Chapter 17 #2
“No, what you need is to use these,” he said, stepping up into her space, towering over her, his hands gripping her hips just like they’d done on the steps not so long ago.
“Turn your body, use your right hand only, and use your hips and legs to drive the ball. It is fisica, physics. Momento torcente, more power, more speed on the ball.”
It wasn’t like she hadn’t tried a one-handed backhand before. Dom just hadn’t liked how inconsistent it could be, especially with her general lack of overall power.
“Dom…” She hesitated, stepping away.
“Isn’t here,” Paolo said. “Trust me, if this works, if the shot improves, he won’t care that it was me who showed you.”
He moved behind her, his hands finding her hips again, and Jasmine almost laughed at the cliché of the moment. Here she was with a handsome Italian man, and he was about to wrap his arms around her, let his hands cover hers on the racket. His foot kicked a little at her instep.
“Wider,” he said, and she shifted her feet, opening her stance, “and a little forward.” He put a little extra pressure on her right hip. She slid her foot forward. “Bene. Now, stay balanced and on time. Your arms go with your hips; don’t lose the power in them. Feel that?”
She did. She felt everything. Not just increased power in her lower body but also his chest lined up with her back, his thighs pressed right against her backside. “Yes.”
“Bene. Now, try it without me,” he said, stepping away.
Her skin tingled at the loss of contact, but she reset her feet and swung her racket, letting all her power flow up from her legs. “Like that?”
“Exactly. Let’s see how it goes.”
The power was amazing.
And her control was still there.
Before, when she’d hit a backhand, she had a decent idea of where it was going, but sometimes her weight would shift or her shoulder would fly out and the rally would devolve into her scrambling around the court when her opponent pounced on the short, misplayed shot.
Now, as she used one hand, powering through with her legs to direct the ball, it traveled exactly where she wanted it to go. The accuracy she’d developed over the years in other parts of her game was translating to this, and it felt incredible.
“Good,” Paolo said. “Full speed now.”
He backed up just a bit and sent blistering groundstrokes to her backhand side.
The first two she was able to simply block back, but then her feet got loose under her and she felt her instincts take over.
Shot after shot was flying low over the net, settling deep in the court, hitting corners and skimming off the baseline.
“Do you see?” he said when he ran out of balls to hit, hopping over the net.
“I can’t believe this,” she said, staring at her racket. It was so easy. Too easy.
“You can dominate with that shot and no one will know it is coming. What more proof do you need?”
“None.” She stepped closer to him and grabbed the front of his shirt.
“You are amazing,” she whispered, wanting to thank him, but her next words were swallowed up by his lips as he wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her close.
Jasmine pushed up onto her toes and opened her mouth when his tongue ran along the seam of her lips.
The seconds slipped away and they were both breathless as they pulled back. Paolo nudged his nose against hers.
“Again, this does not feel very slow.”
“Slow is overrated,” she said, pulling him down for another kiss just as the sky rumbled overhead and raindrops started to fall around them, light at first, but then heavy.
In just moments, a torrential downpour exploded from the clouds, soaking them almost instantly.
They both ignored it, the droplets of rain rolling over their skin, slipping between their lips as their mouths came together, tongues chasing each other back and forth.
Finally, with a gasp, they both pulled away.
“It’s raining,” Paolo said, wiping rivulets from her face.
“It is,” she agreed, slipping her hand into his. They gathered their things and walked off the court, still unconcerned about the buckets pouring down on them. The damage had been done; they were both totally saturated.
They slipped inside the players’ lounge, drawing almost every eye in the place, crowded with athletes and coaches whose practice sessions had been cut short by the downpour. Jasmine flushed at a few of the appreciative glances, not just directed at Paolo but at her as well.
“No,” Paolo said, squeezing her hand in his. “This is no good.”
“What?” she said, using her free hand to push her rain-soaked bangs out of her face.
She caught a glimpse of Dom in the corner and took a step back into Paolo, hiding herself.
She didn’t feel like talking to Dom, especially not after her backhand revelation.
He’d shoot it down and she’d be right back where she’d started this morning.
So she just wouldn’t bring it up. Better to ask forgiveness than permission.
“Come on, we’re getting out of here,” Paolo said, drawing her eyes away from her coach and back up to him. He was scrolling through the alerts on his phone screen canceling the day’s matches. “No tennis today for me, the forecast is nothing but rain.”
“So, what are we going to do?”
A mischievous grin spread across his face. “Have you ever been to Italy?”
“You know, for a minute there, I thought you really wanted to hop on a plane,” Jasmine said, leaning back in a small metal chair inside a gelateria, the tiny Italian hole-in-the-wall in London that claimed to have the best gelato north of the Alps.
She let her tongue run over the spoon, making sure to lick every last bit of frozen strawberry awesomeness before digging in for more.
“Would you have come?” Paolo asked, though his eyes were focused on her mouth pretty intently.
She smirked. “The way this year has been going, I really might have.”
“I do not understand.” He frowned at her tone, refocusing on her eyes. “You are a world-class athlete. You are gorgeous and very, very sweet. And yet you are so dissatisfied, gattina. It makes no sense.”
Jasmine lifted an eyebrow at him and that little nickname he’d bestowed upon her. She liked the way he said it, his tongue catching on the g. “In your experience, do women make sense?”
“Touché,” he said. “There must be a way to change it. Like your backhand. Tell me, perhaps I can help.”
Jasmine regarded him closely, digging the little spoon into her gelato.
She wanted to tell him, she really did, but that would mean admitting it to herself.
Admitting that it stung that her parents didn’t show the slightest inclination to be at Wimbledon during qualifying; that Dom’s acceptance of her considering college, while he meant well, had felt like a betrayal; that Indy’s decision to play singles was the right thing to do but made her feel like she was being left behind; and that Teddy’s total inability to be a decent friend had just made it all worse.
“You do not have to if you—”
“No one believes in me,” she burst out. “No one thinks I can do this, except me and you.”
“Fuck them.”
“Paolo.” She rolled her eyes.
“No. Fuck them. My whole life they said I was too slow. My feet were slow on the grass and on the hard court, even worse on the clay. Too slow. Tardo.”
“You’re not too slow.”
“Yes I am, but the coaches did not understand how to work around it. Did not understand that slow does not mean impossible. What do they call you?”
“Weak,” she said. No one had actually said that to her, not out loud, but they talked around the point. They called her game “not quite there yet” or said “maybe in a few years,” but it all boiled down to weak.
He hummed through another bite of his gelato. “Physically,” he said, letting his eyes travel over her, lingering on her naturally thin arms and skinny legs, “perhaps, but not mentally. You are strong where it counts and you play like you were born to it, which, gattina, you were.”
“Just because my parents—” she started, but he cut her off.
“No, that is not what I mean,” he said, leaning forward in his chair and reaching out to point his spoon at her breastbone. “You were born to it here”—the spoon lifted up toward her temple—“and here. You have the ability. I saw that today, so what is stopping you?”
“I don’t know,” she said, trying to figure it out.
It wasn’t Dom or Indy, and it wasn’t her parents, not truly.
They wanted what was best for her, but they didn’t believe in her. If they did, they wouldn’t have been pushing college tennis so hard; they would have understood what she wanted for herself. But did she really need them to? She’d never thought about it that way before. “Nothing, I guess.”
“Okay,” Paolo said, sitting back. “So, the goal is to be on tour, yes? Live in hotels and airports and play until your body gives out?”
Jasmine smirked. To most people, it sounded awful, but to her, that sounded like heaven. “That’s the goal.”
“Then you are going to need money. It is an expensive life.”
She wiped her sweaty palms off on the soft denim of her shorts. “And how do I get that?”
“Sponsors,” he said. “And to get those, you need an agent.”
She smiled, taking a massive spoonful of gelato. That would be easy enough. “Just so happens, I know one of those.”