Jules
It was a breezy day in late March. Gray clouds folded over the sky, blocking the sun. The temperature was mild for this time of year in Ohio, and sweat dripped down my back as I beat the living hell out of the wall in front of me.
With the ball, of course.
I’d lost track of how many forehands I’d done. Probably two hundred. My shoulder ached, and my palm was a sweaty mess from gripping the racquet. Tossing the grip into my left hand, I wiped my right hand clean on my shorts before grabbing a loose ball off the ground. Like a robot, I began punishing my other shoulder with one-handed backhands.
“Excuse me, are you going to be using the wall much longer?”
Looking up, I saw a guy. Yuppie, mid-twenties, slim but muscular, brown hair underneath his Ivy League hat, and a worn gray T-shirt.
“I’m actually finished,” I replied, leaning over to snag a few stray balls and my racquet cover from the ground.
“I didn’t mean to make you leave.” His eyes bore down on me—chestnut brown, warm, and inviting.
Kindness radiated from him, which was something I hadn’t experienced much of recently. I didn’t know if I wanted to run from it or snatch it in my grasp and never let go.
“It’s cool. I actually have something I need to do.” I decided on the former. Running felt safer.
Plus, I do have something. Something I don’t want—at least, I don’t think I do. Who knows?
My mind was like that nursery rhyme ... five little monkeys jumping on the bed, until one fell off and hit his head, or however it went. My ideas pinged and bounced about my brain until eventually they all fell flat like worn-out tennis balls.
“You’re pretty good.” The stranger cocked his head toward the wall, telling me he saw my earlier battle with the concrete slab.
I shrugged. My response wasn’t exactly inviting, but he pushed on.
“I just moved here from Boston. Do you live nearby? We could play one day.”
It was the first conversation I’d had with the opposite sex since the incident. I should have been more exhilarated or frightened, but instead I felt nothing. Standing here talking with this guy, I felt absolutely nothing.
“I’m working for the new tech company close to the university, app development. I haven’t met too many people,” he said, his matching Ivy League long-sleeved T-shirt stretching tightly over his chest. On paper, this guy must have been a catch.
Except my head was as cloudy as the sky. His forthrightness and honesty did nothing for me. Most young women would jump into this white knight’s arms, but I’d learned to be cautious.
“Um, I’m not sure,” was about all I could come up with in the moment.
“No pressure. I go in late on Tuesdays, so I usually come over here and hit. Maybe you’ll be back next week.”
“Maybe. I might be going back to school ... college,” I offered without further explanation.
“Either way, the invitation stands.”
Mr. Ivy League opened his can of balls, slipped his Prince racquet out of its case, and began stretching. He twisted from side to side at the waist, working out the kinks in his lats, taking his racquet with him.
“See you,” I called out when I caught a glimpse of bare skin above his shorts. Sadly, I didn’t feel a tinge of desire, or anything really.
Walking back to my childhood home, I made a mental note to never hit at the park on Tuesdays. My high school coach had been begging me to come play, to hit a few balls or whatever. His offer was starting to appeal to me. Especially on Tuesdays.
As I walked back into my house, a voice called from inside, “Hurry up, Juliette. The new coach will be here soon, and this isn’t something we can pass up.”
“Okay, Mom. I hear you.”
“I don’t think you do,” she said as she walked down the steps, a cup of tea in her hand and a smile fixed on her face. Genevieve Smith cared about two things: my dead father, and getting me educated and out.
She’d isolated me from my peers most of my life with constant tennis lessons and tutors to ensure I did well in school, all in the hope of getting a scholarship. Then I’d squandered my first one. It was time to forget all that monkey business and move on. That’s what she’d said when she took away my phone and the small life I’d created before it all went to hell. This time around, she meant business.
“I hear you, Mom. Now I need to shower and hurry back down, so if you wouldn’t mind ...”
