Love Game
"She takes tennis lessons to impress a man who doesn't deserve her. The instructor is Somali—patient, skilled, and increasingly attractive as weeks pass. By the time she realizes who she actually wants to impress, she's already winning."
I'm learning tennis for the wrong reasons.
Adam plays tennis. Adam is successful. Adam will finally notice me if I can hold a racket without embarrassing myself.
The instructor is not part of the plan.
"Your grip is wrong."
Abdi moves my fingers gently, positioning them on the handle. He's patient in a way Adam never is.
"Like this?"
"Better." He steps back. "Now swing."
I miss the ball completely.
"We'll work on that."
Weeks pass.
My swing improves. My serve gets stronger. And somewhere along the way, I start noticing things about Abdi.
The way he encourages instead of criticizes. The way he celebrates small victories. The way his shirt clings to his shoulders when he demonstrates a backhand.
"You're distracted," he says in week four.
"I'm tired."
"You're looking at me instead of the ball."
Caught.
"Maybe the ball isn't what I want to hit."
"Why are you learning tennis?" he asks after practice.
"To impress someone."
"Is it working?"
"I don't know anymore." I sit on the bench. "I started this for a man who doesn't know I exist. Now I'm not sure he's worth the effort."
"Why not?"
"Because he's never once asked about my day. Or celebrated when I did something well. Or—" I look at Abdi. "Or looked at me the way you do."
"I shouldn't look at you like anything."
"Why not?"
"You're my student." He sits beside me. "There are rules."
"I'm paying for lessons, not a relationship." I face him. "What if I stopped paying?"
"What?"
"What if I wasn't your student anymore?" I hold his gaze. "Then what?"
He kisses me in the empty tennis court.
Where I've spent weeks pretending I cared about forehands and backhands. Where he taught me more than tennis.
"This is complicated—"
"This is simple." I pull him closer. "I don't want to impress anyone else."
We make love in the clubhouse after hours.
On the couch where I've rested between sets. With rackets on the floor and the court lights still on.
"Abdi—"
"You're the best student I've ever had."
"That's inappropriate—"
"So is this." He pushes deeper. "And I don't care."
Adam texts the next day.
Wants to play tennis. Finally interested.
I delete his number.
"What happened?" Abdi asks.
"I found someone worth impressing." I kiss him. "Someone who was worth the effort all along."
We play tennis together now.
Partners instead of teacher and student. He wins most games.
I win everything else.
"Marry me," he says after a match.
"You're sweaty."
"You're beautiful." He kneels on the court. "What do you say?"
"Game, set, match." I pull him up. "Yes."
The best lesson I ever learned.