by Sky Corgan
“Alright.” I toss the ball into the air and swing with all of my might. It falls past my racket and bounces on the ground.
Caleb shakes his head. “Well, for starters, you're holding the racket wrong. It's like this.” He demonstrates with his own hand, and I try my best to copy him. Apparently, I don't do that great of a job, because he ends up repositioning my hand for me.
“Oh, this does feel better.” I smile, happy that I'm already learning things.
“Now try again.” He takes a step back to give me room to swing.
I pick up the ball that fell on the floor and give it another toss up into the air, missing it a second time. Frustration begins to build inside of me. Caleb said this was going to be easy, but it's a lot harder than it looks. Or maybe I just suck at sports.
He shifts his weight, looking me over. “We need to work on your hand-eye coordination. Come over here.” He bends to scoop up the ball, then he leads me to the back of the court where there's a wall mounted against the gate. “I'm going to show you what to do, and you follow. Alright?”
Caleb stands a few feet away from the wall. He takes one of the balls, sets it on his racket, then bounces it from the racket to the wall and back again. He makes it look so effortless.
I watch him for about a minute before joining in. It takes me a few tries before I'm able to hit the ball after it bounces off the wall, but when it does, I hoorah. Caleb grins at me, making a few adjustments to my stance, distance, and the way I hold the racket. Within a few minutes, I'm able to hit the ball more than I miss it. Now, I'm starting to feel like we're finally getting somewhere.
“Good,” he praises me, standing back to observe. “Time for a challenge. I want you to bounce the ball off of the wall fifty times. You're only allowed to drop it three times. On the third time, the count starts over. Once you're able to bounce the ball fifty times, we'll move on to the next lesson.”
My heart races from the challenge. Well, that and the cardio. This is a lot more of a workout than I thought it would be. Since I'm having difficulty mastering hitting the ball consistently in the same place, I have to do a bit of running to catch it sometimes. That's usually when I mess up.
By some miracle, I only have to restart the count twice. By the time I've completed the task, my lungs burn from all of the running I've done and I'm covered in sweat. I honestly don't think I can take progressing on to lesson number two. We've already been out here for over an hour.
“Good job.” Caleb pulls himself off of the floor from where he was sitting several yards away to watch me.
I lean over, clutching my knees and catching my breath while he dusts himself off. “I don't think I can go anymore today,” I confess.
“I didn't think you would be able to.” He smirks. “Does your hand hurt?”
“I think I have a blister.” I tuck my racket under my arm to look at my palm.
Caleb steps up to me, taking my hand in his and smoothing his thumb over my palm. “Not quite. You'll get calluses if you do this enough.”
I jerk my hand away from him and pout. “I don't want calluses.”
“No pain, no gain.” He rests his racket on his shoulder, waiting for me to be ready to go.
“Do you think I'm good enough to play now?” I straighten myself finally.
Caleb guffaws. “Not hardly, sweetheart.”
“Then how am I supposed to expect to play with you and Peter?” I frown, wondering if everything I just did was for nothing.
“I expect to see you on this court every night between now and the weekend. You have a lot left to learn, but I'm pretty sure I can have you playing by Saturday.”
“Really?” I perk up.
“Yeah. Now let's go. You stink.” He wrinkles his nose at me.
“Jerk.” I try to slug him on the arm, but he jumps out of the way, laughing.
I'd be lying if I said I didn't have a good time. Caleb is a better teacher than I'd like to admit. I'd never tell him that, though. Of course, he probably knows it since he's a personal trainer. He does this kind of stuff for a living. Heck, he might have even taught tennis lessons before for all I know. I don't care enough to ask. He's doing a good job with me, and that's all that matters.
My lessons progress through the week. On Tuesday, he moves me farther away from the wall. I have to make the ball bounce once before it hits the wall, then again before I can hit it, simulating an actual game. On Wednesday, he makes me hit the ball with both hands and I start practicing backhand strokes. On Thursday, he teaches me how to serve. Friday, we play our first real game together. I'm still not very good, but I'm proud of myself that I actually know how to play now and I'm not being a complete bumbling idiot about it.
“Peter is going to play aggressively,” Caleb warns me. “He is incredibly competitive.”
“Then how can I ever hope to keep up?” I ask as we walk back towards the apartment.
“Tell him that you haven't played since high school and are just getting back into the swing of things. It's not like riding a bike. It does take some practice.”
“Alright. Thanks.” I nod, walking backwards in front of him. Every time we play, it seems to fill me with so much energy.
“Hey. Watch where you're going,” Caleb warns me a split second before I feel something roll under my shoe.
My feet fly out from beneath me, and my heart jets up to my throat as I start to fall backward. I cry out, waiting to feel the cold concrete under my ass.
Strong arms wrap around me, but they don't stop my fall. Caleb and I both end up on the floor. When I open my eyes, his face is close to mine, his expression full of concern. My heart settles back in my chest only to thud loudly.
The world around us disappears for a few brief moments. Caleb is so close. His lips maybe half a foot away from mine. I can feel his skin and muscles and the heat of his body. A memory flashes through my mind of him sitting a few tables away at the ice cream parlor and me staring at him longingly from a distance thinking about how handsome he is. The girl back then would have died for a moment like this.
The girl now...
“Get off of me.” I push him away, struggling to stand and dust myself off.
Caleb looks up at me, his mouth open in disbelief. “I could have let you fall, you know,” he says before standing.
“I didn't ask you to catch me.” I wrap my arms around myself protectively.
“Yeah, you didn't ask me because you didn't have time to. You shouldn't have been walking backward if you weren't going to at least glance over your shoulder to see if there were obstacles in your path.” He nods down to the stick I tripped over.
“It wouldn't have hurt that much.” I turn my nose up to him, ignoring his logic.
He huffs, shaking his head before stomping past me. “This girl.”
Anger radiates from him, and it immediately makes me feel guilty.
Caleb saves us from an awkward elevator ride together by taking the stairs. I'm way too tired for that. My energy is zapped, but it's just as much from how shitty I just treated him as it was from all of the cardio.
My God, why did I have to be such a bitch? Would it have killed me to thank him for trying to catch me? He did break my fall somewhat—sacrificed himself so that I wouldn't get hurt.
What in the hell is wrong with me?
9
Caleb
I pick a small Italian restaurant, one with an open floorplan and limited seating so that it won't seem weird that Willow would notice us the second that she walks in. I feel kind of bad for putting Peter in this position again, especially since he explicitly told me that he doesn't want to hang out with Willow outside of work. Every time she speaks about Peter, though, there's a light in her eyes the likes of which I've never seen before. Telling her the truth would make me feel even worse than pissing Peter off. Surely, she'll get the hint on her own eventually if he continues to try to avoid her.
I text Willow as soon as I pull up in front of the restaurant to let
her know we've arrived. When we go inside, I try not to seem too suspicious, though my eyes definitely dance to the door more than they normally would. Thankfully, Peter doesn't seem to notice my odd behavior. We make casual conversation and place our order. I have no plans on stalling the meal. I told Willow where we were going to be. If she doesn't show up before we leave, that's on her. I feel like I'm walking this fine line between actually trying to help her and wanting to avoid it at the same time. She's pretty tenacious about keeping me committed to our deal, though.
We're about halfway through our meal before Willow finally strolls in. I give her outfit one quick look before groaning internally. I told her to dress for the court, but instead, she's dolled up in a silk blouse and slacks. It doesn't look breathable or good to move in at all. What in the hell was she thinking?
She zeroes in on us immediately and practically skips up to our table. The energy she has whenever she sees Peter is almost grating. “Hey, guys! What a surprise. You guys eat here, too?”
I gesture with my hand under the table for her to tone it down. She's being entirely too animated.
“Uh, yeah.” I rub the back of my neck, acting just as awkward as I know Peter feels. He's giving her the deer in the headlights look. There's a trace of panic behind his expression and a whole lot of discomfort.
“I hear the food here is really good.” Willow turns her attention to him, ignoring my hand signal.
“Did you come alone?” I ask, trying to redirect her focus for our little role play.
“Mhm.” She nods, acknowledging me finally. Good. Don't obsess over him.
“Would you like to join us?” I motion to one of the empty chairs at our table.
If looks could kill, Peter would have just sliced me right in half.
“Excuse me.” He stands and heads for the restroom.
I sigh at what a douche he's being. This is going to be one awkward meal.
Willow orders a salad. We don't even speak to one another as we wait for Peter to return. All I can think about is the chewing out he's going to give me later. Willow is busy trying to look poised. I want to chastise her for wearing something so inappropriate, but I don't want to bring her mood down. When I think about all of the times in the past that she was rarely happy, I feel like she deserves these moments, even if they're an illusion.
Peter stays in the bathroom for an excessive amount of time, probably hoping that I'll shoo her away. Despite my better judgment, it's not going to happen. He's just going to have to endure this the same that I will.
When he returns, the tension only gets worse. Any question that Willow asks him, he has a short answer to. He plows through his meal like a man starving, obviously just wanting to escape. The second he's done eating, he asks the waitress for his bill, then waits outside for us. I can't believe how big of an asshole he's being. More than that, I can't believe that Willow isn't catching onto it. She's blissfully ignorant to his attempts to avoid her, smiling like she's having the best time ever.
“He eats fast,” I tell her, though I'm not sure why I feel the need to lie for him.
“He has a healthy appetite,” she replies in a dream-like state.
I wave my hand in front of her face to get her attention. “Could you try not to dote on him so much? You remember what I told you, right?”
She nods, her smile faltering. I'm glad she seems to be coming down from the clouds a little bit.
“We should probably go. He's not going to wait around for us much longer.” I scowl at my food. There's so much leftover, and it will just spoil if I leave it in the car while we play tennis. What a waste.
We pay our bill and meet up with Peter outside. If he was annoyed by having to wait for us, I can't really tell. His expression is blank.
“It was nice seeing you again, but we have to go,” he tells Willow, trying to rush us off.
I glance back at Willow, knowing that this is my chance to escape. She looks so hopeful, though. One of them is going to be pissed at me no matter how this goes. If I invite her to play with us, I'll hear it from Peter later. If I don't invite her, Willow will definitely chew me out for messing up her plan.
I cringe inwardly as I open my traitorous mouth. “Hey. We were just going to play tennis. Would you like to join us?”
Peter shoots me a look that silently screams 'No!'
“I'd love to.” Willow hops with delight. “You know I love tennis.”
“Awesome. You can follow us to the tennis court.” I keep my head low as I turn to walk past Peter to my truck.
I had hoped to avoid his wrath for as long as possible, but as soon as we reach the tennis courts, Willow diverts to the bathroom, leaving Peter and me alone to select a court. Not surprisingly, it's the very first thing he brings up.
“Dude, don't you remember me telling you I don't want to hang out with people from work?” He casts a dark glance over at me.
“She's cool. You don't have to worry about her talking about anything we do together.”
“I hope so.” Peter doesn't sound convinced. “If some drama arises because of this, I'm going to kill you.”
As horrible as it is to think, this is one time where I'm glad Willow doesn't have a lot of friends. Hopefully, she can keep her mouth shut with her work acquaintances. Hopefully, she doesn't make more out of this than what it is. Playing tennis together is no big deal. It's not a date. Not worth mentioning to anyone. At least, I hope she doesn't think it's worth mentioning to anyone.
Willow finds us on the court, and I suggest that she and Peter play first. If I can get them engaged with one another, maybe he'll start to warm up to her.
She takes to the other side of the court, and Peter shows no mercy. Ball after ball sails by her. And when it's her turn to serve, he plays defense like a boss. It quickly becomes apparent that this isn't fun for either of them. I need to do something to save the situation.
“Hey. I thought you said you were good,” I yell at Willow from the benches, praying to God that she gets the social queue. She's so damn oblivious, I wouldn't put it past her to get defensive and make this even more awkward.
“I used to be, but I haven't played since high school,” she tells me.
Thank God. Good job, girl. You remembered what we talked about.
“Ah.” Peter nods in acknowledgment. “It takes a little while for it to come back.”
Excellent. He's not being a dick about it.
“How about we play teams?” I stand and grab my racket. This is the best way that I can think of to make the game better for Peter while still keeping Willow involved. “Me and her against you.”
“It will take both of you to beat me.” Peter smirks.
“We'll see about that, punk.” I point my racket at him, thinking that this is going better than I thought it would.
10
Willow
Thank you. Thank you. Thank you, Caleb, for coming to my rescue.
I was getting smoked, and with each missed ball, my frustration grew. If I wasn't so happy to be doing something with Peter outside of work, I might want to cry.
Caleb wasn't kidding about Peter being fiercely competitive. As soon as we start playing teams, I realize that he wasn't holding back on me at all. The ball zooms by me more times than I can count. Knowing that I can't hit it for shit, Peter puts it on my side as much as he can. The rare time that I actually hit one of his serves, I jump so high into the air to whoop that I nearly twist my ankle when I land. Of course, Peter sees that as a distraction and takes advantage of it, jetting the ball past me on his next hit.
I feel like such a hindrance to their game, and even though it was nice of Caleb to offer to play with me, it's not long before it becomes not fun. I liked playing with him better. He hit the ball gentler, played at my level. Peter isn't even giving me a chance.
“I think I'm going to hit the bench and let you guys play a real game,” I tell them, bowing out mid-game because of mounting stress from feeling like a disappointment.
Neither of them seems to mind at all, which makes me feel at least a little better about being a fuddy-duddy.
They start a new game, and I marvel at how good they both are. Caleb turns into a completely different athlete with me out of the way. And the ball busting and trash talking they do back and forth... They're so fucking adorable.
This is the first time I've ever seen Peter smile and laugh so freely. At the office, he's so stiff. I couldn't even imagine him saying a bad word. Now, he's cursing like a sailor. It's yet another layer of the Peter onion, and I'm really enjoying peeling him a little bit at a time, seeing what's beneath his professional exterior—the real him.
Caleb's phone rings and he pauses the game to take the call, informing us that it's a client before he walks out of earshot.
Peter takes the opportunity to come drink some water. My heart pounds as I watch him jog in my direction. I see him in slow motion like something out of a cheesy movie. He's so handsome, his hair bouncing, his arms glistening with a sheen of sweat. I wish he were running to me, not because his water bottle is next to the bench.
He picks up his sports bottle and pops the top open before squirting a generous amount into his mouth. All the while, I struggle to think of something to say to him. He's just so enchanting, though, that my mind is completely blank. All I can do is stare at him.
Watching the clear liquid jet into his mouth makes me thirsty, too. I silently curse myself for being too lame to speak to him and grab for my water bottle. Not wanting to look like a novice, I went to the store last night to pick up my own sports bottle. Usually, I would just refill a plastic water bottle and use that.
I pick up my bottle and pull on the top, but it doesn't give. Don't do this to me now. I scowl at the bottle. I bought you so that I wouldn't look like an idiot. Not the other way around.
I give it another good tug, but it doesn't budge.
“Do you need help with that?” Peter offers.
I swoon as I realize he's taken a few steps closer to me.