You Don't Know What Tennis Is
(Pictures are not mine)
I have been working on this since James first posted about tennis lessons 😭 Should also preface here that I do not know tennis well, if at all. Hopefully, this is mostly right.
Synopsis: You are James Marriott's tennis coach - but not for long.
Okay.
Water Bottle? Check.
Sun visor? Check.
Cones? Check.
New pack of balls? Check.
Rackets? Shit.
You turn away from your gym bag, gaze swivelling around your hallway. You know those rackets were hanging from your shoulder as you’d staggered downstairs just minutes ago, juggling everything you need for the tennis lesson you very well could be late for. Not the first impression that you want to give to a new client.
There they are, against the wall at the bottom of the stairs. With a sigh, you scoop the case up onto your shoulder, swing the gym bag onto the other, and rush out the door. Fortunately, the court where you coach is only around the corner.
Still, with every step, the bag gets heavier on your shoulder. In your almost 8 years of coaching tennis professionally, that’s about the only complaint you have. Golfers have caddies, and that’s hardly a strenuous sport, so where’s your grace?
You check your watch, still considering the unfairness of the predicament that you put yourself in. Not too bad. Ten minutes until your 2 o’clock. Set up will have to be quick.
You’re about to round the corner, pulling you bag back up your shoulder and glaring at the pavement as though it was the reason for your lateness and not your sluggish lunch, when you almost collide with someone crossing the road.
Your eyes dart up, wide and apologetic. “Oh my God, I’m sorry.”
At the exact same time, the stranger takes a step back with an equally as regretful look on his face. One of his hands hovers a little awkwardly beside your shoulder, the other clutching his phone with three fingers and thumb, like he’d almost dropped it. “Jesus, sorry, I wasn’t looking.”
Your first thought as you recover from the surprise and look up - up - at him is Shit, this guy’s tall… and handsome. He’s got a cap on, leaving his eyes gleaming in shadow behind his glasses. A Nike vest reveals toned arms tattooed like a kid’s colouring book, and the gym bag on his shoulder cements where those toned arms have come from.
Your face burns when you realise you’re staring.
Once the awkward apologies are out of the way, you shuffle around each other for another uncomfortable second, both trying to get on, when he nods his head down the street, eyebrows raised. “You goin’.. This way?”
You nod, a little apologetic smile on your face. He nods too, steps back, and lets you go forward. With a near-silent sigh, you set off again ahead of him, listening to his footsteps (purposely slowed down, you think) fall back behind you. Not your proudest social interaction.
Sighing lowly, you walk quickly up the street and turn onto the court, slipping past the fence and checking your watch again. Five to two - enough time to set up your court (or at least look busy when your client gets here) and fill up your water bottle.
But as you set your bag down on the empty court, your hear those footsteps approaching again, lighter now. You look up. Slipping through the fencing, a sheepish expression now on his face, is the guy you just left behind.
You blink at him stupidly for a second, until you have the good sense to pull out your phone and check your schedule.
“James?” you eventually ask, when you’ve found both your voice and your calendar for today. He nods. “You’re early.”
“You’re late,” he retorts, a cheeky grin creeping across his face.
Despite yourself, you let out a little chuckle. “Technically, I’ve got two minutes.”
He laughs, shrugging his bag from his shoulder. “No worries. I’ll go fill up. You need water?”
“Er, yeah, please.” You unzip your own gym bag and toss your bottle over to him, unaware that he’s busy digging for his own. To your surprise, he catches it one-handed without so much as a flinch. Nice reflexes, you note to yourself. He’s gonna need them.
James nods once, then wanders off towards the club, looking simultaneously out of place and right where he belongs.
“Take your time,” you call, eying the cones you packed. The only response you get is a chuckle, floating back to you on the spring breeze.
Exactly the impression you did not want to give, and you went right ahead and gave it. God hep you, he’s gorgeous. Still, at least you managed to talk this time.
Shaking your head as though it can shake out the self-deprecating thoughts, you start focusing on setting up - and quick.
First, you place your foldable ball basket by the baseline at the far end of the court, then toss a few balls around the court for easy access. Then, you set up a few cone markers, planning to guide target practice. Finally, you pull out your racket, plus a couple of spare ones - one for James, and another in case one breaks. It happens.
As you move through the motions, the familiar routine of setting up court, normally you’d be assessing the upcoming session (What level will they be at? How can I get them rallying quickly? Where should I start?). But all you can think about is the client you’re going to be having it with.
The client who strolls back over, casually swinging his waterbottle from a finger, just as you’re shifting the cones.
“You ready now?” James asks as he places both bottles down beside the net and surveys your set up with interest. There’s no malice in his voice, though, only humour. Rolling your eyes, you check your watch. Bang on 2:00 pm.
“And right on schedule,” you hit back, and you actually have to resist the urge to stick your tongue out at him like a child.
He smirks, but only shrugs.
You give him a satisfied nod, like you’d won an argument. “Okay,” you breathe out, turning your back to him to be sure that you’re happy with your set up (and hold on yourself). “Let’s start with the basics.
That slightly smug air about him dissipates as you put him through his paces. He’s fit, yes, but not entirely light on his feet, with a hand eye coordination that leaves something to be desired.
Still, he works hard throughout the hour, lightening up as he gets used to the movements and your style. The first lesson is always a simple one in terms of coaching, since you want to ease a client in gently. Often, though, they’re are so eager to please that they push themselves too hard, their tenacity like a fog that doesn’t allow them to see that, in order to get good, they have to start at the very beginning.
But James is a breeze. He listens carefully to your instructions, your mini-lectures, your encouragements. Plus, his easy demeanour and ability to poke fun at himself manages to make you laugh throughout. You can’t remember ever having such a fun first lesson.
However, he isn’t completely chill. There’s a burning determined with every swing of the racket, every dash across the court. His eyes are slitted in focus when you demonstrate, head tilting as you shout directions through the technical drills you give him - “Little steps, you got it”, “Watch the ball, that’s it”, “Recover! Recover!”
The selfish side of you wants to call it an eagerness to please you. But, really, you see it as an eagerness to please himself.
When you part ways after this first session, the awkwardness from the beginning has dissipated. You walk together to the corner you’d collided on, where James waves goodbye and promises to look where he’s going next week.
He slots very easily into your coaching routine. Too easily. You’re not having to check his name before sessions, as you’ve had to do before with newbies. You learn quickly what kind of tennis racket he prefers working with, and stock up on extra just to bring to his lessons. You’re even thinking about him during other clients sessions - how he follows your instructions better than her, or how he would have nailed that hit better than him. And you’re never late to lessons again. In fact, it gets a bit ridiculous, because he starts racing you to get there first.
On your seventh lesson, you actually spot each other on the same street you’d almost mowed each other down on, and race on opposite sides of the road to get to the court first. Breathless and sweaty already, he wins. (Damn him and his long legs).
By this point, he’s visibly improved both in his tennis technique and in his confidence. But not just his confidence in tennis.
It’s at the end of this very same lesson that…. Well, you stop being his coach,
The session has gone well. Mostly, you’ve been focusing on foot work, which isn’t James’s strong point. He always seems to forget how big his feet are when in pursuit of the ball, as you never miss the opportunity to tease him about. But, with cones and patience, he’s just about learnt how to balance his focus over the last hour.
Towards the end of the hour, as you’re packing up your markers and balls, you notice a glimmer in his eyes. He never hides his mischief well. You can always tell when he’s trying to hit a slice serve, because his eyes shine with the idea. (Not that you focus on his eyes. No. Not at all.) You dread to think what he has coming for you now.
Just when you’re zipping up your bag, James’s voice echoes across the court. “How about a game?”
You turn to him, eyebrows raised. He’s standing in front of you on the other side of the net, watching you clear up with his head tilted. His eyes are squinted against the sun - but you can tell they’re glimmering at the top of that smirk.
“A game?” you repeat disdainfully, not because you doubt that you heard him right, but because you can hardly believe his audacity.
He just nods, smile fixed in place. The racket’s still in his hand - your racket - and he’s spinning it against his palm with his thumb.
You’ve not played a proper game with James yet. Sure, you’ve rallied, and taught him all the rules, but you don’t typically challenge your clients to a proper game until at least a few months into training. And you’ve certainly never had a client challenge you.
“Why?” you ask, suspicion dripping from your tone. You shade your eyes against the sun with your hand, as though seeing him clearer will expose his intentions.
“Don’t think I can beat you?” James challenges.
You scoff. “No. You couldn’t.”
His smile widens. “That’s not very encouraging, coach.” He braces one hand on the net post, fingers wrapping tightly around the top, then leans closer to you. His eyes, still bright with excitement, hold your stare falteringly. “Prove it. One set.”
You consider him for a moment. He’s still leant against the net, watching you carefully. The perfect picture of calm and controlled. Except for the racket tapping against his leg, the hunch to his shoulders, and the very slight bite of his bottom lip as he waits for you to respond.
“Fine,” you say confidently. “One set. But you’ll lose.”
Tension seems to release from James’s body the second you agree. He exhales in a long huff, then shrugs. You can’t quite read it. The defeat of someone who’s resigned to their losing? Or the quiet confidence of someone who has a hidden agenda? Before you can decide, he’s scooping up a tennis ball from your random scatterings across the court, then pacing back towards the baseline.
Shaking your head in disbelief, you walk to your starting point, stretching out your neck, your arms, your shoulders. The thrill of a game is already thrumming through you. Right now, he’s not a client. He’s an opponent. And you’ll be damned if he’s going to beat you. Even if he does have pretty eyes. Focus.
You’re ready in seconds. Racket in hand. Feet shoulder width apart. Eyes focused on him. You raise your eyebrows at him once - game on.
He’s about to throw up the ball and start the first set, but he stops just before it leaves his fingertips. For a moment, he stands there like a Michelangelo.
“Hey!” His voice carries clear as the sky across the court. “If you’re so confident. What do I get if I win?” There’s a darkness in his voice. A tease. A dare. “A date?”
You’d been ready for the game to start. Not for a proposition of this size. The blood that had begun thrumming at his challenge seems to freeze within your veins.
Something has gone unspoken of over these sessions. You know it. Thought about it almost any time you weren’t occupied with coaching or planning. Often thought it about when you were occupied with coaching or planning too.
But now it’s verbalised.
And you have to consider… do you dare?
The way he’s tilting his head at you? That little, knowing smile tugging at his lips? The glimmer in his eyes, shining through the shadow his shading hand casts? The confidence in his stance?
Yes. Yes, you do.
“A date,” you repeat firmly, loud and clear across the court.
He cocks his head. A grin - unrestrained and giddy - grows on his face. “And if you win?”
You shrug, looking away demurely to give yourself a second to think. To realise just what you’re doing right now. You look back at him. “I keep coaching you in a completely professional capacity.”
His nose twitches, a little wrinkle. Can’t be having that. “Fine. You’re on. Love-All.”
He’s not even finished speaking when he throws the ball up and starts the game. Still, he doesn’t catch you out. You hit it back with a graceful dart, and the game is on.
The court is your kingdom, and not even is that adorable wrinkle of concentration above his nose as he bounces after the ball enough for your crown to slip.
At least, not until you want it to.
The thwack of the ball against his racket sends it hurling back to you, and you only just make the hit back. James hadn’t expected that. He thought that point was a shoo in. Your hit lands cleanly out of his reach, and bounces out.
15-Love.
You smirk at him across the court, eyebrows raising. He doesn’t even meet the look, never mind acknowledge it. Just retrieves the ball, and starts the next set immediately. There’s determination in every fibre of his being unlike anything you’ve seen from him before. His eyebrows and lips are set, body tense, eyes laser focused on the ball. And when they’re not, they’re laser focused on you.
His first score is a damn good hit. You were never going to catch it. Finally, his resolute mask cracks just slightly with a smug smirk. Sweat is beading along his hairline, and he swipes at it with his inked forearm, holding your stare like he knows you want to see the movement. Even though there’s a small smile on your face, you shake your head.
You’re deliberately slow in picking up the ball, giving him the moment to recoup. Out of the corner of your eye, you watch him take a sip of water. You go even slower when he pours some water into his hands and washes his face with it, letting it drip down his neck.
You watch him get back into position with a sharp, unblinking stare. The second he’s steady, you’re launching the ball into the sky - and hitting it his way with deliberate, calculated slowness.
15-All.
The game goes on.
You’ve taught him all he knows, so you can tentatively predict his movements. And, most of the time, you’re right. You're proud to see, though, that you’ve taught him well. His footwork’s rarely out of place, and he even starts predicting some of your moves, with as much eerie foresight as you naturally use to predict his. He even throws in a few grunts that Serena would be proud of.
As the game progresses, your muscles start to tighten. Adrenaline, focus, and a touch of fatigue. You’ve been too busy being a tennis coach, rather than a tennis player, for far too long. But your determination to end this game exactly as you want remains second to none. And you know exactly what prize you’re working towards.
40-40.
The dreaded deuce.
But this game has played beautifully into your hands.
Sweat drips down James’s forehead, glinting in the mid-afternoon sun as he bounces the ball once, twice off the floor. Your body’s poised. Ready. Two more points.
And you know who’s going to get them.
James holds the ball in his fist for one second of stillness. His eyes meet yours, and you grin. He shakes his head minutely. Then, he serves.
The ball flies over the net, and you see it almost in slow motion, the long shadow it casts stealing the sunlight from the court. You jog forward, hit it straight back. It’s an easy forehand hit for James, and he manages it with impressive effortlessness - and aim. The ball spirals to the opposite corner of the court and, though you run after it, it’s a halfhearted chase.
“Advantage you,” you call across the court, panting. Just for emphasis, you add, “You prick.”
James laughs, twisting his racket. “Sounds like the professional coaching’s already out of the window, even if I win.”
You pull a face at him before tossing the ball up, and serving. It’s a near miss, since James is laughing at himself, but he just about manages to catch it.
The ball flies back to you and you hit it no problem, feet crossing as you bounce along the court. The rally continues, getting more aggressive the longer it goes on - from both sides.
Until…
Wham.
The ball falls outside of your boundary line.
Panting, James stares at the spot as the ball rolls away. Your eyes dart from the ball to his face. You can’t hide your smile as you call, “Game.”
Slowly, James’s slitted eyes glide to yours. His tongue is pushed behind his teeth, jutting out his stubbled jaw. His face is sheened with sweat.
“Fuck off,” he eventually says. You can’t quite tell if it’s disbelief or suspicion that taints his voice. You don’t really fucking care.
“Oh,” you say, in a knowing voice. “You win.”
Carelessly, you toss your racket to the floor as you bound over to the net. From there, you can see the knowing smirking beginning to raise one side of his mouth. “So, where are you taking me?”
He blinks at you once. Twice. Then shakes his head, smirk finally emerging full force. “Back to the fucking starting position, you cheat.”
You’re grinning at the disbelief and amusement in his voice. “You want a rematch?”
He looks at you for a moment more, completely still. Then, he marches over to the net, leans one hand against the same post he’d coyly propped himself up on when starting this match, and places the other on the net’s centre strap. He’s looming over you now, his shadow blocking you from the sun.
His voice is quiet. “The pier. That’s where I’m taking you. Friday night.”
You look up at him, eyes bright. “I won’t date a client,” you warn, but the authority that should be behind it is lost within the soft mumble of your voice.
He tilts his head slightly, so close to your face now that his nose brushes yours as he moves. “You’re fired, then.”
You smirk. “Nah, I quit.”
He’s shaking his head even as he leans down to kiss you.
He’s gentle, careful, keeping his hands on the net. It’s only when you separate that you realise he’s clutching the net for dear life.
Silence reigns for a moment, the air settling around you at this seismic shift. He’s still close, even despite the net separating your bodies, and you can feel his heavy breaths against your lips. James breaks the quiet with a low mumble “I could beat you, though.”
You huff. “Yeah, right. I’ll tell your new coach they need to work on your backhand.”