“I’ll take them all,” I said, without bothering to try them on. During my brief yet intense tutelage under Hayden, I’d quickly learned how to eyeball what cuts and colors best suited me.
The sales clerk proceeded to help me pick out tennis sneakers—these I had to try on—socks, tennis underwear, and a simple white Lacoste visor. The clerk was young and bubbly and was giggling as I kept exclaiming, “Oh, I want this! And this!” And she’d pull the items down and add them to the growing pile on the glass display counter.
Picking out a racquet was a bit trickier. It had been so long since I’d played that when she questioned me about what brand and style I was interested in, I had absolutely no idea.
“What sort of surface do you normally play on? Is there a particular brand you’re interested in? How important is spin to you?” The young woman peppered me with questions, none of which I had a ready answer for.
“It’s okay, Dana, I’ll take over from here,” a male voice said. I turned and saw Mal standing there. He was wearing a white polo shirt and white tennis shorts, which made his tan look even deeper. His hair was damp with sweat and pushed back off his face, and there was another day’s worth of stubble spread over his jaw.
Because I have a genetic predisposition to humiliating myself, I said the first inane thing that popped into my head: “You still haven’t shaved.”
“Why are you so obsessed with my personal grooming habits?” Mal asked. His expression was quizzical, but his voice was edged with humor.
I could feel my face go hot and red. “I’m not,” I muttered, looking down at the last racquet Dana had given me to try. I swung it around a bit, wondering if a racquet found its owner in the same way that wands did in the Harry Potter books.
“It’s just something you comment on with alarming frequency,” Mal continued, although he smiled at me.
“I…well. Can we just forget that I said that and start again?” I asked sheepishly.
“Okay. Are you in the market for a new racquet?” Mal asked.
“Yes. I think. I mean, if I’m going to take tennis lessons, I’ll need a racquet, right?”
“It usually helps. I don’t think that one’s a good fit for you, however. Look, the grip is too small.”
Mal plucked the racquet out of my hand and replaced it with another. The grip on this one felt a bit better, but Mal frowned at it, shook his head, and handed me another racquet to try. I held it, but he shook his head again and, holding my hand in his, turned the racquet to adjust the grip. I had a brief but intense reaction to his touch, which vividly reminded me of when I was a flat-chested thirteen-year-old with a crush on a lifeguard at the beach who was six years older than me and didn’t know I existed. Every time I saw the lifeguard—even after he began dating a curvy, bikini-clad beauty—I’d feel a hot rush flood through my body.
“That grip looks good. How does it feel?” he asked, seemingly unaware of the physical flutterings his touch was causing me. I wondered how many times he had held a woman’s hand while he adjusted her grip and how many women had responded to his touch with the same breathless excitement I was feeling. This thought—that I was one of many—annoyed me. I abruptly pulled my hand away.
“Fine,” I said shortly. “Shall I buy this one, then?”
Mal’s eyebrows rose. “Is that lottery cash burning a hole in your pocket?”
“Shhhh,” I hissed, looking around. Luckily, Dana was at the register totaling up my haul and too far away to eavesdrop. “What if someone hears you?”
“They would probably think I’m joking.”
I considered this. He was right; I was overreacting, which made me feel foolish.
“Look,” I said. “Just tell me which racquet to buy, and I’ll buy it. It’s as simple as that.”
Mal regarded me for a long moment. I didn’t know what was going on behind those pale eyes and found it unnerving.
“I’ll tell you what. Why don’t you try this racquet out today, and if you like it then you can buy it,” he finally said, taking it from me.
“Oh. Okay,” I said. I gestured to the stack of tennis clothing, socks, underwear, and accessories piled up on the glass display counter. “I have to buy all of that stuff, though. And change clothes.”
“I’ll meet you on court three when you’re ready,” Mal said. He left, carrying the racquet tucked under one arm. I noticed the sales clerk’s eyes following him until Mal was out of her sight. She sighed.
“Isn’t he gorgeous?” she said to me.
“I hadn’t noticed,” I lied.
“Oh, my God, are you serious? I always get tongue-tied when I’m around him. I can’t say hello without sounding like an idiot.”
“I’ll pay for this in cash,” I said abruptly.
“What?” The girl was still so caught up in her Mal-induced reverie that she stared blankly at me for a moment. “Oh, right. Sorry.” Then, with an apologetic smile, she turned to ring up the items I was purchasing. But the smile lingered on her lips.
And for some reason, this made me all the more irritated with Mal. I stared down at the pile of tennis gear, the pleasure of buying it suddenly dried up.
“What have I gotten myself into?” I muttered to myself as I swung—and missed—the tennis ball Mal had just lobbed over the net at me.
“What did you say?” he called out.
“Nothing,” I said.
The weather was idyllic: sunny and warm without being too hot, and the sky was such a pure and brilliant blue, it was hard not to stare up at it. The outdoor tennis courts at the Rushes were red clay, the kind that leave a rust-colored residue on everything that comes in contact with them. The courts were enclosed with a metal fence painted a tasteful shade of green, to blend in with the perfectly manicured golf course just beyond. Flowers and shrubbery were planted along the outside borders of the fence. I’d never played tennis anywhere so lovely. And I’d never played worse.
“Damn it,” I said through clenched teeth, as another ball bounced lazily past me. It wasn’t even as if I could blame it on Mal slamming the balls at me in a play of macho domination; everything he hit gently arced over the net in my direction.
“Just relax,” he called out. “Take a deep breath, draw your racquet down and back like I showed you, then follow through.”
He demonstrated his perfect technique as he hit another ball to me. This one I managed to hit, but in my frustration I swung too hard, and it ricocheted over the fence.
“I suck at this,” I commented. “I don’t remember being this bad. I guess it’s been so long since I’ve played, I must have forgotten my degree of suckage.”
Mal laughed and shook his head. “You’re doing fine. Just a bit rusty.”
He lobbed another ball at me. I swung, hit it, and—amazingly—the ball bounced back into Mal’s court.
“Good!” he said encouragingly. He hit it back at me. I swung and missed.
“Hold on, I’m coming over there,” Mal said.
I glowered at him, in case he was even considering laughing at me, but Mal didn’t tease me the way he might have if we were hanging out at the Drum Roll. Instead, he was in professional mode, his expression pleasant and not at all mocking.
“What I want you to work on,” Mal said, when he reached me, “is bringing your arm down and then following through. Don’t worry about hitting the ball. That will come. Just keep your focus on getting your swing right.”
And then he stepped behind me, reached his arms around me, and, holding his hands over mine on the racquet, demonstrated the proper swing. I recognized it for what it was—an effective teaching device. Now my arms would hopefully retain the memory of how they were supposed to reach down and then swing through. But, unfortunately, the rest of my body immediately disconnected from the process. Instead, all I could focus on was Mal’s chest brushing my back and his hands gently clasped over mine. He wasn’t pressing against me, and his touch was as nonsexual as that of a gynecologist. But my body didn’t see
m to understand that. My throat suddenly felt thick, my skin flushed and tingled, my nipples hardened under my sports bra.
“You lower your arm and then swing through,” Mal said, repeating the movement. “Think of it as drawing a question mark in the air with your racquet.”
Please don’t let him notice my nipples, I thought desperately, all too aware what fresh mortification this would bring. I have to think of something else. Something nonsexual. Like…Harper Lee. Or features I’d like in my new car. Or Elliott, since he’s the last person in the world I’ll ever imagine sexually again.
Unfortunately, thinking of Elliott caused me to flash to the scene of his infidelity, standing and thrusting into the blonde with the concrete tits. And then my thoughts rebelliously jumped to an image of Mal standing naked and thrusting—
My arm spasmed, and I dropped my racquet. Mal looked down at me quizzically.
“Are you okay?” he asked. Mal picked up my racquet and handed it to me. I reached to take it, but he didn’t let go right away.
“Something’s percolating in that head of yours,” he said.
“No,” I said, shaking my head. I attempted a smile but then worried that it would look like I was leering and stopped. “I’m just frustrated with how badly I’m playing.”
“How long has it been since you played?” he asked.
I thought about it. “Five years? I can’t remember exactly. It could be longer.”
“That’s a long time to be away from the sport. Don’t put so much pressure on yourself. You’ll pick it back up again. You just need practice,” Mal said with an encouraging smile, releasing my racquet.
I’d have preferred it if he reverted back to the smart-alecky Mal of the Drum Roll. It was easier to resist the crinkle-edged gray eyes and devastating smile when he was mocking me.
Before I could respond, I heard someone—a male someone—calling out my name.
“Lucy?”
I turned in the direction of the voice, my stomach clenching nervously. Was it someone from my old life who’d recognized me, despite the new hair? But then I saw who it was, and my entire body went rigid.
Drew.
I now remembered why I stopped having one-night stands. It was absolutely mortifying seeing someone who had slept with you once and then decided that the experience was so mediocre, it wasn’t worth repeating.
“Drew,” I said without enthusiasm. “Hi.”
“What are you doing here?” he asked, drawing closer.
Since I was holding a tennis racquet, wearing a tennis outfit, and standing on a tennis court, this seemed like a silly question.
“I’m simultaneously solving a quadratic equation and composing a symphony,” I said. I tapped my head. “All in here.”
“Ha-ha,” Drew said. He leaned down and kissed me full on the mouth. Which took me aback.
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
“My weekly golf game,” he said. He grinned and winked at me. “It’s in preparation for my retirement years. I want to kick serious ass at the old folks’ home.”
“It’s good to have goals,” I remarked. I nodded toward Mal, who was waiting patiently, observing us. “This is Mal. My tennis instructor.”
“Hi, Mal. Drew. Drew Brooks,” Drew said, holding out a chummy hand to Mal.
Mal hesitated for the briefest of moments and then took it. “We’ve met before,” Mal said.
“Have we? Sorry, I have the worst memory for faces,” Drew said cheerfully.
“Numbers too,” I said, and then, worried that I was coming across as shrewish—surely not something the new Lucy would ever be—I smiled. I thought I heard Mal snort, but when I looked over at him, he seemed to have himself under control.
“I was going to call you after my golf game,” Drew said. He either hadn’t heard Mal’s snort or he’d chosen to ignore it. “Are you free for dinner tonight?”
“Tonight?” I repeated. Part of me had leaped up in delight at the suggestion, thrilled that Drew hadn’t seen me as just a one-night stand. The other part of me held back, whispering that I should play it cool and not let him think I’d be available for last-minute dates.
But then, before I could say anything, Mal stepped in. “She can’t tonight,” he said mildly. “A group of us are going out for drinks.”
I managed not to let my jaw drop open as I turned to stare at Mal.
“Didn’t Hayden tell you? She and Ian organized it last night,” Mal said.
“Oh…right,” I said. I had no idea what he was talking about; in fact, I was fairly sure Hayden had said something about Ian being on a lucky streak, so the two of them were heading back down to the casino tonight. But I had a feeling I should go along with Mal’s story. I turned to Drew. “Another time, maybe?” I said.
The affable grin had vanished from Drew’s face, replaced with a quizzical frown. He looked from me to Mal and then back at me again.
“Okay…well, I’ll call you later, Lucy,” he said. “Sorry I interrupted your lesson.”
“No problem,” Mal said.
“Bye,” I said, and as Drew strode off toward the country club, I wondered if I’d hear from him again.
“He’ll call,” Mal said, as though he were reading my thoughts.
“He will?”
“He’s the type who always responds to some competition.”
“What? Competition from you?”
Mal laughed and shook his head. “Did it ever occur to you I might suffer from a fragile ego and that with every insult you’re just pushing me closer and closer to the edge of despair?”
“No, I didn’t mean it that way,” I said, feeling my cheeks burn with embarrassment. “I didn’t mean that he couldn’t possibly be threatened by you. I mean…look at you.”
Mal’s eyebrows rose. “From anyone else, that would sound suspiciously like a compliment. But knowing you as I do, I have a feeling there’s an insult hidden in there somewhere.”
I rolled my eyes. “Please,” I said. “If you can’t take a compliment, don’t blame it on me.”
“Then what exactly did you mean?”
“Just that you’re my tennis instructor. I’m taking a lesson. Why would Drew assume there was anything more to it than that?”
“Don’t forget you’re going out with me tonight too,” Mal reminded me. “I think that got his attention.”
“Yeah, what was that? Did Hayden really organize drinks tonight?”
“Nope,” Mal said. “But I know his type. And I knew that if he thought there might be a rival for your affections, he wouldn’t make the mistake of not calling you the day after again.”
“Oh.” I absorbed this. “But…why?”
“Why what?”
“Why would you do that for me?” I asked. I twirled my racquet in my hands.
“Because we’re friends.”
“We are?”
“There she goes again,” Mal remarked dryly.
“No, I mean…I’m sorry. I don’t know what it is about you, but I always manage to say just the wrong thing when I’m around you,” I said.
“So it’s my fault, huh?” Mal grinned at me.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Maybe I should just start ignoring everything you say,” Mal said. “Now come on. You still have ten minutes left in your lesson.”
I groaned but held my racquet up in a halfhearted ready position, while Mal jogged back around to his side of the net.
“That’s what I like to see,” he said. “The eye of the tiger.”
“Oh, shut up,” I muttered. But this time, when he lobbed a ball at me, I managed to hit it back. The ball striking against my racquet gave a satisfying thwack, and it cut across the court at a sharp angle. I had a feeling Mal could have gotten it if he’d really run, but he let it whiz past.
“Good shot,” he cheered me. And I felt my spirits lift. Maybe I wasn’t so bad at this stupid game after all.
Mal was right: Drew called later that aft
ernoon. In fact, he must have phoned directly after his golf game. I was still wearing my tennis dress, sitting on a chaise longue by the pool, chatting with Hayden, when the phone rang. Hayden answered, and then, her eyebrows arched meaningfully, she handed the phone to me.
“Hello,” I said.
“Hi,” he said. “It’s me. Drew.”
I smiled at Hayden and tried to ignore the excitement bubbling up inside me.
“Hey you. How was your golf game?”
“Terrible. I couldn’t play worth a damn. All of my hopes and dreams for my retirement years are crushed.”
“That does sound bad.”
“Look, I know you said you had plans tonight, but I’d really like to see you.” Drew’s voice deepened, somewhere between playfulness and urgency in tone. “In fact, I’m dying to see you. Is there any way you can cancel on your friends?”
I was quiet for a moment as I deliberated on the best tack to take. As much as I wanted to say yes, I didn’t want to undo Mal’s good work.
“Well…” I said slowly. “I don’t think tonight’s going to work.”
“Tomorrow then,” Drew said eagerly. “I’ll take you out to dinner.”
I smiled into the phone. “Tomorrow,” I agreed.
Sixteen
OVER THE NEXT FEW WEEKS, MY LIFE FELL INTO A PREDICTABLE pattern. The days were spent shopping or lounging by the pool with Hayden, or taking tennis lessons with Mal at the Rushes. My tennis game was slowly improving, enough so that, without causing too much embarrassment to myself, I was able to join a women’s round-robin doubles league that met at the club on Thursday mornings. My nights were divided between dates with Drew or, if he was busy, hanging out at the Drum Roll with Hayden, where we were often joined by Mal and Ian, when the bar wasn’t busy. On the nights when Drew and I went out, he usually stayed over at the pool house with me.
“It’s weird. The last thing I wanted was to get involved with anyone right now. But somehow this thing with Drew seems to have evolved into an actual relationship,” I said to Hayden one morning after Drew left.
She and I were walking slowly along the beach. The tide had just gone out, leaving the sand cool and damp, and our feet made a trail of deep prints. Harper Lee jogged along beside us, panting with the effort. My French bulldog had been getting a bit tubby lately. Hayden was incapable of resisting Harper Lee’s melting stares and was forever sneaking her extra treats.
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