Tennis /REV
Bruce drove her to the Club the next day in his Audi. Of course, he would have an Audi, not a Mercedes or BMW. Short of a Ferrari, Maserati or the like, there were only so many elite choices, but he would be a contrarian. She understood that much already.
As they strolled along a path toward the backboards where he said he would review her strokes, he poked fun immediately, “Is that thing your racquet?”
“This?” She held it up for inspection. It did look antediluvian she realized.
“Well, I told you I hadn’t been playing much.”
“I guess not! It’s not even graphite. People don’t even play with those anymore.”
“What? Wood?”
“You haven’t noticed?”
God, he was brutal. She started getting hot with embarrassment. No, the hell with it, he had offered to do this, insisted.
“It won’t matter,” she said. “You’ll soon see.”
“Ok, go to it. Hit some forehands,” he commanded as they arrived.
She stood a long time, bouncing the ball, nervous. She hardly remembered which way to turn. “Oh, Bruce, you really don’t have to do this. Let’s just go drink some coffee.”
“I know I don’t have to. Just hit.”
She did it; she started hitting. The first few balls went too high, bounced low, but eventually she found some rhythm, hitting at least five decent forehands in a row at the backboard and actually running to hit them back. Thank God, she ran and worked out.With discipline, she made herself do it every day off and one night a week, those when she got off at six fifteen..
Breathless, she stopped, looked at him, he was smiling. Or was he laughing at her?
“How about a few backhands now.”
“Oh, no, not my backhand. That’s asking too much!”
She was still breathing hard. To gain time she started to go pick up the balls, but he ran around with the bucket, plucking them all up in seconds. “Here you go.”
The bucket of threatening yellow balls was beside her. She bounced one and missed it all together. She tried again; hit the ball with the edge of her racquet, sending it squirting along the ground.
“Wait.” Bruce came up, put his hand on her hips, turned her sideways, told her to bounce the ball higher, and said something about her swing that made no sense to her. She tried. He said, “No, like this”. He repositioned her hand on the racquet, held it there while guiding the racquet in a smooth beautiful arc. “Now you do it.”
After many tries, she hit a few decent strokes. She was sweating and dying of embarrassment… thirsty, too. Trying to play tennis made her feel even older than she was!
“Bruce, I really don’t want—”
“Oh, come on, I’ll hit you some balls from that court over there now.” He pointed his racquet toward an open court.
She saw a water fountain by the court, enough to get her walking in that direction. What was she doing? What was he doing? Someone would notice him any minute and start watching them. No, no. She wouldn’t.
Jane drank from the fountain, as long and as fast as she could. She took a breath, drank some more, and splashed water all over her face and arms. How awful I must look! In this sun, everything shows. I’m so pale and white, city-ized. There’d been no vacation in the sun for her that winter, she thought miserably. It had turned into a nice day. Warm. She wished it were raining.“Hey, guess what, you’re really coordinated, quick reflexes. You’ll be okay.”
“Really? Thanks, but I bet you say that to everyone just as encouragement.”
“No, you can learn.”
I don’t want to, she thought, as he gestured her toward the near side of the court and walked over to the other side with the bucket of balls. Why didn’t she say, no? She could.
She was self-conscious, and he was commanding, hard to say no to. She took a good look at him for the first time and found him odd looking, with a long head and long ears; his hair was cut short and kind of tufted up on top—that was a hip look right now, but did nothing for his already long face. She had noticed last night that his deep-set, dark eyes were as hard as rocks; except when he smiled, they danced with light, but not frequently. What she hadn’t noticed was his jaw, squared low in his face and below an already wide mouth. He was standing right across the net from her.
“Jane! Hey, Jane! You here or not?”
What a raspy voice he had!. She shook her head in surprise before walking up to him at the net.
“Here’s what I want you to do. Stand right in the middle of the court, and I’ll hit balls to your forehand. This is going to be fun!”
Jane didn’t think so, but obeyed. He was so tan; he looked healthy, athletic, and somehow appealing even if he did have an odd face. His muscles, yes, they were very attractive. She took her position. He hit a ball right to her, which she returned, but to a far-away corner of his court. She watched the muscles in his legs expand and contract as he sped over the court to reach the ball, hit it easily right to her. She hit again and again with no control—all over the court; Bruce crouched low, then ran backwards, leapt up to take an accidental lob, side-stepped and made a long horizontal reach to get a ball she’d hit completely out of bounds. Again, he landed it right beside her. This time she missed, whipping her racquet through thin air. She had barely moved, but had gotten out of breath anyway. He wasn’t even breathing hard.
He ran up to the net. “Hey, you’re giving me a great workout. Now a few backhands. Remember the position? Like this—”
He stood slightly sideways with the racquet held high above his opposite shoulder then swooped forward, gracefully, even and controlled. She tried to concentrate, but noticed a group gathered along the sidelines.
She tried to beg off, “Bruce, I’m not going to do this. Not with all those people watching.”
“What, you’re not used to center court? Come on, show’em what you can do!”
“I can’t do anything. You know that.”
Why was he torturing her? Did it give him some kind of a kick? His eyes had that rock-hard look and somehow she found herself taking up her position again in center court. She remembered his performance in Southampton. Oh, what else? He was showing off.She thought she looked like a fool, still wearing her only tennis skirt—the old pleated one. Naturally, she dwelled on her ancieant outfit not even thinking that what people looked at was her long toned body. Bruce began, hittingthe ball softly, right to her and miraculously she returned it but it dribbled over the top of the net. Bruce loped up almost casually to scoop the ball right back to her. Her racquet whipped air again. The next time, she managed a high soft hit to the back of his court, and he got it right back to her. No problem. The spectators clapped for him. “You go, Bruce!”
Ah, she got it! He was using her to show off. No matter what impossible ball she hit, he got to it and plopped it right beside her, over and over again. Now he had a regular cheering section. He was laughing and taking a bow.
“Okay,” he said to her his eyes sparkling now. “I won’t torture you anymore. You can go back to the forehand.”
“You must be kidding. I’m dying I’m so hot.”
“Okay, get some water.” He would not let her off the hook. He must be a masochist! Then why did she keep on taking orders? She splashed water into her face, then wiped it on her rather old-fashioned tennis skirt. Nobody wore pleated ones anymore.
“Just a few more”, he said softly as she returned to net and then walked back to her place to endure more of the same. He got every ball. He got every ball, no matter how badly she hit and the little group of spectators cheered him on. “Go, Bruce, go!”
To Jane it seemed like his body was all movement and muscle—something sexy about all that strength. How tall was he? Maybe five feet eleven. Not so tall. But at times, he was three feet off the ground and stretching up gave him a reach of maybe twelve feet. She missed; missed again. The cheering squad groaned. “ Aw, come on.”
She was ruining his show, his fun. “Bruce. Stop. I’ve had it.”
Again, he bowed to his admirers, playfully threw them balls like at a tournament, and walked quickly over to join her at the net, throwing an arm over her shoulders. “And now a hand for the lady who made this all possible.” He lifted her arm in the air as if she were a victor.
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