Page 78 of Game, Set, MatchMaker

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Chapter20

Parker

There are certain things I know about Gemma.

I know she’s crazy smart..

I know she takes time to process things.

I know that with her, I have to move slowly.

I’ve known all these things for ten years. I learned them when we were young, first dipping our toes into a relationship.

And now, I’m learning new things about her, too. I’m learning she’s a wiz of a therapist. A talented and thoughtful CEO of her company. A super hard worker.

She likes maple syrup. A lot. Like, she’ll drench her blueberry pancakes, or yogurt, or even strawberries in the stuff. The woman has a sweet tooth.

Also, she doesn’t like to take no for an answer.

And, thanks to the fact we’ve been living together for a week now and playing tennis together every afternoon, I also know how she can improve her forehand.

“It’s your grip,” I tell her, after she hits yet another ball way over the chain link fence. “You’re over gripping. Relax it. Loosen it up.”

“Do you know how hard it is to relax?” Gemma says, as she jogs over to pick up another ball. “You can’t just tell a person who has been in chronic stress-mode for years to relax. That’s like telling a person with focus problems to ‘pay attention’. It doesn't work like that.” She bounces the ball down onto the pavement like she’s preparing to hit it.

“Hang on,” I say, as I jog her way.

It’s a beautiful fall day. It rained earlier, but now the sky’s mostly blue with a few gray clouds still lingering to the west. The court’s dusted in a layer of wet leaves around the edges, in little piles where we raked them yesterday. Our bags are propped on the metal bench, and there are two water bottles over there, too, ready for when we want a break.

Gemma’s cheeks are rosy, and she’s wearing one of my baggy sweatshirts rolled up to her elbows. The thing goes down to her knees, like some sort of dress.

She smells sweet, like the vanilla latte she had earlier at the Steaming Mug, where we sat for hours, watching the rainstorm pass through.

“What are you doing?” she asks with a giggle, as I come up behind her. I wrap my arms around her body and grip the racket over her hand. “Showing you.”

“Oh…” She wriggles a little, and I kiss her ear.

My hand cradles hers and the racket. “Pretend you’re picking the racket up off the ground. That’s how you hold it, all the time. Like you’re carrying it around, easy, light.”

I feel her hand relax, under mine.

“Better,” I whisper. I kiss her neck, just below her ear, and then release her and jog back over to my side of the court.

I hit a ball at the backboard. It bounces her way, and when she smacks it with her new grip, the shot’s solid and strong.

She whoops with pleasure.

We keep playing, and not one single other ball goes over the net.

Soon we’re both worked. Her, more than me, but I won’t let her know that, because that’s another thing I know about Gemma: she’s competitive. We head to the bench and sit side by side and slurp down ice cold water, like we’ve done after sessions like this all week.

It’s been so easy, getting into a routine with Gemma. I don’t know what I’ll do when she leaves.

It’s Friday, seven days since she arrived in town.

We’ve talked about a lot of things this week.

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