“Sure.” I expect her to ask me to promise I’ll come to the stupid strategic communication meeting if she wins, and obviously I will. Hell, I’ll go to the meeting regardless of who wins the tennis match. Alexandra’s certainly gone above and beyond to get me there.
Not that I expect there to be much of a contest here. I played some tennis in university and I still play recreationally when I have time, but that isn’t often. I doubt I’m anywhere close to her level, and she’ll probably wipe the court with me.
But Alexandra’s question surprises me. “I want you to promise that no matter what happens, you won’t let me win.”
“I don’t let anyone win, Parker,” I reply. “I fully intend to kick your ass.”
It was clearly the right answer, because she smiles before she walks to the service line.
Her first serve hits the net with an anticlimactic thump, and her second serve is wide by at least a foot. A double fault, and the first point goes to me.
Alexandra mutters to herself as she picks up two balls for her next serve. She tucks one under the hem of her shorts, and the spandex holds it in place against her thigh.
Damn. Those pink shorts are even more of a distraction than a tennis skirt would be.
She hits her next serve too late, and it slams into the net for another fault.
Alexandra’s frustration is clear in the set of her shoulders. Clearly, this was a bad idea. She hasn’t played tennis in four years, but being an asshole, I goaded her into playing.
She retrieves her second ball from under her shorts, and I nod to let her know I’m ready to receive.
And this time, she finds her form. After a perfect toss, she bends her knees, springs up, and smashes her racket down. The ball bounces in the service court and whistles by me.
Alexandra gives a little fist pump. “Fifteen all,” she says, with a smile of satisfaction.
She wins the next three points to take the game, and her play improves considerably as the set goes on. Even if she hasn’t played tennis in years, she’s clearly been doing something to stay in shape. She’s all over the court, chasing down balls that should have been out of reach.
Alexandra wins the set 6-2, and when we finish, she looks as fresh as she did when we started.
“You play well, Dr. Malone,” she tells me as we walk off the court.
“So do you.”
She shakes her head. “I’m really rusty, obviously.”
“Probably a good thing for me,” I tell her. “Spared me the humiliation of losing 6-0.”
“Yeah. Been there, and it’s not fun. Thanks for this,” she says, handing me back the tennis racket.
“Sure.” As I zip the racket back into its cover, I consider suggesting she keep it. I have no use for a second tennis racket.
And I almost ask if she wants to play again sometime, but I bite my tongue. This was a one-off. I shouldn’t have pressured her into it in the first place.
She slips on her sweatshirt and gives me a nod goodbye. “Thanks, Dr. Malone. I’ll see you Monday.”
“Bye, Alexandra.” I watch as she puts on her helmet, swings a long leg over the seat of her bike, and pedals away.
On Wednesday morning, I walk over to Alexandra’s desk five minutes before the strategic communication meeting is scheduled to start.
“Ready?” I ask when she looks up from her computer screen.
Alexandra looks confused. “For what?”
“For the strategic communication meeting.”
Her eyes widen. “Oh. You want me to come with you?”
“Of course,” I reply. “You can take notes.” There’s no way I’m going to suffer through this alone, and this is exactly the sort of thing she was hired to do.
