dontravis.com blog post #509
Thanks for indulging me in a personal moment last week. I’ll try to get on an even keel today. I’d like to do a two-parter that has to do with a couple of tennis jocks and their rivalry on and off the court, Pete and Dominic by name.
Here we go.
****
BLANK
SLATE
Part
One of Two Parts
No skin off his nose. So why
was it bothering him so much? He was a reasonably good-looking guy, played a
mean game of tennis, rapped with the best of them. Rap, as in talk, not the
other kind.
When Pete Marcell looked deep down
inside himself, he knew it was because no girlfriend had thrown him over like Marisue
did. One day they were copasetic; the next day she informed him she was dumping
him for Dominic Duran. Dominic Duran, for cripes sake. She coulda picked someone
other than Pete’s rival on the tennis court. That was partly his fault. She’d
been at his side a few times as he watched Dom on the court and pointed out
this and that about the handsome bastard. Hell, he even introduced the two of
them. Didn’t seem likely they hadn’t run into one another on campus, but both
of them claimed they hadn’t.
Today, Pete was sitting in the
bleachers watching Dom duel with the tennis coach. The ball was flying over the
net at lightning speed. The coach was no slouch, either. After the game, Pete
watched as Dom wiped his face with a towel, stowed his racket in its cover, and
then paused to give him a stare. Pete stared right back. He was a little
surprised when Dom walked over and stood in front of him.
“You got something to say to
me, Pete?” The tone was about halfway between friendly and belligerent.
Pete looked straight into
those chocolate mousse eyes for a long moment. “Nah. Just checking out the
competition.”
“You can read that a couple of
ways,” Dom said. “You talking about on the court or about courting.”
“Funny. Does it matter?”
Dom squinted at something in
the distance. “Yeah, it might. Me, I’m not a physical guy.” He threw a thumb
over his shoulder toward the deserted tennis court. “If you got a score to
settle, let’s do it right over there.”
“Okay by me. I’d rather beat
your butt over there than anywhere else.”
“You can try. Tomorrow’s
Saturday. No tennis classes. Right here, say nine o’clock?”
“You got it.”
Dom put two fingers to his
forehead in a sort of salute. “See you in the morning.”
Pete’s insides seethed as he
watched the arrogant prick stride toward the locker room. What did Marisue see
in the bastard? He snickered to himself. That was easy. The guy was good
looking if you liked the Latin types. And yeah, he was graceful. Had good
moves. But crap, so did he. Maybe she liked dark hair better than honey blond.
Pete sucked up his resentment and headed to the dorm.
****
Word of the duel must have
gotten out somehow because the bleachers were about half full when he showed up
the next morning. Dom probably told all his cronies. Pete had only told his roommate
Mickey Styles. Course, Mickey had a mouth on him, so he might have blabbed.
Dom was already there, warming
up by hitting easy ones lobbed by one of his friends. As soon as Pete arrived,
Mickey stepped forward to be his warmup man. After a few minutes, the two of
them were ready.
Dom won the toss and took the
first serve. He sent a blazer into the court, but Pete fired it back at him. No
ace on the first serve. That was good. It didn’t take long before he knew this
would be a long match. Dom had a strong
forehand, and his two-fisted backhand was nothing to sneeze at. They went deuce
a dozen times before Dom managed to put away the game.
No sweat. Now it was his time
to serve. A lefty, the right court was his best serve. He put a mean curve on
the first ball and got an ace. That lifted his morale. Premature. Dom fired
back his weaker left court serve to the far left. Pete covered ground and
managed to get it across the net, but Dom put it away on the right side before
Pete even recovered his balance.
The next serve to the right
court didn’t get him an ace. Dom knew about the slice on the ball now and
managed to get it back across. Pete took the point, anyway. And that’s the way
it went for damned near half an hour until—on an advantage serve—Pete lost the
slice and caught Dom out of position. His game.
After four hours in the
boiling sun, they each had two sets. Pete was getting tired… and careless. The
only saving grace was that Dom was showing stress too. Before serving the first
ball on the tiebreaker, Dom lifted his hands and shrugged his shoulders. Pete
mustered enough strength to nod acceptance. The match was a draw.
In the shower at the locker
room, Pete realized how lucky he was Dom had called the match. He could hardly
muster the strength to soap himself, but Dom was rubbing his skin
energetically. From beneath lowered eyes, he studied his nemesis’ wiry frame.
Slim but muscular. Wide at the shoulder, small at the waist. Legs long enough
to get him around the court in a hurry. Ruefully, Pete came to understand some
of Marisue’s decision. Dom was not only a good tennis player, he was also a well
put together, good-looking guy.
As they dried off before the
sinks, Dom turned friendly. After good naturedly poking fun at some of Pete’s
boners on the court, he joked about his own mistakes.
Once dressed, they stood in
front of the mirrors combing their hair, Dom turned to him. “What say we ditch
the girls this evening and hit a bar. I haven’t got high in a coon’s age.”
Pete smiled. “I’ve never
figured that out. Does a coon live a long time, or a short time?”
“Damned if I know. But what do
you say?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“You got a car?”
“Yeah.”
“Why don’t you pick me up
about eight. We’ll make a night of it.”
“Don’t you live on campus?”
“Naw. Got a pad on Roma, not
far from the U.”
“Okay. See you then.” It was
his turn to give a two-fingered salute and walk away.
What
is Dominic Duran up to? He can’t beat Pete Marsell on the tennis court, so is
he plotting some nefarious form of revenge. He sure turned nice all of a
sudden. We’ll find out next week.
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