The story of how I met Christine still amazes me. Who knew the adventure I'd embark upon when the phone rang that Sunday afternoon?
"Is that Mark?" The voice was female, mid-twenties I guessed, but all business.
"It is." I kept up the business-like nature of the call. "How can I help you?"
"You're in my league at the tennis club. Would you like to play this week? I'm Christine, by the way."
Under my breath I cursed my buddy Chad for getting me involved in the league. Not only was it his goofy idea, but at the last minute he pulled out and left me to deal with all the whackos who called trying to arrange pointless, or so I felt, tennis matches.
I tried quickly to think of a reason not to play Christine, but in the end I lamely accepted. We agreed on a Thursday evening match and I put the phone down cursing.
Of course, the obvious thoughts of Christine being a delicious creature who would be insanely tempted by my limited charms ran through my head, but reality kept me from getting too far into the relationship before we'd met. It wasn't often the girl I met matched the promise of the voice on the phone—approximately never.
So... I turned up at the tennis club Thursday, straight from work and still thinking about the crap I'd left on my desk. I asked the girl on reception if she knew Christine but she didn't, adding vaguely that she thought she might be a new member. I went off, got changed and went out to the court she'd booked.
Christine was sitting in a chair next to the net when I got there. She stood up and offered me her hand as I approached. "Nice to meet you." she smiled.
Whilst she wasn't about to be mistaken for Anna Kournikova, Christine had a pretty face, cute, short blonde hair and a nice figure. Her breasts were restrained by a sports bra but presented themselves nicely to my eyes as they formed pleasant curves on her white, body-hugging top. She wore white shorts, low-mileage tennis shoes and stood about 5' 6".
After a few pleasantries we warmed up with some gentle shots, she elected to serve and hit the fastest tennis ball I'd ever seen straight at me. Any thoughts I had about an easy match against a girl disappeared right there.
I'm no slouch with a tennis racquet but Christine was everything I could handle, and a bit more. I chased hard in the first set and only lost 6-4 but in the second I ran out of stamina quickly and plunged 6-2. Something about her matter-of-fact demeanor kept me from being ashamed at losing to a female, but I wasn't proud of the fact, nor was I looking for a rematch anytime soon.
"That was fun." She was barely out of breath.
"Yeah." I tried to hide some of my panting. "You've played a bit then?"
"I used to play a fair bit." She wiped her face with a towel and looked down at me while I tried to stem the flow of sweat from my brow. "I was state junior champion three times before college. I've just started to play a little again. It was nice to play against someone who can also play."
Her last statement stunned me—that I was a worthy opponent!
"Well, anytime you'd like to play..." I offered, more out of courtesy than anything else.
"I've gotta run. I'll call you." she assured me, gathered up her things and headed off.
I didn't think she would call, and I certainly wasn't going to call her. She'd shown no interest in me other than a serve and volley game, and I wasn't interested in another thrashing. It was no surprise that she didn't call the following week, or the one after, but it was also strangely unsurprising when she called the week after that.
"Would you like to play again?" Her approach was again very formal.
Against my better judgment, I agreed. More than that, I offered to book the court... and started to think there was something wrong with me.
"Well, if you don't mind coming out here, my parents have a court, and it's supposed to be nice this weekend."
We agreed on Sunday, I took down the address and noted that there weren't many real estate bargains where her parents lived.
I imagined a long driveway, impeccable garden, nice new court, lemonade and maybe her parents looking on as their daughter whipped her male opponent's ass. I was close enough to the mark.
The lemonade was Gatorade, the garden was huge and the house spectacular. Christine welcomed me at the front door and immediately walked me through to the rear garden, and the court. It was in perfect condition, surrounded by a 12ft fence and had a small refrigerator by the umpire's chair, where the Gatorade was kept.
Today Christine was wearing black shorts and a pink top. Her hair was swept back with a band and she seemed more relaxed in her parents' garden. She explained they were out of town and assured me there was no hurry to start as I fished in my bag for shoes.
I tried hard, but tanked again as she ran me all over the court, chasing shots that were too well-placed for me to reach. This time it was 6-3, 6-3 and I was more exhausted than our first match.
As we sat in seats next to the refrigerator Christine told me again that she enjoyed playing with me, and showed no sign that it was really beating me that she enjoyed. Her demeanor was hardly "warm", but I had at least started to enjoy being around her.
"I'm not good enough for you." I laughed.
"Not true." she dismissed. "I have to play really well to keep up with you. A couple of points going the other way and the result would be different."
"You don't need to be kind. I'm not ashamed of being beaten by a girl. You're better than any guy I've played against in may years."
"I like playing with men better." She softened to a muse. "Nothing to do with beating them because they're men, but I like how men try harder, because I'm a girl, if that makes sense."
"Kind of." I thought I followed the logic.