They play tennis together once a week – they’ve been doing it since high school. The court is a quiet place, nestled in a small suburban subdivision, surrounded by trees. It is a little overgrown in places; cracks spread across the green surface, driven apart by the thirsty roots of invasive plants.

They arrive and stretch, joking and laughing. He takes a tennis ball from his bag and walks to the serving line. She jogs out to the other side of the net, bouncing on the balls of her feet, ready to meet the serve.

He tosses the ball into the air, swinging his racquet in a graceful arc to meet it. She lunges to the side, racquet outstretched, and hits it back. He returns with a backhand, but she isn’t fast enough to get it.

She shrugs and laughs, “Sorry, I guess I’m used to playing doubles now.”

“Ah, the hubby coming out with you?”

“Yes,” she says as she turns to get the ball, “But he’s not very good.”

“Yeah, isn’t chess more his speed?” he teases.

“I suppose so. I’m just glad he’s trying to connect.” She tosses the ball, swings, and drives it into the net.

“That’s alright,” he says, “You get a second chance.”

The game they play is informal, with whoever has the ball serving. Unrestricted by conventional rules, they play.

She retrieves the ball and tries again, this time hitting a decent serve, barely over the net. “Sometimes you just get by,” she jokes.

He returns the ball and says, “Yup. Anyways, I’m still a singles kind of guy.”

She hits a slice to add spin. “So there’s nobody worthy of you.”

He runs to the net to volley it back. “No, there’s someone.”

She falters and misses. He pulls out another ball as she asks, “Who?”

He just smiles and says, “30-Love,” before serving.

“Cryptic as usual,” she returns, missing the shot.

“Service ace!” he shouts, pumping his fists in the air. “40-Love, game point!”

“But it’s not a game!” she says, confused and frustrated.

“To you it may not be,” he replies as he serves.

“Toe fault,” she teases. “Try again. So, who is worthy of you?”

“It is better not to say. 40-Love, game point.”

They volley for a bit, but he does not relent and wins the point. Smiling at her expression, he says, “At least you’ve got love,” and winks.

~~~

The next week they are out on the court again. Clouds hang overhead, threatening to rain. She serves, and they volley gently to warm up. Soon they are back at the baseline, playing their informal game.

It begins to go faster, as both take out their frustrations on the ball. Finally, she waves her hand, sides heaving, and they break for water.

“Still playing with the hubby?” he asks, wiping his mouth.

“Yeah, we just keep losing,” she responds, jogging back out and picking up the ball she’d been pounding. She tosses it and serves, but it falls short and bounces pathetically to the net. “Oh,” she says quietly, “It’s dead. I guess we played it out.”

“Don’t worry, I’ve got a new can here,” he responds, unsealing it with a satisfying hiss of air. He serves a new, neon green tennis ball and the game begins again.

~~~

It begins to rain, and they are forced to call off their game for the week. He plays with the strings on his racquet as he looks out at the rain streaking down the window. She contemplates the steel-grey clouds while tossing a tennis ball between her hands, wishing she was competent enough to pay attention to one thing, much less juggle.

~~~

When they return to the court the following week, the sun has broken happily from the clouds. They warm up as usual, gradually moving back to the baseline, tossing comments on this and that along with the ball. Slowly, the game begins to build in intensity, the sound of the racquets hitting the ball echoing through the streets.

He hits a slice, but she runs up to greet the drop ball. Surprised, he returns it farther back on the court, but she rises to the challenge, springing back almost in anticipation of his tactics. Grinning, he steps his game up, no longer holding back. She works harder in response, hitting the ball harder and harder, finding the thwack extremely satisfying. The chatter fades as they both become immersed in their game, gasping for breath with their increased efforts.

Finally, she hits a ball fast and low and he cannot reach to get it. Smiling and taking deep breaths, they both go break for water, by mutual exhaustion rather than spoken word. She sits down on the court, guzzling down water, laying her racquet beside her. He stands, leaning on the net, thirstily squirting the water into his mouth. She leans back, hands splayed behind her. He looks down at her as he plays with the cap to his water bottle.

“That was cool,” he finally says, “I think we’re ready to play the real game now.”

She laughs and pours some water on her head, “Because that wasn’t a real game.”

“We weren’t keeping score.”

“Yeah, but it sure played like we were.”

“Which is why we should start officially.” He looks at her askance, smiling. “Besides, you were playing great.”

She smiles wryly and tosses her head, “I’ve been practicing.”

“More doubles?”

“Singles.”

He starts, then responds, “Really.”

She looks at him and grins, “You ready for that game then? Sure you can take it?”

He matches her grin and replies happily, “You’re on.”

They jog out to the baselines, energized by this new game. He bounces the ball and calls, “Love all,” then grins and adds, “I just love saying that.” He tosses and serves, the ball hitting just at the edge of the service box. She runs to get it, and returns with a quick flick of her racquet. He lunges to respond, hitting a strong backhand, forcing her to backpedal and reach to get it.

A few points later, he is serving again. “Deuce.” It begins, more ferocious with more at stake. But both are also tiring – though they refuse to relent. Both hit the ball hard, skillfully, and it ricochets around the court along with the thwack of the racquets. They both grin, a light in their eyes. Finally, the ball zips past the baseline and into the fence.

He gets another ball as the clanging of the shaking fence fades. “Ad out.” Another serve, another point. Muscles burning, chests heaving, they play even harder, though neither had thought it was possible. He returns, she hits a slice, he rushes to greet it. She backpedals to reach a high shot; he tenses before returning a fast one. The volley continues as they rush around the court, the sun beating down on the backs of their necks.

She grins as the ball comes at her, calculating, then returning. He rushes to it, but when the spinning ball bounces, it kicks to the side and out. He pulls up, gasping for breath. “Game point.”

~~~

One tennis ball is left alone on the court, its dirty green, worn surface still standing out against the dark green court. It leans against the fraying net, resting in one of the cracks dancing across the court. As the sun sets through the chain link fence, casting it shadows on the tennis ball, the score is Love-Love.