Still, he tsked. “That would never have occurred to me. Assistant Principal Dunn, shame on you. You have a filthy mind.”
“Yeah, right,” she said. “It doesn’t really matter, though. I don’t want you to work with my serve.”
He frowned. “Why not?”
She waved her racket dismissively. “I just don’t see the point of perfecting my serve when, given my track record, I probably won’t play again for a few years. Possibly ever. So spending time to improve my form doesn’t make any sense. Instead, why don’t we just hit the ball around a bit? I can get some exercise, and you can…” Her laugh rang through the court, plumping her cheeks and striking sparks from her eyes. “You can do whatever the hell you want. Which is, I suspect, both your preference and your custom.”
That was unfair. He didn’t always do what he wanted. Like right now, for instance, when he really wanted to taste the echo of that laugh on her lips.
“If a little leisurely hitting is what you want, that’s what you’ll get.” He gestured toward the far end of the court. “Why don’t you take that side, since there’s less glare from the overhead lights there?”
“Sure.” She handed him the can of balls and rambled over to the other side, her hips swaying in a very distracting way.
If he didn’t get out his final question now, that hypnotic sway would make him forget it entirely. “How much do you want to run?”
“Not much. My knee can’t handle it.” She stretched her arms—and racket—to the sky, twisting from side to side. “Such are the travails of middle age, as you’ll eventually discover.”
He frowned at her. “There are professional tennis players only a couple years younger than you ranked within the top ten. Hell, the top five. Thirty-nine isn’t exactly one step from the grave, and it’s not that far distant from twenty-six.”
“Oh, come on.” She positioned her feet shoulder-width apart and bent down, stretching her hamstrings. “We share zero cultural touchstones. When I was growing up, New Kids on the Block were the boy band du jour. I had their poster on my wall. What was your era’s equivalent? Backstreet Boys? *NSYNC? Or did they not make it to Sweden?”
He grabbed a couple balls, slipped one in his pocket, and bounced the other against the acrylic-covered concrete. “A Swede wrote and produced songs for both groups, so yeah. They were big there. But that happened when I was…I don’t know. Six? Eight?”
“Years too young for even a glimpse of puberty.” She snorted. “You’re a kid.”
“Hey, at least I was too old for One Direction. That should give you some comfort.”
This time, when he bounced the ball, he hit it toward her. Even that faint impact zinged through his overworked wrist, but as always, the ping of the ball against the sweet spot of his racket soothed the sting.
The ball landed precisely where he’d intended, just within reach of her racket. She promptly hit it into the net. But when she sighed and strode toward it, he waved her off.
“This time, don’t move forward quite so far. You want to stay behind the bounce, so when you hit the ball, it’s in front of you. And don’t try to hit it so hard. Let the racket do some of the work for you.” He retrieved the ball from his pocket and bounced it a few times. “I know you don’t care about technique, but even a friendly rally isn’t fun if you can’t get the ball over the net.”
She nodded, her brows drawn together. “Got it.”
Another easy shot that landed a couple steps away from her. “I’m not certain whether the reigning boy bands of different eras should be considered cultural touchstones or any meaningful gauge of compatibility.”
This time, she shanked her forehand, and the ball flew off to the side.
“Shit,” she muttered. “Sorry.”
“You haven’t played in a long time. A little rustiness is to be expected.” He emptied the final ball from the can. “Be sure to swing from your shoulders, not your elbows or wrists. I don’t want you injuring yourself. And picture yourself swinging through the ball, not at it.”
She clutched her racket tighter, deep lines carving across her forehead.
Damn. She was supposed to be enjoying herself.
“Listen…” He climbed over the net and dropped the ball in her left hand. “Why don’t you take the first shot?”
Her fingers closed around the ball, and her face brightened. “That might work better. I like having a little more control.”
He huffed out a laugh. “No shit.”
“I make no apologies. There’s a reason I intend to become principal soon.” After a couple of experimental bounces of the ball against the ground, those lines on her forehead eased, and a faint smile curved her generous mouth. “So if boy bands aren’t a good cultural touchstone, what would be? Famous movies? Internet and social media trends?”
She caught the ball in her left hand, holding her racket away from her body with her right. “Because I hate to tell you this, but my family didn’t get a computer until I was about eight, and I didn’t send my first e-mail until I was in high school. I’m still not entirely certain what TikTok is, although I assume it involves mechanical timepieces.”
He wagged his finger at her. “Don’t pretend to be a technological dunce, Tess. Given your job, I’m sure you use all sorts of online educational programs and digital tools, including some I’ve never seen. Am I right?”
A weird sound emitted from her throat. Something between a growl and a disgruntled hmph. Either way, he knew what it meant: He was right.
“Maybe,” she finally allowed.
With a healthy swing—from her shoulder, he was glad to note, although her follow-through was minimal—she sent the ball flying over the net. Way over the net, past the baseline. He scrambled backward to return it, but managed to hit a controlled shot that should land right…
There. Right in front of her and to her side. This time, she caught the ball in her sweet spot, and it sailed back over the net.
A real rally. Hallelujah.
She was still talking, still trying to prove that they had nothing in common. “When I was growing up, if I wanted to listen to a specific song, I couldn’t just go online and find a YouTube video or a good streaming service. I had to listen to the radio for hours on end, recognize the opening bars of the song, hold my little tape recorder next to my radio, and pray my parents wouldn’t make too much noise during the song. Or I’d have to buy the entire album, tape, or CD, depending on how old I was. When I found out about iTunes, I almost cried with joy.”
He ran to reach a ball that barely cleared the net. “Too law-abiding for Napster’s pirating heyday, huh?”
“I’m surprised you even remember back that far.” She missed his return, which bounced past her and hit the back of the court with a rattle of boards. When he produced another can of balls from his bag, she held up a hand. “Let’s take a quick break.”
Obligingly, he dropped a ball in his pocket and leaned on his racket. “As far as Napster, all I can legally tell you is that my older brother had an extensive music collection around the turn of the millennium. And to tackle your broader contention, I would argue that love of music transcends the means by which we acquire it. Also its national origin.”