Tennis Anyone 9

© 2024 by the writer using the pen name Jalibar62

My submission for the

YAY TEAM: The Sex & Sports Author Organized Challenge 2024

!

Any naughty business is between consenting adults.

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I had just finished a lesson when I noticed her. She was new to the club; I'd never seen her before. Not here, anyway.

She looked to be about a dozen years younger than I (turned out it was only seven), and tall, with the broad shoulders and sculpted figure of a lifelong athlete. She was long and lean, definitely not soft, with dark brown hair that was pulled into a short ponytail. I couldn't see her eyes from where I was sitting, but I was more interested in her strong, toned legs as she practiced her serves.

However, as I watched the flex and play of her calf and thigh muscles, my attention gradually shifted to her serve. Wow. She had a basket of balls, and the longer I watched, the more impressed I became. She was like a machine. Serve after serve, just a perfect swing. She hit crashing flat serves. Wide, then down the middle. Then she switched to kick serves that leapt into the air. Then slices. Then she did something that I have rarely seen at the club level - she started hitting twist serves, which are a combination of topspin (or kick) and slice. It's not an easy shot.

When she took a break, I walked over. "Hi, I'm the pro here. Pelle Hagen." Her eyes - steel blue, now that I could see them - widened slightly at that, but she shook my hand, then picked up a towel. "Hello! I'm Cheryl Winston." I wasn't sure, but I thought I might have heard just the trace of an accent.

"You're really good," I said. "Are you a new member?"

"No, but I am thinking about it. Haven't decided yet. My parents are friends with the Haverfords, and they invited me."

I nodded. "Oh, great! Happy to meet you! Umm... I just had a cancellation, if you want to hit some? Maybe I can help you decide?"

She gave me a considering look, then nodded. "Yes, I'd like that."

The hair threw me. But after a few minutes, I thought I recognized her form, and the soft, but distinctive grunt she made after a particularly hard shot. Not sure why she gave me a fake name, but she must have had a reason, and I was perfectly happy to keep her secret. And then I was too busy running to think about much of anything. She was

really

good.

After another 20 minutes, she drove a final forehand past me and approached the net. Grinning and shaking my head ruefully, I joined her. "You're more than good, Cheryl. I really enjoyed that, and I'd love to hit with you another time!"

"That would be... acceptable," she said rather formally, but she gave me a small smile, thanked me, and with a little wave, headed off toward the women's locker room.

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The next time, we played a set. And at least one of us was playing for real. She had me running the baseline, corner to corner. When I tried to rush the net, she hit passing shots, or perfect lobs over my head. I managed to win my serve twice, but when my first serve started to fail me, she just trounced me. I finally flopped on my back, right there on the court, chest heaving, staring at the sky. Sure, I was being mayyybe a tad dramatic, but damn, I felt out of shape. She walked over to me, mildly concerned, leaning over me with her hands on her knees.

"Are you all right?"

When I gave her a thumbs up and sat up, groaning theatrically, she grinned and gave me a hand up.

"Thanks. Damn, Cheryl, I'm supposed to be the pro here! You're making me look bad!" I laughed, so she'd know I wasn't really mad at her.

"Sorry, I guess I'm just a little competitive." She was still grinning.

"No worries. And I know it probably doesn't matter to you, but I'm not one of those guys that can't handle losing to a woman. Matter of fact, I'd love to play again; I learned a bunch today! If I'm not slowing you down, that is..."

"You're sweet. Sure, we can play again. What's your schedule look like?" And we went to my office in the back of the pro shop and found some available times in my schedule, over the next several weeks.

Then she asked me, "I like to play almost every day. Anyone else here that you could recommend?"

"Hmmm. Well... Leslie Dalton is a 5.0 on the NTRP, so she's not on your level, but she's good - young and pretty quick. She wouldn't be a waste of your time, and she'd benefit tremendously from playing with you. I'll set it up if you like?"

"Sure, sounds good!"

"Okay, I'll let you know - that was a blatant attempt at getting your number, by the way - and I'll keep looking?"

She laughed, low and husky. Wow, she sounded sexy, and I thought I'd like to hear that laugh again. But she just asked for my phone and typed her contact info into it.

"There you go, Pelle. That was pretty smooth." Again, that hint of an accent - and she pronounced my name correctly, with the accent on the first syllable, and both 'e' sounds as in the English 'bed." PEH-leh. I've heard everything from 'Pell,' to 'Pelé' (yeah, the soccer player), to 'Pay-lay' to... well, you get the picture.

"Great. Thanks again, Cheryl."

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I next saw her a few days later. She was at one of the tables in the outdoor seating area between the clubhouse and what the club called their "Centre" Court. She was having a drink with an older couple - the Haverfords - and a slightly balding gentleman who looked to be a few years older than Cheryl.

I merely waved a greeting as I headed for my 2:00 lesson, and she smiled and nodded back. The couple glanced at her, while the man frowned at me. Whatever, dude.

Later that day, I actually

heard

her, before I saw her. Her grunting was more pronounced than last time, and the smack of racquet against ball was quite audible. Curious, I headed toward the noise.

There was no finesse this time. She was hitting flat serves as hard as she could, and had been for a while, if her sweat-soaked tennis tank was any indication. I watched her for another minute, before clearing my throat. I could tell she was upset, but damn, she looked good.

She faltered and looked over at me.

"Oh. Hello, Pelle. Did you need something?" Her tone was polite but strained.

I shook my head. "Nope. It's just that I recognized that workout, and wanted to see if you were okay."

"I don't understand?"

"You're hitting those tennis balls like you wish it was someone's head. I've been there."

She barked a short laugh. "You could be right."

"Wanna talk about it? I'm a pretty good listener." I offered.

I saw her start to decline, but then she hesitated. Cocking her head at me, she half-smiled and said, "Why not. If you tell me what you meant when you said you've been there too?"

"Me and my big mouth," I grimaced. "Okay, deal."

I held out my hand, and she shook, finally showing a small grin.

"Over dinner, perhaps?" I raised a hopeful eyebrow.

She laughed and shook her head. "That would be nice."

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I met her at a nice, but casual Cuban place I knew of, that had a view of Biscayne Bay. She admitted it wasn't someplace she would have picked herself, but that she was looking forward to trying something new. My kind of attitude!

When the waiter took our drink orders, she smirked at me and said, "When in Cuba...," and ordered a mojito. I opted for a Hatuey. When he returned to take our dinner order, I asked her if she trusted me.

"Hell no, I just met you! But you can order for me if that's what you were suggesting."

The waiter hid a grin as I laughed and asked for the sampler appetizer, figuring that with a little taste of several Cuban delicacies, she should be able to find something she liked.

Over our drinks, we began to chat.

"So, Pelle Hagen. Interesting name." She looked at me expectantly.

"Umm, I guess? My parents are Danish, so not so unusual for them. I was born here, though."

"Oh, okay. Have you ever been there?"

"Sure, every couple of years. I still have family there. Mostly near Odense."

"Do you speak any Danish?"

"Just a little. Enough to sort of get by."

She sipped her drink, and in the lull, I asked, "How about you?"

"Oh, we - well, our families - are almost neighbors! I'm from the Netherlands, outside Groningen."

"I never would have guessed. You barely have an accent. Do you live here now?"

She nodded. "Mm. For about twenty years."

And the small talk continued in this vein for a while until our appetizer arrived and we ordered another round of drinks. She tried, and seemed to like, everything. So, when I noticed that they also had a dinner sampler on the menu, I ordered that as well.

For dessert, we shared a Cuban flan and I suggested a carajillo for each of us. We were both pleasantly full, and feeling the effects of the liquor, so I suggested a walk along the water, to which she readily agreed.

We ambled along, and it was pretty much just the two of us, which I found surprisingly intimate. A light breeze was blowing across us and brought just a whiff of her scent to me. I don't know a damn about perfumes, but hers was very distracting.

Shaking my head at my own foolishness, I asked her, "So what brought you to the US, at what, age eight?" I was doing some mental math in my head.

She bumped her shoulder into mine. "You're sweet. But also, that was a sneaky way of asking how old I am, you know," she mock-scolded. "I was fifteen."

"Sorry, I thought I was being gallant," I grinned. "And I'm 42. So you don't have to trick me into telling you

my

age." She bumped me again, and I chuckled. "But you didn't answer my question. Not that you have to, it's just curiosity..."

She gave me a little sideways glance. "Why don't you tell me about yourself first? I'm sorry, I'm just not sure if I'm quite ready to share more."

Wow, okay. I could feel myself starting to frown, then stopped myself. I knew who she was, but she didn't know I knew. She was only being cautious.

So, I smiled at her and said, "Sure, that's fair. Where should I begin?"

She considered. "Have you always been a tennis pro?"

"No, not always. I mean, tennis has always been a big part of my life. It was my mother who pushed me." And I found myself telling her about playing at the local YMCA, then on the high school team, winning some youth tournaments, and getting a scholarship to the University of Florida.

"And after graduation, I decided to turn pro."

"Oh! Impressive!" she said.

"Well, as it turned out, not really. My proudest moment as a singles player turned out to be during my third year on the tour, when I cracked the top 100. Mom was so proud. I got as high as 94, but sadly, that was the peak of my career.

"I had been dating a girl that I met during my senior year of college, and she was making noises about getting married. She'd been pretty understanding about all the tournaments and time away, and I reckoned that she deserved more of a commitment from me. Plus I thought I loved her, so that's what we did."

"Love makes you do things," she observed. She was right about that.

"Tennis was pretty much all I knew, so I kept playing, but it was a grind, and I wasn't getting better. I was thinking about quitting altogether, when out of the blue, I got a call from Irina Cermak."

"Oh?" She gave me a questioning look.

"She was on the women's tour. She's Czech. And when I say, 'out of the blue,' it was a complete shock. I mean, I knew who she was; she was the same age as I, and about as successful, so we were in a lot of the same tournaments. But it wasn't like we were close or anything. Maybe a couple of conversations? The last time we spoke, I may have mentioned feeling a little discouraged. Anyway, I guess she knew me better than I realized. She said that she'd been following my career, felt like we were both at about the same point, and then just asked if I'd ever given any thought to playing doubles. Well, mixed doubles. With her."

"Wow, that's... unexpected?"

"Yeah, exactly. Anyway, I thought about it, and Irina and I talked some more, then I talked it over with my wife, Diane. I guess we'd been married for a few years by then? I argued that I wasn't getting better as a singles player, but I didn't want to quit playing altogether. I could tell she wasn't crazy about the idea, but I was actually getting excited.

"Anyway, I appeased her by saying that maybe Irina and I could practice together, then try it out for a couple of tournaments, and if it didn't work out, then I'd retire and that would be it. She said okay."

"And?" Cheryl was getting into the story now. We'd stopped walking and were leaning on the rail that lined the wide concrete path along the waterfront. She had her elbows on the top rail, looking out, and I had my back against it.

"Well, we found out that we made a pretty good team! I mean, nothing like the top players, but we managed to win a few smaller tournaments. A couple every year, anyway - enough to encourage us to keep going. We even made it into the Italian Open one year... no, twice!"

"That's great!" Cheryl enthused. But at the expression on my face, she added, "Wasn't it?"

I shook my head. "Not so much. As Irina and I got better, Diane and I got worse. She started getting really jealous of the time I spent with Irina. I told her it was practice, and tournaments, and that was it. We didn't travel together, we didn't stay together, and other than an occasional meal, we didn't spend any significant time that wasn't tennis related."

I sighed. "She acted like she believed me, but... it didn't help that Irina was really pretty. But she had a boyfriend in the Czech Republic! I met him a couple of times, very nice guy. Didn't matter to Diane."

Cheryl gave me a commiserating look. "She couldn't handle it?"

I shook my head again. "Nope. We wound up getting a divorce. She moved to Atlanta and married an orthodontist. I think they have a couple of kids; she sends me Christmas cards. So does Irina." I smiled, remembering the photos of her children, already wielding racquets as tall as they were.

"Sorry, Pelle. So, anyone in your life since then?"

"Nah... nothing serious." I paused. "Irina and I stayed on the tour for... hmm... almost five years? And I guess I didn't want to deal with a serious relationship again; not while she and I were

together

," I air-quoted.

"Then she wanted to get married and start a family, and by then I was ready to retire too. I went back to Gainesville, talked to my old coach, and he gave me a couple of numbers to call. And that's how I wound up with the pro job here. Been doing it for... darn, has it been that long?" I ran my fingers through my hair.

I turned around so that I was leaning on the rail now, facing the same direction as she was, looking out over the water.

She hung her head for a moment, then glanced over at me. "I haven't fooled you for a moment, have I?"

I considered my answer. "Fooled? Hmm. The hair threw me for a while (the familiar blonde braid that she'd worn throughout her career had been transformed into shorter chestnut waves), but no, I wouldn't say 'fooled.' You just made it clear that you didn't want people to know who you were. At least that's the way I took it, and I was happy to keep your secret for you. I promise, you can trust me, Cecilie."

Yep, my companion was none other than Cecilie Wenzell, who had at one time been the #4 ranked female player in the world. Then, at the ancient (in tennis years) age of 34, she was enjoying something of a minor comeback. That is, until she dropped off the face of the earth a little less than a year ago, right after the quarterfinals of the Australian Open. Speculation was rampant, until the news broke that she had also separated from her boyfriend of 18 months. Then the speculation took a whole new turn. And now here she was, on a date - at least that's what I hoped it was - with me.

She actually had a hint of brightness in her eyes as she said, "Thank you. Trust has been in short supply for me lately."

I stayed silent, giving her time. Finally, she straightened, and said, "Thank you for sharing. And I enjoyed the evening very much. Much more than I expected to." She looked at me, a little shyly.

"I know, I owe you a story too, but... I need to get home. I'm sorry, I have an early morning."

"You don't owe me a thing,

Cheryl

," I grinned at her. "And I've had a lovely time as well." I walked her back to her car. When we got there, she turned to me.

"Thank you again, Pelle."

"You're quite welcome. I hope we can do it again?"

She nodded.

"I'll see you at the club?"

She nodded again, started to get into her car, then hesitated. Moving forward, she gave me a quick kiss on the cheek. Then, with another shy smile and that little wave, she was off.

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A few days later, I saw Cheryl and Leslie playing.

After they finished their game, Leslie waved, and staggered over to me. "Holy crap! Who IS she? She beat me like a drum!"

"I know, Les, I know. She did the same to me."

"Really? Wow. Anyway, thanks so much for introducing us. She's awesome!" She shook hands with Cheryl, promised to play again soon, and headed for the locker room.

"So, we meet again, Ms. Winston," I sneered with a cheesy

noir

accent, stroking my invisible goatee. She rolled her eyes. "Hello, Pelle."

"How was Leslie? Able to get you to move your feet?"

"Stop it," she scolded. "She's quite good. She could be

very

good, with some training. And quite a nice young woman, too."

"I'm glad it worked out. For both of you."

Changing gears, I said, "I wanted to thank you again for a wonderful evening the other night."

To my surprise, she turned a little pink, and looked away. "I enjoyed it as well."

Her reaction affected me oddly. I've dated casually since coming here, and was used to the game, if you want to call it that. Coquettes, teases, downright solicitations... I'd encountered the gamut of seduction techniques. Not to infer that I'm a player, not at all. Just, in my profession, and in this area, it was inevitable.

Cheryl's straightforwardness was like a breath of fresh air, and I was glad of it. I figured she would appreciate the same candor.

"Umm... do you like the water?" I asked.

"Sure?" she replied, a question in her eyes.

"Perhaps you'd go for a day-sail with me? I'm off on Monday..."

I had lucked into an old 25-ft Cheoy Lee Frisco Flyer a few years back. I got to talking with one of the members who was looking to get something bigger. He gave me a pretty good deal, and I was tickled to death with it.

It took a bit of work - all boats are holes in the water that you throw money into - but she was a classic design with lots of teak, and the old girl relished the attention. The hull was painted black, but her most unique feature was her tanbark sails. "Tanbark" is a process of soaking sailcloth in dye made from oak bark. It gives the sails a warm, earthy, reddish-brown color, but actually has practical applications dating back to the days of cotton sails, providing protection from the sun and the elements.

Anyway, that's enough with the history lesson - I just thought it looked cool. I named her "

Sigøjner

." And she was perfect for two.

Cheryl was pretty keen on the idea, which was gratifying and exciting. I told her I'd take care of everything; but she might want to bring some warm clothes, just in case.

When we got to the slip, I could see her puzzling out the name on the transom, painted in gold script. Danish and Dutch, while quite different in many regards, do share a few similarities in vocabulary. She hazarded, "

Gypsy?

"

"Yep. When I saw her under sail for the first time, that's the first thing that popped into my head. You'll see," I added with a wink. I opened the hatches, letting the cabin air out, then started carting food, drinks, and ice below to the little galley. Cheryl didn't even ask if I needed help, she just grabbed the rest of the bags and nimbly hopped aboard. Once the gear was stowed, we putted out of the harbor under the little diesel's power.