Page 110 of Drop Shot
Elias grabs my stray ball and tosses it back over the net to me. “Try again.”
I’m glad he’s such a patient teacher.
I reposition myself at the baseline and prepare to attempt my serve again.
This one goes better, not great, but it does make it to where Elias can hit it back.
I sprint to catch the ball, extending my racket to hit and it smacks into the net on my side.
“I don’t think I’m very good at tennis,” I groan.
Elias chuckles. “You’ve never played. You can’t be great at everything on the first try.”
I frown, because that’s always been something I’ve struggled with. If I’m not good at something right off the bat it drives me insane.
“I don’t like to lose.”
He chuckles, bouncing a ball with his racket. “I’ve noticed. Ready?”
“I guess.”
He serves the ball and it lands to my right. I hurry to get to it before it bounces a second time.
“Look at you!” Elias sounds ecstatic when I hit it—pretty forcefully—back to him. “See, you’re getting it. Dare I say, you’re a natural.”
“I wouldn’t go that far.”
Despite the fact that I spend a lot of mornings at the hotel gyms or doing yoga in the room I feel entirely out of shape running around after the tennis ball. How Elias manages this for three, sometimes five, sets I’ll never know.
We play for about an hour before he calls it a day, and packs up the supplies.
“Would you play with me again sometime?” he asks, sliding the rackets back into his bag.
“Yeah, I would. I had fun.”
His smile has his eyes twinkling. Being the one on the receiving end of a smile like that is a special thing. What was I thinking turning him down? I have to be out of my mind, right? Who turns down the guy they’ve had a crush on for years?
“I’m glad you had fun.”
“Thanks for forcing me out of the hotel room.”
He brushes his finger over my cheek—the quick gesture yanking every bit of oxygen from my lungs. “You’ve been holing up in there working too much. You needed to get out.”
Back at the hotel, when we arrive to the room, he sets his stuff down and announces, “I’m going to the pool. Do you want to go?”
I’ve always enjoyed pools—especially saltwater pools—there’s something about being in water and the weightlessness that helps my muscles especially if I’ve been having a flare up, which thankfully I haven’t.
My gut is telling me to turn him down—that I’m playing with fire, but the words, “Yeah, the pool sounds great,” comes out of my mouth instead.
Elias lets me use the bathroom first to change. The bikini I packed is a blue and white gingham number that ties at the front. It’s been a while since I wore it, and I forgot how cheeky the bottoms are. Thank goodness I thought to bring in a pair of loose white shorts and a t-shirt. I know he’ll see me in the bikini at the pool, but somehow that feels different than stepping out of the bathroom into our shared room barely wearing anything.
Elias is lying on the bed when I leave the bathroom—ankles crossed and already in his swim shorts, perfect abs on full display. There’s not an ounce of fat on him. I’m certain I could bounce a quarter off his pecs if I wanted to.
“Ready to go?” he asks, hopping up.
“Just a second. Let me pack a bag.”
While he’s putting his shoes on, I grab one of my bags and load it up with my laptop, iPad, a sketchpad, and my kindle just in case I decide to do more than hang in the pool.
