11. Rohit
T he subway is nearly empty now that rush hour is over. On my way to the tennis academy, I decide to stop at my parents’ place first. I sit comfortably and scroll on my phone. Since the gala ticket that Miley gave me revealed this gala is a fundraiser for Planned Parenthood, I thought it would be a good idea to learn more about the organization.
Browsing the website confirms what I have always known; it’s a non-profit focusing on providing sexual and reproductive health care to all. I love a good non-profit and I can’t think of a better way to protect basic healthcare rights.
The subway slows at my stop, I put my phone away, and hurry off the train. I walk a few blocks to my parents’ brownstone and use my keys to let myself in.
“Mom, are you home?” I call out, as I toe off my shoes in the foyer.
“ Beta , is that you? I’m in the kitchen,” my mother calls back in her mild accent, softened by years in this country.
I make my way to the kitchen and find my mother sitting at the table, surrounded by papers.
“What are you up to, Mom?” I ask, bending to give her a quick hug.
“Oh, you know, just trying to organize the program for the next dance show. Ticket sales are going well. I think we will have a full house.” My mother beams with pride. She runs a non-profit that puts on Indian cultural shows that raise money to buy medical supplies for underserved areas of India. “ Beta , can I count on you to be part of the bhangra performance?”
“Sure Mom, you know I’d love to,” I answer as I go to the fridge. “Who is choreographing?” I inquire as I grab the milk, pour it into a bowl, then look around for cereal.
“Ah, my son, always doing things backwards. The cereal is in the cupboard behind you,” my mother chastises. “It’s the same routine that you did at Sunny and Priya’s sangeet ,” she continues.
As I stand at the kitchen island eating my cereal, I think back to the dance she references. “Oh, that was a good one, and a great pre-wedding party.” I smile.
“Yes, it was a great party, and an even more beautiful wedding,” my mother retorts. “Now, when are you going to find someone and let me throw such a beautiful party for you?”
Here we go again.
“Mom, I’m not thinking about marriage right now,” I groan as I run my hand over my beard. I’m not even thinking about dating. Hell, I haven’t even thought about random hookups.
“Your sister Reena is serious with such a good boy. They are practically engaged. I don’t know what they are waiting for, but I know it will be soon. Don’t you want to be settled too?” my mother laments as she puts her hand on her forehead dramatically, so typical for her.
“Mom, let’s not get into this. I just came to say hi. I’m on my way to meet David to work out and play some tennis,” I deflect as I put my empty bowl in the sink.
My father walks into the kitchen holding a cup of chai. “If I had known how much tennis would take over your life, I would never have started you in lessons,” he grumbles.
“Papa, what are you doing at home?” I ask, truly surprised he’s home at this time on a weekday.
“My morning case got canceled. I’m on my way to the hospital now,” he explains. “Good to see you, beta , but listen to your mother, eh?” He places his cup in the sink and walks away.
I take that as my cue to hug my mother goodbye and head to the tennis academy. When I get there, David is already in the fitness room, doing burpees. I quickly put down my bag and join him. After a few sets, we move on to weights.
We chat about our students as we alternate bicep curls and tricep kickbacks. We both think our kids are making good progress in the summer tennis program.
“Kylie is playing well,” David says as he reaches for his water bottle.
“Yeah, she’s doing great.” I beam with pride. She’s my favorite student, not that I’d ever admit I have a favorite, but she is. “Her dad lost his job recently, but because of the grant, she can stay in tennis camp and I’m so happy for her.”
What many don’t know about my tennis coaching job is that I work for a non-profit tennis academy that focuses on making the sport accessible to kids who may not otherwise be able to afford lessons. It’s part of what attracts me so much to this job.
I was afforded so many privileges growing up, and it made me acutely aware that not everyone was raised in those circumstances. But tennis saved me. It was my outlet for teenage angst, taught me about discipline and sportsmanship. I want to bring that to kids who may not otherwise have the opportunity.
“Anyway, enough chitchat. Should we play some tennis while the kids are on lunch break?” I ask.
“You’re going down, Kumar!” David’s smack talk doesn’t hit the mark, his accent is just too pleasant.
When we get to the court, we agree to play one set, since the kids need the court back in under an hour. David twirls his racquet to see who will serve first, and smirks when he wins.
He tosses the ball into the air and smacks it as hard as he can. It careens over the net and hits the center line perfectly. It bounces high and I hurry back to get into position to return. I make contact with the ball in the dead center of my racquet and the sound that comes off my forehand is perfect. When the ball bounces on David’s side of the net, it spins unexpectedly and he’s unable to return.
David returns to the base line and moans, “Love-fifteen.”
I smile as I make a heart with my hands. Man, I love tennis. But I love winning at tennis even more.
I win the first game easily, happy to be up a break. Next, it’s my turn to serve. My height puts David at a significant disadvantage and I win the next game quickly.
By now, the students have finished eating and are gathering around to watch David’s next service game.
“COACH RO!” I hear a familiar voice holler.
“Hey, Kylie,” I call out to her. “Watch this!”
Am I showing off now? Sure I am. Any competitive athlete would.
I may have spoken too soon, however, because the next game is more even. We are dead-even with a score of forty-forty. David returns to the baseline and tosses the ball perfectly. His serve is so fast, hits dead center, and I’m unable to return it.
“ACE!” David screams with joy. “Advantage, Marques.”
David is pumped with confidence and hits another fast serve. This time, I’m able to return with a slice backhand that David takes out of the air and as it comes back at me, I guess wrong, and run left when the ball hits right.
“GAME, MARQUES!” David exclaims.
“Okay, okay, Marques, you finally got on the board,” I concede as I head to the baseline. “Two games to one, don’t forget. Now, I’m going to serve.” As I had hoped, I win easily. We continue to play like this until the score of the set is my five games to his one. I only have to win once more, but I have to break David’s serve.
David wins the first few points, fueled by his brewing discontent.I’m able to recover until I only need to win one more point.
“MATCH POINT KUMAR!” Kylie calls out gleefully.David turns to glare at her. She puts her hands in the air in a sign of contrition.
David’s motivated, however, and after a few rallies back and forth, he executes a perfect drop shot. I am forced to run to the net and hurry to a volley position. I luckily volley the ball just out of David’s reach and win the game.
“GAME, KUMAR!” I shout as I walk to the net to shake David’s hand. Sportsmanship above all else, after all. David shakes my hand and his head. It takes only a second to recover and we both smile at each other and hug. Now that the game is over, we can go back to being friends.
“Kumar, you never stop schooling me,” David says as we walk off the court, weaving our way through the kids that are rushing back for the afternoon session of camp. I pause to give Kylie a high-five and then turn back to David.
“I may school you on the tennis court, David, but you school me at the bar. That accent drives the ladies wild,” I say honestly.
“Ah, yes, well, let me school you this Saturday, then. Shall we go out?” David asks as we stop at the desk to get some clean towels.
“I have a thing this Saturday,” I say as I wipe my face with the fresh towel.
“What kind of thing? A date?” David asks suspiciously.
“No, not a date, just helping out a friend,” I hedge.
“Suuuuure,” David teases as he smacks me with his towel. “I imagine this friend of yours is a woman?”
I look away but give a small nod in the affirmative.
“And I assume she is beautiful?” David continues, not dropping the subject. He gives me a nudge and an exaggerated wink.
“It’s not like that! She’s my best friend’s fiancé's best friend, if that makes sense. And we work in the same hospital. So when she needed help, I had to say yes, her beauty has nothing to do with it,” I say emphatically, but even I am skeptical that it’s the truth. I’ve known Miley for years but haven’t really gotten to know her all that well, and I’m intrigued.
David’s eyebrows waggle and says, “Be careful my friend, that’s how it always starts.”
I shrug and head to the locker rooms with David. He’s got this all wrong. Miley’s too much of a catch to be a hookup, and I don’t want to have a serious relationship. So, even though she’s beautiful, smart, and fun, Miley and I are only going to the gala as friends. Nothing more .