All In The Name of Love

I’m constantly in search of love, but not like this. No, definitely not like this.

Sweat beads on the nape of my neck, and I can already feel a burn searing into my skin. The court is on fire, heat blazing into the flat soles of my shoes. I retrieve the ball from where it sits at the base of the net and take my position on the left side of the court. I lean forward slightly, the toe of my right foot digging into the ground. My left foot is sturdily planted behind the baseline as I bounce the ball three times with my left hand. My mind settles, and though the air is stuffy all around me, it’s quiet. The eyes of my teammates smolder into my back as I gear up for the serve, holding the ball against my racket, right where the head and handle meet. 

“Love, forty.” 

My right arm swings back, my elbow bending at the back of my head, my left arm sending the ball into the air gently but with purpose. I tilt my gaze up, following the neon yellow as it reaches its apex in the sky. My knees bend and within microseconds, I launch myself forward, racket slicing through the air, and the sound it emits as it makes contact is almost orgasmic. I’m still for a second as I trace the serve, watching it rocket over the net and bounce into the appropriate box on the other side of the court. I’m only granted a pause of satisfaction of a successful start to the point before I quickly shuffle to the center of the baseline, anticipating my opponent’s return.

To my luck, the point is completely in my control. She returns the serve with an impressive backhand, but it shoots straight back to me. My forehand is my best friend; I slam it back to the other side with fervor, placing it in the bottom right corner of the court. My opponent doesn’t struggle to rally back, but the chase to the ball definitely limits her strategy. Right back to my forehand. 

The point continues for a couple of minutes. I’m running her up and down the baseline, hoping to wear her out with consistency instead of power. As she stretches out her racket to return a hit that has landed right on the alley line of the right side of the court, I see my opportunity. I rush the ball, this time a backhand, swinging it hard for a short ball on the left side, skidding in the service box. She sprints in an attempt to make any sort of contact, but I already know the point is mine. A minor win in the game, but it lit the fire under my ass that I desperately needed.

Fifteen, forty.

My confidence is slowly boiling with each hit. My opponent is good. Better, even. But that’s what makes each serve, each return so satisfying. Finally, some good fucking tennis. We maintain an intense rally, but I know it’s not my power or speed that will win me this game. Where I lack in physical strength, I make up for in strategy. I know where I want the ball to land, and my swings follow through on the plan. Forehand to the back left side. Bring her up to the net. Back to the left corner. Rush the net and send her into the right corner. There is no margin for error. 

Thirty, forty.

No sudden moves. I feed the ball back to her, alternating between her forehand and backhand, but keeping her complacent at the center of the baseline. It’s rhythmic, the way we rally. It’s almost a dance, the movement of our feet, the swing of our rackets. It’s beautiful. We continue to tango, the air around us growing with tension with each hit we return. Moments like these, I think I can die doing this forever. 

It’s almost unnoticeable. She falters on a step, pulling her racket back just a hair too late. She makes contact with the ball, but it’s not enough. It slams into the net on her side, and I let out a pant of silent success.

Deuce.

I can almost taste victory. Almost. I remain still for a few seconds, bouncing the ball on the baseline. I will my racing heart to slow down and block out any internal monologue that is about to consume me. My teammates whisper anxiously behind the fence, but the silence is immediate once my hand brings the ball up to my racket. I don’t even think, letting muscle memory take over on the serve. My body knows. Rear back, elbow bent in the air, left-hand toss, swing down, the sound of string to ball contact. I don’t even have to look, I already know. I hear the ball land in the service box on the other side of the court, and then, nothing. Ace. Cheers radiate from my side of the court, the first time this entire match. 

Advantage, in. 

I’m on the left side of the court again, sweat dripping down my temple. I bounce the ball thrice, take a deep breath, and gear up. I toss the ball, and time seems to slow as it sails up. My eyes meet the blue sky, the court is silent. The grip of my right hand on my racket tightens, and I swing down. 

Love is overrated. I don’t need it; definitely not like this.