“Drew,” the sexy-as-hell witch whispered.
“Not now, not here.” My tone was rougher than I wanted, but I was good and pissed. “Maybe not ever,” I added, and for the briefest of moments, I believed it.
Without another word, she withdrew, stepping into the background, and I took my place on the opposite side of the net with my basket of balls.
“Did you all meet Darla?” My voice carried over to the line of children waiting for instruction.
A wave ofyepsdrifted across the net.
“Okay, we’re going to each hit two forehands going across the baseline. Did Susie show you the right way to grip the racquet? Why don’t you all show me?” I pointed to the two places I would hit the balls, and then looked over the net at their little hands gripping the racquets.
“One sec.”
I crossed over to them and fixed Polly and Stephen’s grips, adjusting their palms and fingers. And poor Samantha was so little, she could barely hold the weight of the racquet. I moved her hands up the grip and gave her a pat on her head.
Then there was Darla, her hands in perfect position over her bubblegum-pink grip. It was an expensive racquet, and I wondered how many tables her mom had to wait on to afford it.
“Looks good, Darla.”
“My mom showed me. She was teaching me before we came here. Every day, all summer.”
“Looks like she did a good job.” I turned my back before she could see the pathetic display of emotion across my face.
I had a kid. A daughter who played tennis and wore her strawberry-blond hair down.Unlike her mom. A daughter I knew nothing more about.
Was she in school? Did she like dolls? What was her middle name?
What’s her last name?
“Let’s go, Coach Drew.”
When Patrick jogged me out of my thoughts, I started serving up balls, and the kids made their way down the line. A miss, ball into the net, another miss, one over the net, miss, net, shot made. Then two perfect shots by Darla, just like her mom used to do.
The hour pretty much went the same. More forehands and a few backhands, the other kids making some and missing most, but Darla made every shot.
At the end of the session, I found some stickers tucked in the basket. I promised the kids that once they’d finished delivering a racquet face full of the scattered balls back into the bin, I’d give them each a sticker.
Darla was the third to finish picking up balls. Her hair was wind-blown all around her face, and her cheeks were golden instead of red like the others.
“Thanks,” she said as I handed her a sticker.
“You’re going to be some player,” I said quietly, not wanting to upset the others.
“My mom said one day I’d go to college and play tennis and then be a doctor, but I want to be a real tennis player on TV. We watch them sometimes.”
The other kids filed past for their stickers. Each one thanked me and ran off to their parents sitting by the gazebo.
Except for Darla. She was still chattering about the tennis players on TV.
“Come on, Dar. Let Coach Drew go,” her mom called from the side of the court.
“Okay. ’Bye, Coach Drew,” she called as she ran to Jules.
I memorized her purple shorts and pink T-shirt, the shape of her small legs as she ran, and the way she beamed at her mom. Jules kissed her on the top of her head, and they made their way to the park exit.
“Wait!” I called out as I ran up the hill after them, my knee not happy with me after the punishment it took on the treadmill this morning.
When I caught up, I focused on the child. “Darla, on the other Sundays of the month, I teach at Rocky Brook’s tennis club. You could come to my class. What grade are you in?”
