Caroline bounced on her toes when she spotted him. She caught her ball on the flat of her racket, flicked it to the edge, then lofted it over the net at him. He lunged for it and managed to catch the ball in his right hand. She’d left a hot pink racket at the center mark. It looked new; he supposed she’d given him the best one, as promised.
She pulled a knee to her chest, giving him an eyeful of the expanse of her thighs.
He stood there watching her stretch for another minute before he realized that he ought to do the same rather than stare at her like a cartoon dog who had spotted a roast chicken on the dinner table. He hastily turned away and bent in some desultory lunges, imagining that there was no amount of stretching that would prepare him for the shellacking that seemed likely to ensue.
He was trying to recall whether it was required to drop the ball before serving it when he felt her palm on his thigh, gently pushing it into a ninety-degree angle. He nearly toppled over. He hadn’t realized that she’d crossed the court to him.
“Your legs look pretty tight,” she said. “What have you been doing in the gym?”
“Just running,” he said, his voice higher and louder than he appreciated.
Her expression was concerned.
“If you lie down, I’ll help you stretch out your glutes,” she said.
Caroline pressing him down while he worked out the kinks in his ass was a thing that did not need to happen, for his own mental well-being, if not hers. He scrambled to his feet.
“I walked over here from my apartment,” he said. “I imagine that’s a sufficient warm-up.” He put several paces between them.
“Do you want to get right to it?” she asked. “Or practice a bit first?” Caroline nodded at her bag. “I brought a lot of balls if you just want to practice.”
“I don’t think a few minutes of practice is going to make up for the last fifteen years,” Adrian told her wryly, bending to scoop up the racket. He adjusted his hand on the grip. He was the same height as her, but he had larger hands than she did. He wondered whether that made a difference with the rackets; hers felt alien in his hand.
Caroline had left her duffel bag of tennis balls in the middle of the court. She scooped another two out, stuffing one somewhere under her skirt. The second, she lobbed across the net at him. Adrian managed to volley it back with only a minimum of scurrying to reach his position. Caroline caught the ball and bobbled it on her racket again. Adrian felt a moment of optimism. Perhaps it would not be so bad. She approached the baseline on her end of the court and he assumed the same position on his.
“Do you need to move your bag?” he asked.
“No, I don’t think so,” she said thoughtfully.
Adrian shrugged. She knew whether she was likely to trip over it.
“Let’s just play a little baby tennis,” she said, giving him an underhand lob.
He hit it squarely into the net.
“It’ll come back to you,” she encouraged him when he sent her a disappointed glance.
Adrian got the ball over the net with an underhand serve and then managed to send it back when she returned it in a high parabolic curve. They passed the ball back and forth for a few minutes. His confidence grew every time he returned the ball. She’d beat him, but he’d probably win a couple points, he decided. He didn’t play tennis or racquetball, but he ran several times a week. He was tall, so he had a good reach. He swung his shoulders to loosen them, smiling back at Caroline as he relaxed into the unaccustomed activity.
“If you’re still interested in a match, let’s see your serve,” he told her.
“Okay!” Caroline called, voice bright and eager. “Ready?”
Adrian bent over as he vaguely recalled tennis players did during matches, holding the racket in both hands.
“Ready,” he said.
Caroline tossed the ball into the air, going to her full height as she bounced on her toes and slammed the ball in his direction at the approximate speed of a cruising 747. It hit in the left corner of the service box and then careened off the chain-link fence behind him with such force that the entire structure rang like a bell. Adrian had not even had the opportunity to move in the appropriate direction, let alone intercept it.
Adrian let his racket droop. He gave Caroline a look.
“What?” she asked. “Were you not ready?”
He edged closer to the left side of the court. “No, I was as ready as I get,” he said.
“Okay,” Caroline said. “Fifteen–love.”
The next half hour was rough on his pride. His serves went mostly into the net. Caroline’s next serve of the following set hit the right pocket with enough spin on it that it arched out of his reach before he got close. Then the next one startled him by going into his racket. He got the sense that she was not so much trying to keep him on his toes as she was assessing what he could do, but that did not mean he managed to return the ball any more often than she seemed to want him to. She alternated sides with every return, and he was soon panting from the effort of running back and forth across the court. He almost wished she’d just hit the corner with her serves and save him the effort of running before losing every point.
