place.
“I can’t believe how good you are,” Emily tells me when I finish and walk over to her.
“Believe it, baby,” I say, putting on a swagger and toweling off my face and neck.
Yes.
I have blown her away with my excellence.
As I walk around picking up tennis balls, Chrissie comes by in a short little tennis skirt. I haven’t seen her since the funeral, but now she comes up to me.
“Wow, Ryan. You looked great just now!” Chrissie’s accent is straight off a Mississipi mud flat. She has always reminded me of a Fourth of July sparkler, sending off light in all directions. She has blonde, curly hair and a blonde, curly personality.
From the side of the court, Emily is watching us. She has probably noticed that Chrissie merits a high score on the Hotness Scale.
Although Emily is the most beautiful girl ever, I still have to take an extra look at gorgeous Chrissie, who is pursing up her rosebud mouth in a way that makes me shift uncomfortably and think, Dang, Michael got a piece of that!
Neither Chrissie nor I mention Michael; it’s like we’ve both decided that subject’s off limits today. She starts to tell me a story about one of the club pros. Chrissie flirts as easily as other people breathe, tossing her hair, laughing, giving off sideways glances and little arm touches. She does this to every guy at the club, including our ninety year old half-blind garage cashier, Raoul.
Emily walks over to stand next to me. “Hi,” she says to Chrissie in a friendly tone. She’s low key about it, but I notice she’s really close to me, her arm almost touching mine.
I introduce them, and Emily asks Chrissie where the nearest Ladies’ Room is.
“Honey, you read my mind! I’ll take you there.”
As I wait for the girls to come back, a couple of the club pros walk by.
“Great match, Ryan. You should go back into training!”
“Thanks. Maybe I will.” But I’m not serious about it.
The girls return, and Emily and I go out to my car.
“So she said she’ll be quitting the club pretty soon,” Emily says as she slides into the passenger seat.
“Who?”
“That girl we just saw. The blonde.” Emily’s
Emily’s hitting balls out of bounds, into the net, and even backwards, gritting her teeth and saying, “I’ll get it! You’ll see!” And after a while, she does get it, hitting three shots in a row back to me.
“Good work!” I tell her.
A guy I know, Alex, who’s a really good player, stops to talk to me. Emily, out of breath, invites us to play together.
“Sure,” I say, acting cool and casual.
I stand at the service line, bouncing a ball up and down. Emily is watching me. A few brown tree leaves tumble across the court.
As I look across the net at Alex, sudden rage floods me, and all the good feelings vanish. I hate the guy just because he’s not Michael. I bounce the ball again, tensing as I get ready to serve.
My first serve blisters its way over the net, practically spinning Alex around.
Point, Ryan.
I do it again, and then again, serving three aces in a row. When Alex finally does get a volley going with me, I push him back behind the base line, then tap over a little drop shot that he misses by a mile. I run him all over the court with my deadly topspin shots and end the match by ripping him a forehand that leaves a cloud of yellow fuzz in the air beside me and skitters the ball into a far corner of the court. He tries for it, but he’s not even close.
“Jeez, Ryan,” Alex says and leaves, scratching his head.
We kicked his ass, didn’t we, Michael? Serves the guy right for trying to take your place.
“I can’t believe how good you are,” Emily tells me when I finish and walk over to her.
“Believe it, baby,” I say, putting on a swagger and toweling off my face and neck.
Yes.
I have blown her away with my excellence.
As I walk around picking up tennis balls, Chrissie comes by in a short little tennis skirt. I haven’t seen her since the funeral, but now she comes up to me.
“Wow, Ryan. You looked great just now!” Chrissie’s accent is straight off a Mississipi mud flat. She has always reminded me of a Fourth of July sparkler, sending off light in all directions. She has blonde, curly hair and a blonde, curly personality.
From the side of the court, Emily is watching us. She has probably noticed that Chrissie merits a high score on the Hotness Scale.
Although Emily is the most beautiful girl ever, I still have to take an extra look at gorgeous Chrissie, who is pursing up her rosebud mouth in a way that makes me shift uncomfortably and think, Dang, Michael got a piece of that!
Neither Chrissie nor I mention Michael; it’s like we’ve both decided that subject’s off limits today. She starts to tell me a story about one of the club pros. Chrissie flirts as easily as other people breathe, tossing her hair, laughing, giving off sideways glances and little arm touches. She does this to every guy at the club, including our ninety year old half-blind garage cashier, Raoul.
Emily walks over to stand next to me. “Hi,” she says to Chrissie in a friendly tone. She’s low key about it, but I notice she’s really close to me, her arm almost touching mine.
I introduce them, and Emily asks Chrissie where the nearest Ladies’ Room is.
“Honey, you read my mind! I’ll take you there.”
As I wait for the girls to come back, a couple of the club pros walk by.
“Great match, Ryan. You should go back into training!”
“Thanks. Maybe I will.” But I’m not serious about it.
The girls return, and Emily and I go out to my car.
“So she said she’ll be quitting the club pretty soon,” Emily says as she slides into the passenger seat.
“Who?”
“That girl we just saw. The blonde.” Emily’s
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