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It was Friday before we had another Phys. Ed. class. I went up to the tennis court feeling highly doubtful Cami would even turn up. She’d made it pretty clear she didn’t like me, or tennis, or anything really. So, it was a shock to find her already there waiting.
“Hi. I brushed up on the rules and I’m ready to rumble,” she said with a sweetness that was definitely suspect.
“O-kay,” I said, drawing out the word as I tried to gauge her true mindset. “Shall we start with me teaching you some strokes and then we could try a bit of back and forth?”
“Is that as dirty as it sounds?” She pressed her lips together as though trying not to laugh.
I gave an overly dramatic sigh and tried again. “Shall we start with me teaching you how to hit the tennis ball?”
“Fine.”
“Good, now hold your racket as you did last time,” I moved behind her and took the same stance, bring my arms around her and putting my hands over hers to take her through the stroke.
This time, it was her elbow that got me. It whacked me right in the solar plexus, forcing me to let go and stagger backwards gasping for air.
“What’s your problem, you headcase?” I demanded, when I could breathe again.
“I was moving into position; it wasn’t my fault you were too close.” She sounded as angry as I was.
I stared at her for a moment feeling confused, until I realised I should probably have asked her permission before getting into her personal space like that.
I held up my hands. “Okay, I get it. You don’t like to be touched. I apologise.”
She gave me a considering look and then her own anger drained away to be replaced by a wicked smile.
“I don’t mind being touched, just ask anyone who’s had to play with me in any number of other sports. I’ve been kicked out of all of them for getting too physical.”
“Oh, right. So, it’s not just me you’ve clobbered?”
She spread her hands. “What can I say? I just like to play hard.”
“Fine, but you can’t play hard if you don’t even let me teach you how to play.”
“I suppose so. But there’s physical and there’s physical.”
She was goading me on purpose now.
“I’m not trying to cop a feel!” I spluttered.
“Oh, pity.” She pulled a sad face.
I shook my head in bewilderment. “I don’t understand you at all.”
“Good.” She looked smug.
I was lost. The workings of the female mind were too contrary to even try to unravel sometimes.
“Can I touch you, in a purely educational way, or not?”
“Purely educational?” She actually snickered at that.
“I promise not to press against you in an inappropriate manner,” I stated in my most PC voice.
“Do I have to promise the same?” she said, her eyes twinkling with amusement.
I groaned with irritation and rubbed my temples. Did she want me to come on to her? Somehow, I doubted it, so why was she acting that way suddenly? Especially when she’d made it clear it wasn’t appreciated by hurting me when I got too close? The girl was a few apples short of a fruit basket.
“It’s fine, Luke. Let’s just get on with the lesson,” Cami said suddenly, in a resigned voice, as though she knew she’d pushed me to the brink of insanity.
“So, it’s safe for me to show you a forehand groundstroke?” I inched closer again, looking wary.
“Nothing is safe around me, but I’ll refrain from deliberately hurting you.”
“That’s something, I guess,” I muttered, moving in behind her again and back into position.
That was when I actually—weirdly—felt uncomfortable. Putting my arms around a woman old enough to be my mother had never seemed odd, and the same was true with the younger teenage girls I taught, but I suddenly realised I'd never been in this position with a girl my own age. Not that I was attracted to her or anything, not in the slightest! Especially with that freak look she had going on and the attitude problem that went with it. But since she’d raised it, it was now awkward. I'd just thought of her as someone to play tennis with but now I had a stupid awareness of her being a girl. So, I kept a large amount of space between us.
She glanced over her shoulder, as if totally aware I was trying to distance my body from hers, and raised her brows at me, amusement still obvious in her eyes.
I resisted an eye roll and moved a tiny bit closer, to demonstrate the stroke.
“Take the racket back while pivoting the hips and turning the shoulders,” I instructed, moving her arms with mine. “Body weight loads up on the back foot, then swing for the ball with a relaxed arm and a loose wrist.”
Her hips pivoted and she rubbed her backside very deliberately against me.
Was this some new kind of punishment? To make me aware of her and then mess with me?
“Stop it,” I said, trying to sound stern.
She smirked.
I chose to ignore it and continued, “On contact, hit the ball out in front at the same time as you firmly snap your wrist through the ball. Your body weight is transferred from back foot to front foot as you step into the shot.” I had to press against her at that point to show the change in balance, and she did it again.
It felt good, way too good.
“Cami!” I reprimanded through gritted teeth.
“You’re the one who told me to lighten up about the contact. Getting to you, am I?”
“Not in the slightest,” I lied. “it’s just annoying.”
“Then why are you looking down my top?”
My eyes snapped back up to her face. “Sorry, natural male reaction to boobs.” I suddenly realised I was still holding her against me and quickly let go. “Don’t get the wrong idea. This is tennis, not foreplay.”
“In your dreams, hot stuff.”
My mouth quirked. “Hot stuff? Is that why you’re sending out mixed messages? Because you secretly want me?”
I'd just meant to tease her, but the amusement left her face.
“How about you go over there,” she snapped, pointing to the far side of the tennis court, “and I’ll stay well over here, and we see if I’ve learned the stroke sufficiently enough to put a stop to the shenanigans.”
I refrained from pointing out all the ‘shenanigans’ so far had all been on her part not mine and went to the other side of the net feeling highly doubtful she would have gotten it from just one demonstration.
I served the ball gently to her and she executed a perfect forehand groundstroke, returning it to me.
I gave her a startled look of surprise and lobbed it back again, Cami swung a second time and even though her foot movement was spot on, her racket twisted at the last second and we both watched as the ball sailed several meters over my head and over the school wall, presumably onto the road outside.
“Oops, sorry.” She looked unrepentant once again.
“It doesn’t matter, that first return was amazing, near perfect.”
“Near perfect?”
“Well, you could have done with a little bit more follow-through, but otherwise it was exactly right.”
She opened her mouth like she was about to start arguing with me and then apparently changed her mind and simply said, “I did tell you I was a quick learner.”
I nodded, “You did, but I’m too scared now to try and teach you a backhand groundstroke just in case you do me some permanent damage, so how about we keep working on that one until you can keep it inside the court every single time?”
“Sure, and you can tell Coach Morehouse I’ve improved?”
“If you can do it more than once then yes, definitely.”
By the end of the hour, Cami had mastered the forehand to a creditable degree and I'd enjoyed a bit of tennis. But I wasn’t as happy as I should have been.
The frustration was now I'd come into contact with her as a girl, I couldn’t undo it. I kept noticing how long her legs were and what an amazing colour they were with her obviously mixed heritage. And her chest was just the right size that it caught the attention without bouncing every time she reached for the ball, and her top tightened against her torso. The way she shifted her feet so fast from left to right and back again reminded me of some famous tennis player, but I couldn’t think who.
I was, quite simply mesmerised watching her. And I didn’t want to be.
Once again, she left me to clear everything up like some spoiled brat, and I was reminded I didn’t like her or her attitude problem at all, but I still had to take a really cold shower!
Thank goodness it was the weekend and I didn’t need to even see her again until next week.