Hands on instruction (Geneviève)

It’s a sunny early-Spring day, but the late-afternoon air carries a bite sharp enough to make Geneviève shiver in her dry-fit shirt and shorts. “How the heck do you guys practice in this?” she asks, hopping up and down in a desperate attempt to warm up. “I’m already freezing.”

You grin, enjoying the rare sight of Geneviève in exercise clothes. “Don’t worry—I’ll have you sweating soon enough.” Adjusting the ball basket, you motion toward her. “Shall we start?” 

Geneviève lifts her racket, looking at you quizzically from across the baseline. “Uhh, at the risk of sounding like a ‘noob’—to use D’s favorite vocabulary—how do I hold this thing again?”

You laugh, realizing you’ve skipped several crucial instructions in your eagerness to begin. “Oh—right. Sorry.”

Jogging over to her side of the court, you show her how to count the bevels and wrap her fingers around the racket. “This is the grip you’ll use for your forehand. You’ll switch to… this for the backhand,” you say, guiding her hand with yours. Her eyes follow your fingers closely, but at the contact, something softens at the corners of her gaze.

After walking her through the grips and both the forehand and backhand swing, you look up. “Got it?”

Geneviève chuckles, shaking her head. “Eh. I’m still struggling to see how I’m supposed to hit the ball over the net when the racket’s pointing straight at the ground.”

You bite back a smile, remembering thinking the same thing—except it’s been pretty more than a decade ago for you now. “I know, it feels weird at first. But the key is swinging low to high. My old coach used to say tennis is like life—you always want an upward trajectory.”

Geneviève snorts. “And how’s that going for you?”

Your grin melts into something gentler. “Well, I met you, so… it’s definitely trending upward.”

Geneviève laughs and tests a few experimental swings.

You step a little closer behind her. “May I?”

She turns halfway, catching your gaze; a spark of unmistakable interest flickers in her grey eyes. “Ouais, of course.”

You close the remaining distance, wrapping your body around her and placing both hands over hers. Her warmth presses against your chest and abdomen. She probably feels your breath against her neck.

“Remember—left elbow’s almost locked at the start.” You guide her through a couple of swings, then step back. “Okay, now try it on your own.”

Geneviève exhales and swings. Her knees straighten through the follow-through, transferring weight cleanly from feet to torso to shoulders in a fluid, powerful arc.

Your eyebrows shoot up, pleasantly surprised. “Wow. That’s… much better.”

She smirks and winks. “I benefit very much from hands-on instruction.”

You laugh, even as your heart skips. “Ready to give it a go?” you ask, indicating the ball basket.

Geneviève bounces lightly on her feet, suddenly focused. “Bring it on.”

Affection warms your grin. You hadn’t expected her to take this so seriously. Dragging the basket beside you, you toss her the first ball.

She swings a little too early, making contact at an odd angle.

“Don’t rush it,” you say, tossing a few more balls her way. “It’s an encounter—you meet the ball at the top of its bounce, like waiting for the right moment to take a photograph.”

She smiles at the metaphor—it’s cheesy, but apparently highly effective. She adjusts her timing, and this time the ball sings off the strings, arcing across the net and landing well within bounds.

You let out a small, celebratory sound and rush over, thumping her on the back.

She snorts at your reaction, but her eyes shine with delight. “It went over,” she says.

“It did,” you say, grinning.

Things pick up quickly after that. With a few more pointers, she improves fast—missing far fewer balls, even scrambling to return one you tossed a bit too far.

Eventually the basket is empty. Half the balls lie on her side of the court; the other half glitter like small suns across the net. “Not half bad,” you say proudly. “How do you feel?”

Geneviève’s dark hair is mussed, sweat beads at her temple, and her normally fair face is flushed.

“This is surprisingly fun,” she says, still winded. “Definitely makes me appreciate how good you are. You make crazier things look easy.”

Your heart does something complicated at that. Gently, you brush a fallen strand of hair from her eyes.

After a water break and a third basket of balls, you ask, “Ready for a rally?”

Geneviève brightens. “Sure. What happens if I beat you?”

You laugh. “How about: loser does whatever the winner says?”

Geneviève grins. “Deal. Since you haven’t taught me how to serve yet, you can serve—but I start at 40–love.”

You smirk. “Look at you. Very familiar with the scoring system.”

She winks. “Of course. I’ve watched more tennis matches than I can count. Also, apparently the scoring system might’ve come from medieval French clocks, though that theory’s contested.”

You pause. “Huh. I didn’t know that.” Pocketing a couple balls, you step to the baseline with a growing smirk on your face. “Doesn’t mean you stand a chance, though.”

Geneviève wiggles her butt in an exaggerated imitation of your pre-serve stance. “We’ll see.”

You laugh, delighted. You’ve always loved the way she backs herself—and how that often extends to her unwavering confidence in you.

You gift her an easy, underarm serve. Geneviève returns it, scrambling for the next ball. You make her work, stretching her a little farther with every shot. She lasts five shots before missing. “15–40.”

She puts up little resistance, but you’re impressed at the length of the rallies she’s been managing nevertheless—especially considering the fact that she has been holding a racket for less than an hour. The ball sails back and forth between you, forming a steady rhythm.

At deuce, you finally end it with a backhand down-the-line that she tries—heroically—to reach by dropping into a full split. “Ooof,” she grunts, collapsing starfish-style on the court.

Laughing, you sit beside her. “Don’t die. You still owe me that favor.”

Geneviève groans theatrically. She reaches for your hand, and when you take it, she pulls you down beside her. The two of you lie shoulder to shoulder, staring up at the darkening evening sky.

Geneviève’s breathing slowly begins to even out. “Feels really good when you hit it right,” she muses. “I used to think you were crazy saying tennis is like a conversation. But now… I get it.”

You prop yourself up on an elbow. “When we first met, you said ‘I don’t do physical exercise.’ Look at you now. We’ll make a tennis player out of you yet.”

Geneviève laughs, then sobers up. She meets your gaze with a tenderness that makes your heart twist. “Thanks for showing me your world.”

You think of her earlier—scrambling across the court, calling out nonsense trash talk—things any real varsity athlete would never say—looking like she belongs on the court with you. You’ve only had a few months together, but she’s slid so seamlessly into your life it feels like she’s always been part of it.

Maybe this is what love is: someone learning the language of angles and footwork, showing up sweaty and earnest, meeting you exactly where you are—like the clean thwack of a ball struck at the perfect moment.

“Now,” you say, voice dipping lower, “About that favor I’m owed...”

Geneviève’s gaze holds yours. There’s an unmistakable spark in her eyes at your tone shift. She rolls onto her side, propping herself up on one elbow to mirror you. The movement brings her close enough to you that you feel the heat radiating off her sweat-warmed skin.

“Ah oui?” She murmurs, honey-soaked. “And what exactly did you have in mind?”

You lean in, letting the anticipation stretch—not touching her, not yet—just hovering close enough for her breath to brush your lips.

You trail your fingers along the inside of her wrist, up the line of her forearm. A subtle shiver travels through her.

Keeping your voice low, you say, “Come here.”

It’s not a request.

Geneviève obeys instantly—half pulling you, half letting herself fall into your space until your chests brush and sweat still clings to your shirts. Your hand finds her waist. She exhales shakily, the sound soft but unmistakably a response to your grip.

You tilt her chin up with two fingers, delighted at the flicker of anticipation that crosses her expression, the way her eyelashes flutter.

“Kiss me,” you growl. “As a start.”

She laughs—a short, breathless sound. “Mon dieu. You’re adding ‘parts’ to the favor now?”

“Oh,” you purr. Your thumb brushes the corner of her mouth, slow and deliberate. “Would you prefer I have my way with you right here, in the middle of the tennis court where any one of my teammates might walk by?”

Her gaze darkens beautifully.

Then she kisses you—hungry, warm, and open-mouthed, just rough enough to betray how long she wants this. Her free hand slides up your back, fingers curling and pressing into the skin underneath your shirt, pulling you fully against her.

The world narrows to the sweet, sun-dusted taste of her lips and the soft thump of her heartbeat against your palm.

By the time she pulls away—barely—you’re both breathing harder than you did during the whole rally.

“Shall we do this same time next week?” she whispers again, but this time, her voice is velvet-soft and wickedly sure of itself.

You grin and lean your forehead on hers, brushing your lips against hers for the briefest, teasing second.

“Absolutely,” you say. “For now though? What do you say we head back to your room?”

Geneviève‘s answering smile is pure fire.