Hymn for The Weekend

Chapter 2

Pulling up my drive way in his brand new cashmere Honda, there sat Milos, hair combed to the side with a flirty smile playing on his lips.

I give a nervous smile back and shove my tennis bag in the trunk. Getting in the car, I buckle my seat belt, set my water jug on the floor, and open the passenger mirror.

"Sup Audra" He said

Starting our drive to the courts, I reply, "Nothin much coach."

"Not that I don't mind waisting my gas on you and all, but when are you going to start driving yourself?" He asked.

"When I get a job."

"And when will that be, exactly?"

"Today" I said blandly.

"Thank goodness. What job?" he asked curiously.

"Oh umm, it's umm, at CVS Pharmacy. Yeah Uhh CVS. I'm a cashier working nightshifts. But don't worry, it starts at 6:30pm and ends at 10:00pm so it won't screw up my sleep."

"Which one?"

"The one by Publix."

"Cool beans."

Pulling into the parking lot of the tennis facility, he parks, we grab our equipment, and head to the courts. I jog around two courts once, skip around two courts once, side step with my left and right leg leading first around two courts once, then go through my stretching routine.

"So what are we doing today?" I ask, stretching my calves.

"You're doing an hour of hardcore drills, then we're going to do some live ball hitting for the second hour before your break.

We warm up our strokes then pick up balls to start my drills.

"Okay what drill first?"

"You're going to start at the service line, hit an on the rise forehand then come in and hit a backhand volley. Then you're gong to move back, hit a backhand on the rise then come in and hit a forehand volley. Cross court on all on the rise shots and down the line on all volleys. Got it?"

"Got it."

I start on the service line then dart out of my ready position, striking the ball on my sweet spot of the racquet with a semi-western grip. With a light Sharapova/Azarenka grunt, my flat forehand lands right in the corner of the court while the momentum of the shot pulls me into the net. Stepping with my right foot towards the net post, my arm imitates a side arm punch with my racquet as I hit a clean and precise Roger Federer short backhand volley. Moving back to the service line, I swing back ready for an on the rise backhand. Stepping in, I hop on my right leg as I hit a Novak Djokokic backhand, a spinny rocket with a bit of angle on it. I repeat this 12 times.

On the last ball of the drill, I step in and crush a flat forehand at 98 miles an hour . The ball curves violently and smacks him directly in the "Uh Oh Zone." All the color drains from his face and his eyes go back into his head as he collapses onto the cemented court. Gasping, I sprint over to Milos and gently grab his head. Pulling his eyebrows back, I open his eyes slightly. His luscious creamy brown eyes blink as his pupils adjust.

"Oh my gosh Milos, I am so sorry! I didn't mean to do that!"

He groans slightly.

I hug him softly digging my head into his chest. His sweet and refreshing cologne calms my nerves as I shake at thought of almost castrating my coach. Still hugging, we stand up. Looking down at me, all I see are his cheeks, strawberry red, his lips, a smile dancing on the corners of his mouth, and the way his eyes blaze through me like fire in the dark.