“Okay,” she says. “You know, Ally, I’m kind of excited for you. Your neurosurgeon’s really hot.”
“He’s also in a relationship,” I point out. And even if he wasn’t, Drew Malone isn’t the type to date an admin assistant.
EIGHT
DREW
On Saturday morning, I arrive at the tennis court fifteen minutes early. So I have plenty of time to reflect on all the reasons why this is a bad idea.
The first, and probably the least important reason, is that I have a lot of other stuff to do today. There’s the grant proposal to finish, and a couple of papers I’ve been asked to peer review. On top of that, I still have charting to finish from yesterday’s clinic. I hardly ever leave charts unfinished, but my midday chat with Alexandra had me running behind.
The second reason is that Alexandra hasn’t played tennis in four years. When a former professional tennis player doesn’t even own a racket, there’s a message there. A nice guy wouldn’t have pushed her to play, but I guess I’m not that nice. I’ve found fiveYouTubeclips of her playing tennis, and I’ve watched them more times than I care to admit.
And the last reason this is a bad idea is the most obvious: Alexandra is my admin assistant. Even though we’re just going to play tennis in a public park, it still feels like we’re doing something inappropriate. My brain has definitely been wandering to inappropriate places, like how her legs will look in a tennis skirt.
But none of these reasons seem to matter when she rides up on her bicycle and smiles at me. Her cheeks are flushed from the wind, and she’s not wearing her glasses—she must have put in contacts. It probably means she’s serious about the tennis, but I kind of miss the glasses.
“Hey, Dr. Malone.” She leans her bike against the fence and takes off her helmet.
“You should probably call me Drew,” I say casually. “At least while we’re on the court.”
“Sure. I’ll try to remember.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask if I can call her Ally, but I bite it back. I need to keep a professional distance.
We walk through the gate onto the court, and I try not to stare at her legs. She’s wearing pink spandex shorts, and the color draws the eye.
Who am I kidding? Alexandra’s legs draw the eye.
I pull two tennis rackets out of my duffel bag. “You can use whichever one you want,” I offer, holding them out to her.
She examines them one at a time. “This one’s brand-new,” she remarks.
“Yep.” I won’t try to deny it; I bought the second racket after work yesterday.
“I’ll take the new one,” she says, handing the other one back to me. “When I beat you, I don’t want you to claim it’s because you were playing with an unfamiliar racket.”
“Sure,” I say with a chuckle. I pull two new cans of tennis balls out of my bag and hand one to Alexandra. She pops the lid off and holds the fresh tennis balls under her nose.
“I missed the smell,” she confesses. “I don’t know what it is, but there’s nothing like it.”
So why hasn’t she played tennis in four years?
As I’m thinking about that, Alexandra takes off her sweatshirt, revealing a faded navy T-shirt with ‘Fashionista’written across the chest. “Okay, let’s get this done,” she says, tossing her sweatshirt on the ground against the fence.
“Sure. Do you want to rally for a bit to warm up?”
She furrows her brow. “Nah, let’s just play. You said just one set, right?”
“Yeah, one set. You can serve.”
“I don’t need any favors, Dr. Malone,” she says with a frown.
“I’d toss a coin, but I don’t have one,” I tell her. “So since I challenged you to this match, it seems fair that you start.”
“Okay.” She collects the tennis balls on her racket and starts toward her end of the court. But after a few steps, she stops and turns to face me.
“I need to you promise me something,” she says.
