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Hands-on instruction (Guillaume)
🕑 Added 2025-11-17 15:25:49 +0000 UTCIt’s a sunny early-Spring day, but the late-afternoon air carries a bite sharp enough to make Guillaume shiver in his dry-fit shirt and shorts. “How the heck do you guys practice in this?” he asks, hopping up and down in a desperate attempt to warm up. “I’m already freezing.”
You grin, enjoying the rare sight of Guillaume in exercise clothes. “Don’t worry—I’ll have you sweating soon enough.” Adjusting the ball basket, you motion toward him. “Shall we start?”
Guillaume lifts his racket, looking at you quizzically from across the baseline. “Uhh, at the risk of sounding like a ‘noob’—to use D’s favorite vocabulary—how do I hold this thing again?”
You laugh, realizing you’ve skipped several crucial instructions in your eagerness to begin. “Oh—right. Sorry.”
Jogging over to his side of the court, you show him how to count the bevels and wrap his fingers around the racket. “This is the grip you’ll use for your forehand. You’ll switch to… this for the backhand,” you say, guiding his hand with yours. His eyes follow your fingers closely, but at the contact, something softens at the corners of his gaze.
After walking him through the grips and both the forehand and backhand swing, you look up. “Got it?”
Guillaume chuckles, shaking his head. “Eh. I’m still struggling to see how I’m supposed to hit the ball over the net when the racket’s pointing straight at the ground.”
You bite back a smile, remembering thinking the same thing—except it’s been pretty more than a decade ago for you now. “I know, it feels weird at first. But the key is swinging low to high. My old coach used to say tennis is like life—you always want an upward trajectory.”
Guillaume snorts. “And how’s that going for you?”
Your grin melts into something gentler. “Well, I met you, so… it’s definitely trending upward.”
Guillaume laughs and tests a few experimental swings.
You step a little closer behind him. “May I?”
He turns halfway, catching your gaze; a spark of unmistakable interest flickers in his grey eyes. “Ouais, of course.”
You close the remaining distance, wrapping your body around his and placing both hands over his. His warmth presses against your chest and abdomen. He probably feels your breath against his neck.
“Remember—left elbow’s almost locked at the start.” You guide him through a couple of swings, then step back. “Okay, now try it on your own.”
Guillaume exhales and swings. His knees straighten through the follow-through, transferring weight cleanly from feet to torso to shoulders in a fluid, powerful arc.
Your eyebrows shoot up, pleasantly surprised. “Wow. That’s… much better.”
He smirks and winks. “I benefit very much from hands-on instruction.”
You laugh, even as your heart skips. “Ready to give it a go?” you ask, indicating the ball basket.
Guillaume bounces lightly on his feet, suddenly focused. “Bring it on.”
Affection warms your grin. You hadn’t expected him to take this so seriously. Dragging the basket beside you, you toss him the first ball.
He swings a little too early, making contact at an odd angle.
“Don’t rush it,” you say, tossing a few more balls his way. “It’s an encounter—you meet the ball at the top of its bounce, like waiting for the right moment to take a photograph.”
He smiles at the metaphor—it’s cheesy, but apparently highly effective. He adjusts his timing, and this time the ball sings off the strings, arcing across the net and landing well within bounds.
You let out a small, celebratory sound and rush over, thumping him on the back.
He snorts at your reaction, but his eyes shine with delight. “It went over,” he says.
“It did,” you say, grinning.
Things pick up quickly after that. With a few more pointers, he improves fast—missing far fewer balls, even scrambling to return one you tossed a bit too far.
Eventually the basket is empty. Half the balls lie on his side of the court; the other half glitter like small suns across the net. “Not half bad,” you say proudly. “How do you feel?”
Guillaume’s dark hair is mussed, sweat beads at his temple, and his normally fair face is flushed.
“This is surprisingly fun,” he says, still winded. “Definitely makes me appreciate how good you are. You make crazier things look easy.”
Your heart does something complicated at that. Gently, you brush a fallen strand of hair from his eyes.
After a water break and a third basket of balls, you ask, “Ready for a rally?”
Guillaume brightens. “Sure. What happens if I beat you?”
You laugh. “How about: loser does whatever the winner says?”
Guillaume grins. “Deal. Since you haven’t taught me how to serve yet, you can serve—but I start at 40–love.”
You smirk. “Look at you. Very familiar with the scoring system.”
He winks. “Of course. I’ve watched more tennis matches than I can count. Also, apparently the scoring system might’ve come from medieval French clocks, though that theory’s contested.”
You pause. “Cool. I didn’t know that.” Pocketing a couple balls, you step to the baseline with a growing smirk on your face. “Doesn’t mean you stand a chance, though.”
Guillaume wiggles his butt in an exaggerated imitation of your pre-serve stance. “We’ll see.”
You laugh, delighted. You’ve always loved the way he backs himself—and how that often extends to his unwavering confidence in you.
You gift him an easy, underarm serve. Guillaume returns it, scrambling for the next ball. You make him work, stretching him a little farther with every shot. He lasts five shots before missing. “15–40.”
He puts up little resistance, but you’re impressed at the length of the rallies he’s been managing nevertheless—especially considering the fact that he’s been holding a racket for less than an hour. The ball sails back and forth between you, forming a steady rhythm.
At deuce, you finally end it with a backhand down-the-line that he tries—heroically—to reach by dropping into a full split. “Ooof,” he grunts, collapsing starfish-style on the court.
Laughing, you sit beside him. “Don’t die. You still owe me that favor.”
Guillaume groans theatrically. He reaches for your hand, and when you take it, he pulls you down beside him. The two of you lie shoulder to shoulder, staring up at the darkening evening sky.
Guillaume’s breathing slowly begins to even out. “Feels really good when you hit it right,” he muses. “I used to think you were crazy saying tennis is like a conversation. But now… I get it.”
You prop yourself up on an elbow. “When we first met, you said ‘I don’t do physical exercise.’ Look at you now. We’ll make a tennis player out of you yet.”
Guillaume laughs, then sobers up. He meets your gaze with a tenderness that makes your heart twist. “Thanks for showing me your world.”
You think of him earlier—scrambling across the court, calling out nonsense trash talk—things any real varsity athlete would never say—looking like he belongs on the court with you. You’ve only had a few months together, but he’s slid so seamlessly into your life it feels like he’s always been part of it.
Maybe this is what love is: someone learning the language of angles and footwork, showing up sweaty and earnest, meeting you exactly where you are—like the clean thwack of a ball struck at the perfect moment.
“Now,” you say, voice dipping lower, “About that favor I’m owed...”
Guillaume’s gaze holds yours. There’s an unmistakable spark at your tone shift. He rolls onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow to mirror you. The movement brings her close enough to you that you feel the heat radiating off his sweat-warmed skin.
“Ah oui?” He murmurs, honey-soaked. “And what exactly did you have in mind?”
You lean in, letting the anticipation stretch—not touching him, not yet—just hovering close enough for his breath to brush your lips.
You trail your fingers along the inside of his wrist, up the line of his forearm. A subtle shiver travels through him.
Keeping your voice low, you say, “Come here.”
It’s not a request.
Guillaume obeys instantly—half pulling you, half letting himself fall into your space until your chests brush and sweat still clings to your shirts. Your hand finds his waist. He exhales shakily, the sound soft but unmistakably a response to your tight grip.
You tilt her chin up with two fingers, delighted at the flicker of anticipation that crosses his expression, the way his eyelashes flutter.
“Kiss me,” you growl. “As a start.”
He laughs—a short, breathless sound. “Mon dieu. You’re adding ‘parts’ to the favor now?”
“Oh,” you purr. Your thumb brushes the corner of his mouth, slow and deliberate. “Would you prefer I have my way with you right here, in the middle of the tennis court where any one of my teammates might walk by?”
His gaze darkens beautifully.
Then he kisses you—hungry, warm, and open-mouthed, just rough enough to betray how long he wants this. His free hand slides up your back, fingers curling and pressing into the skin underneath your shirt, pulling you fully against him.
The world narrows to the sweet, sun-dusted taste of his lips and the soft thump of his heartbeat against your palm.
By the time he pulls away—barely—you’re both breathing harder than you did during the whole rally.
“Shall we do this same time next week?” He whispers again, but this time, his voice is velvet-soft and wickedly sure of itself.
You grin and lean your forehead on his, brushing your lips against his for the briefest, teasing second.
“Absolutely,” you say. “For now though? What do you say we head back to your room?”
Guillaume’s answering smile is pure fire.
