Jules
It was a breezy day in late March. Gray clouds folded over the sky, blocking the sun. The temperature was mild for this time of year in Ohio, and sweat dripped down my back as I beat the living hell out of the wall in front of me.
With the ball, of course.
I’d lost track of how many forehands I’d done. Probably two hundred. My shoulder ached, and my palm was a sweaty mess from gripping the racquet. Tossing the grip into my left hand, I wiped my right hand clean on my shorts before grabbing a loose ball off the ground. Like a robot, I began punishing my other shoulder with one-handed backhands.
“Excuse me, are you going to be using the wall much longer?”
Looking up, I saw a guy. Yuppie, mid-twenties, slim but muscular, brown hair underneath his Ivy League hat, and a worn gray T-shirt.
“I’m actually finished,” I replied, leaning over to snag a few stray balls and my racquet cover from the ground.
“I didn’t mean to make you leave.” His eyes bore down on me—chestnut brown, warm, and inviting.
Kindness radiated from him, which was something I hadn’t experienced much of recently. I didn’t know if I wanted to run from it or snatch it in my grasp and never let go.
“It’s cool. I actually have something I need to do.” I decided on the former. Running felt safer.
Plus, I do have something. Something I don’t want—at least, I don’t think I do. Who knows?
My mind was like that nursery rhyme . . . five little monkeys jumping on the bed, until one fell off and hit his head, or however it went. My ideas pinged and bounced about my brain until eventually they all fell flat like worn-out tennis balls.
“You’re pretty good.” The stranger cocked his head toward the wall, telling me he saw my earlier battle with the concrete slab.
I shrugged. My response wasn’t exactly inviting, but he pushed on.
“I just moved here from Boston. Do you live nearby? We could play one day.”
It was the first conversation I’d had with the opposite sex since the incident. I should have been more exhilarated or frightened, but instead I felt nothing. Standing here talking with this guy, I felt absolutely nothing.
“I’m working for the new tech company close to the university, app development. I haven’t met too many people,” he said, his matching Ivy League long-sleeved T-shirt stretching tightly over his chest. On paper, this guy must have been a catch.
Except my head was as cloudy as the sky. His forthrightness and honesty did nothing for me. Most young women would jump into this white knight’s arms, but I’d learned to be cautious.
“Um, I’m not sure,” was about all I could come up with in the moment.
“No pressure. I go in late on Tuesdays, so I usually come over here and hit. Maybe you’ll be back next week.”
“Maybe. I might be going back to school . . . college,” I offered without further explanation.
“Either way, the invitation stands.”
Mr. Ivy League opened his can of balls, slipped his Prince racquet out of its case, and began stretching. He twisted from side to side at the waist, working out the kinks in his lats, taking his racquet with him.
“See you,” I called out when I caught a glimpse of bare skin above his shorts. Sadly, I didn’t feel a tinge of desire, or anything really.
Walking back to my childhood home, I made a mental note to never hit at the park on Tuesdays. My high school coach had been begging me to come play, to hit a few balls or whatever. His offer was starting to appeal to me. Especially on Tuesdays.
As I walked back into my house, a voice called from inside, “Hurry up, Juliette. The new coach will be here soon, and this isn’t something we can pass up.”
“Okay, Mom. I hear you.”
“I don’t think you do,” she said as she walked down the steps, a cup of tea in her hand and a smile fixed on her face. Genevieve Smith cared about two things: my dead father, and getting me educated and out.
She’d isolated me from my peers most of my life with constant tennis lessons and tutors to ensure I did well in school, all in the hope of getting a scholarship. Then I’d squandered my first one. It was time to forget all that monkey business and move on. That’s what she’d said when she took away my phone and the small life I’d created before it all went to hell. This time around, she meant business.
“I hear you, Mom. Now I need to shower and hurry back down, so if you wouldn’t mind . . .”
With my hair still tied in a messy knot on top of my head, I scrubbed myself clean—showers had become perfunctory—and threw on a burgundy off-the-shoulder sweatshirt and black leggings. I dragged some mascara across my lashes, brushed through my hair, and tossed it back into a messy bun.
I was walking down the stairs when I caught sight of a broad-shouldered figure coming up the walkway. There was a knock at the door as soon as I hit the bottom step.
“Get it, Juliette,” my mom called from the kitchen.
Opening the door, I was met with the exact opposite of the guy I’d just met in the park. This one was wearing dark jeans and a polo, and had longish hair, tanned skin, and the bluest of blue eyes.
“Hi. You must be Juliette. I’m Coach King . . . Drew. I took over at Hafton last season. The tennis program,” he explained, mistaking my immediate crushing and infatuation for confusion.
The words clogged my throat, embarrassment flushed through my veins, and I was sure my cheeks were the color of my hair. It was the basest of attractions, purely physical, something I’d definitely never experienced.
After all, I was only twenty. That was normal, right?
I wasn’t meant to fall like this when I was so young. Who the heck knew? My mom had certainly never prepared me for these things, or helped me navigate them. Her cold, austere parenting style was only warmed by my father when he was alive.
“You were expecting me, right?” The coach cleared his throat and glanced at an oversized watch on his wrist.
Underneath his bad-boys looks was quite a gentleman, no doubt the polished product of a prep school. No match for my sheltered suburban-public-school-educated upbringing.
Kind of like California. As if that wasn’t mistake enough—signing up for that West Coast lifestyle—I was falling into some kind of blissful spell over my coach-to-be. We hadn’t even spoken more than a few words to each other, and my body was humming as a result of my indecent thoughts.
“Um, hi,” I said awkwardly, and added a lame little wave.
My mom picked this moment to come striding out of the kitchen, making an entrance.
“Genevieve Smith.” She held out her hand. “And you are?”
“Coach King.”
We were all still crowded around the threshold, the chilly air making its way inside, which was fine because I was hotter than a fire in hell. And I should know. I’d been to hell, and I was pretty certain I didn’t want to go back.
Until now.
“I thought the coach at Hafton was older?” Looking King up and down, my mom inquired about the older coach as if this was all about her. And like everything in my life, it was.
“You mean Ace, Coach Hall? He retired two years ago. I helped him out for a year, and then they gave me the gig full-time. Actually, I was the one who reached out to you. I saw some kick-ass tape of Juliette playing. Pardon my French.”
My mom rolled her eyes at his forthrightness.
I was fascinated with King’s white smile, his biceps, and his not-so-muted attitude. Although he could have been muttering, “Blah, blah, blah,” for all I knew, and I would have been spellbound. Something naughty and oh-so-right was simmering in him, just beneath the surface, clamoring to get out.
“May I come in?” he finally asked.
“Yes, yes. Come into the kitchen,” my mom suggested. She offered cold drinks and left the two of us sitting across from each other at our butcher-block table.
“Tell me about yourself,” he said.
I want to swim in your eyes. I haven’t had a pulse since I left California . . . until now . . . with you seated in front of me.
I felt all of those soul-infused words deep in my belly and slowly rising in my throat. Before they came bubbling out, I tamped them down.
Instead, I said, “Sophomore status when it comes to sports. Tennis player, twenty, failure.”
“Hey.”
The deepness of his voice set off a ripple of lust through me. When his hand settled over mine, I stared at his calloused fingers and insanely sexy forearms. I wanted to run my fingertips along the veins and stroke his calluses with my thumb.
“You’re going to have a second chance, and I’m going to make it happen.”
I nodded, my gaze glued to his hand on mine. When he swiftly pulled back, probably realizing the inappropriateness of his action, I felt barren, empty, dejected. Between the chilly assault in California and my mother’s cold attitude, I was drawn to King’s warmth and kindness like it was a fireplace on a snowy day.
I tried using Jedi mind tricks to make him put his hand back, but he didn’t. He spent the next half hour asking me about how much I’d been playing, and discussing tennis strategy with me. Never once did he bring up the incident at my old school.
“You need to get registered for classes, and I’ll text you when I think would be a good time for you to watch a practice.”
“I don’t text. No cell phone.”
“Then I’ll call you,” he said, standing to leave.
Yes, please.
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