I told him my roommate would be back a little after midnight, another lie, just to get rid of him. After he left I had a little cry, wondering what the hell was wrong with me. I mean, he was handsome, kind, smart and funny, every girl’s dream. I should be melting inside at the thought of his touch.
I wouldn’t admit that, though, and I talked up the whole experience to Carrie and Mitch after our workout the next day. Mitch seemed particularly eager to change the subject, so to follow up I invited Ethan to join us for lunch the next Saturday, and I spent the time hanging on him while Mitch fought back scowl after scowl.
I was being petty, I guess, but Mitch had the annoying habit of showing up with stories about her own exploits with some girl she’d met at a party, or in the laundry room, or wherever. I dutifully scowled my way through them, but the things she said would often echo in my mind as I tried to sleep.
“Why does she have to carry on about it all the time?” Carrie and I had met for dinner, and I was, in typical fashion, bitching about Mitch.
“You know why she does it. It gets under your skin.”
“No it doesn’t. I don’t care who she sleeps with.”
“Uh-huh.” Carrie smiled at me strangely. “You know, for someone you hate, you sure talk about her a lot.” I didn’t have a response to that at the time, although I came up with one a few days later. But as my first semester of college ended, it was certainly true that no one was on my mind as much as one Michelle Kirkpatrick.
***
The start of spring semester also brought the start of official practices. This made me far more nervous than I tried to let on. I’d been out on the practice courts with Carrie, of course, and I knew she was better than I was, but it was a lot closer than I’d feared. I was just terrified of being an embarrassment.
The night before our first official meeting I had this nightmare where the coach dismissed me in front of everyone after the first practice. “Sorry, I was wrong about you. You’re just not Lady Bulldog material. Time for you to go.”
They didn’t let me back on the bus, and I lay there crying as they drove away. Mitch’s face was sad as it showed through the back window of the yellow school bus. (Don’t ask why it was a school bus. I don’t know.) I cried until it was dark, and then something was hunting me as I ran down the road. I woke up sweating through my nightgown, thrashing and breathing heavily. I looked over at my roommate, Lana, who gave an unladylike snort and rolled toward the wall.
I finally calmed down. I wasn’t sure if I was happier that I hadn’t woken her, or that she hadn’t seen me crying.
Inevitably the time came, and I was on the court with the rest of the team, the same team that had won the SEC championship last year. Several of the top players from last year had moved on, but that was normal, and they expected to restock and win again.
Coach blew her whistle. “Okay, great to see everyone ready for another great year. Coach Roberts says everyone here has kept up on their fitness. That’s good. Let’s see if you’ve kept up anything else. First day especially, we’re just going to have some fun. Pair off and warm up. Freshmen, with me.”
Carrie, Mitch, and the tall girl from that initial meeting, whom I hadn’t seen since, all gathered around the coach, who was looking down at her old fashioned clipboard.
“Okay, Carrie Mitchell.”
Carrie stepped forward. “Ma’am.”
“Carrie, I’m going to pair you with Kolokhotsova.” The tall girl nodded and jogged out to one of the open courts with her bag. Carrie glanced at me and shook her head before following.
I looked back at Coach Holiday, who had lifted her head toward Mitch and I. “Kirkpatrick, Spencer. Warm up, play a few games. We’ll be watching.”
I nodded, bouncing up and down on my toes, but I didn’t move. Mitch let out a whoop and headed to the far side of the court. Coach Holiday noticed my hesitation. “Problem, Spencer?”
The tone of her voice snapped me out of my trance. “No, Ma’am.”
When I got into position Mitch held up a ball, and I nodded to her. She swatted it over the net, and I stepped to my left and hit it back. The next was hard and low. I got it back, but I could tell from her easy movement that she had a lot more power than she was showing. We rallied for a bit before she surprised me with an up the line shot. My footwork wasn’t perfect, so my return caught the net and dropped down.
I swore internally, and I was surprised how pissed off I was that I let her win the point. I pulled out another ball and hit it over, with a little more force this time.
“There we go! Now we can hit.” Mitch hit the ball back with full force, and I was immediately on the defensive. Ten minutes later I was convinced of two things. First, Michelle Kirkpatrick was the most talented player I’d ever faced on a tennis court. Second, I could absolutely hit with her. I wasn’t outclassed at all.
“Service!” Mitch stood at her baseline, ready to serve. I took position a few feet behind my own, twirling my racquet in my hands.
Mitch served hard up the T. I knew she was going to do that. One look at her, the way she stood, the set of her shoulders, it was all about aggression. Even knowing it was coming, though, it was hard, and the pace surprised me. Normally when I anticipated a shot like that I could get around the ball and drive it into the open court. This one I was lucky to just get back. I did get it deep, though, and she had to back up to hit her next forehand, and I was able to equalize in the rally. I absorbed her pace, getting each shot back near the baseline. After five or six exchanges I could tell she was getting frustrated. She took a big swing and sailed a forehand long.
“Love — Fifteen.” Mitch was fuming as I called the score and walked to the ad court. She netted her first serve. Her second rifled right up the T and my return wasn’t as deep as I wanted it. Mitch stepped left and smacked a cross-court winner that I had no chance at.
“Oh, yeah! Fifteen all.” There was no question regarding the challenge in Mitch’s voice. A coach of mine had told me about a fencing term he’d heard of once called ‘the dominance’. It referred to the person who was controlling the match, the one who decided the touches. I always felt that the concept translated well onto the tennis court. I could feel Mitch reaching for the dominance, her every shot trying to beat me into submission.
I also knew that I didn’t need to surrender it. I was more patient, more controlled. I used all the tricks in my bag, drop shots, lobs, short balls inviting her to the net before she wanted to. She came forward a lot already, consistent with her aggressive personality. It was often premature, though, and I repeatedly punished her with passing shots.
That’s not to say I kicked her butt. Her power was a real thing, and when I made the smallest mistake she was merciless in taking advantage. And damn, she just hit the ball hard, always taking my time away. We played for over an hour, splitting a set of ten games. By the end we had the whole team watching, and as we finished we got several appreciative nods from the upper class players.
After that we split up and worked on serves, one of the assistant coaches just watching us as we hit and hit. I tried to show off my variety, Ts, wides, kickers. Mitch, I noticed, was just hitting bomb after bomb, trying to impress with velocity. That was so her.
After the first week I felt great. I’d held my own with one of the top collegiate tennis teams in the country. I doubted I’d see much if any varsity court time this year, but I knew I’d be able to contribute on the practice courts, and in upcoming years who knows?
I got an email on Friday morning, asking me to stop into Coach Holiday’s office before practice. I was only a little nervous, I really didn’t think she was going to cut me or anything, but maybe they just didn’t see the potential in me.
I knocked on her office door, and she waved me in.
“Cindy, Hi”
“Hey, coach.” She motioned toward a chair, and I set my bag down and sat.
“I have to say I’ve been impressed. You’ve done some great work out there this week.”
My cheeks heated up as they stretched into a smile. “Thanks. It’s been fun.”
“Good, good.” She looked over at her computer. “So you know in college everyone plays doubles. I realize that wasn’t the case in high school.” I nodded. “I’d like you to partner with Michelle Kirkpatrick for the time being.”
My mouth dropped open, and I stammered for a second.
“Is there a problem?”
“No, ma’am, it’s just, um.”
“Spit it out, Spencer.”
“We just don’t always, ah, get along, ma’am.”
“I was under the impression that you, Michelle, and Carrie all work out together.” I nodded as she continued to look at me. “Cindy, you play harder when you’re facing her. I’m hoping that translates into doubles. And you’re the best freshman tactician I’ve seen in years, something Michelle desperately needs to learn.” She sat back in her chair. “We’ll try it for a bit. I know you’ll give it your best. See you at practice.”
The tone of her voice said I’d been dismissed, so I grabbed my bag and headed toward the locker room. I’d just pulled my red top on, my finger running once in disbelief over the embroidered G on the front. I still was in awe of what team I was playing for. My reverie ended when someone flopped onto the bench next to me.
“Hey, partner, so how pissed are you?” Mitch was grinning widely.
“I’m not. I’m fine.”
“Yeah, sure.” She stood up and stripped off her T-shirt, revealing the toned abs below her sports bra. I pulled my eyes away to keep from staring, and I knew she was laughing at me inside. Turning her back to me she pushed her jeans down, giving me a good look at her backside. And again I found myself having to force my gaze away.