Tennis Whites part 1
Media: Fan FictionTitle: Tennis Whites
Rating: PG-13
Pairings: Kurt/Blaine, Mercedes/Sam
Spoilers: 2.22
Warnings: none
Word Count: This part 2,278, next part ?
Summary: Blaine talks Kurt into attending his annual charity tennis tournament. Surprise! Mercedes and Sam are there, too. A little interaction with the Anderson family, a lot of fluff, and summer fun.
Author's Note: Inspired by the 2011 Wimbledon tournament, even if my dear Federer crashed and burned. Get 'em at Flushing Meadows, Rog (And yes, I started this after Wimbledon and didn't manage to finish it before the US Open. Life, people. It'll get ya every time)! I can't believe that little niggling idea turned into something this long. I use too many words.
"Please?" Blaine asked sweetly as he gently rubbed circles on Kurt's temples where they were lazing on the couch and watching Music and Lyrics (Kurt claimed that Drew Barrymore's character had the right approach to lyric creation, and Blaine liked how catchy "Pop! Goes My Heart" was) for Pip, Pip Hooray inspiration. "It would be so awesome to have a cheering section. I mean, I've been participating every year since I was twelve, and the only people who ever come watch are my parents."
Kurt eyed him suspiciously. "Participating? You want me to come sit outside in the heat for HOURS and watch you play tennis because you participate every year?"
"Actually," Blaine flushed. "I usually place. I won a couple years ago."
Kurt considered this for a second. "So...would I need to be like Steffi Graff and actually have the ability to play? Because after a series of white uniforms, I can assure you that grass stains and I don't really mix."
"Um, try Bridgette Wilson," Blaine suggested. "I'm not really the Agassi type. Also, all I require is a hot companion who cheers enthusiastically. You will fill the bill quite nicely." He waggled his eyebrows at Kurt playfully, then leaned down to brush a kiss over his lips.
"You look a little like Pete Sampras..." Suddenly, Kurt's eyes lit up. "Are there any dress requirements? Because I'm already imagining you sweating and grunting in a chic little all-white ensemble while I'm as cool as a cucumber in a coordinating pale lavender or light orange. Did you SEE what Katherine Middleton wore to Wimbledon last week? It was divine."
Blaine laughed. "I don't think they care if we coordinate. This isn't Wimbledon, Kurt. It's just three clay courts at the local country club where people compete for $500 for a local charity. The only dress requirement is that I have to wear a polo shirt and tennis shoes."
"A polo shirt? Could they be any more preppy?" Kurt grumbled. "What charity are you playing for, anyway?"
"My mom does volunteer work with a women's shelter in Columbus. I've been their golden boy for years. Even when I don't win the $500, I usually manage to raise a couple hundred from second or third place."
"Not only is that a very noble cause," Kurt murmured quietly as he cupped Blaine's cheek in his hand and leaned up for a kiss, "but it occurs to me that an all-day tennis tournament will provide a lot of opportunities for us to be together without anyone raising eyebrows. I'm in."
Two days later, Kurt lifted a wheeled cooler filled with lemonade, cheese sandwiches and crudités from the trunk of his car. If his plan for the day included sitting in the sun and sweating, at the very least he wasn't going to ruin his nutritional health by eating the country club's hot dogs or nachos that Blaine had told him about enthusiastically. Blaine bounced up almost immediately but pulled back from his hug to look at his boyfriend.
"Looking good, Bridgette," he murmured enthusiastically. Kurt had decided to adopt Wimbledon's whites as a stylistic inspiration even if it was technically unnecessary. Accordingly, he was wearing long white linen shorts with a white button down shirt that featured a ghostly check from a gray so pale it barely qualified as a color with an extremely thin white linen sweater vest and a hat that Kurt secretly thought was "kicky." However, to keep the outfit from being too plain or boring, Kurt was also sporting a brooch that consisted of a pocket watch...or the inner workings of one (For examples, look up steampunk watch brooch on Etsy. I had an actual example of this, but I took so damn long to write this that someone bought it).
"You look pretty good yourself, considering your stylistic limitations," Kurt admitted, taking in Blaine's mint green polo shirt and white tennis shorts. Blaine nodded his thanks, looked around to make sure no one was watching, and then brushed a quick kiss over Kurt's lips.
"For luck," he quirked his eyebrow. "My first game starts in twenty minutes. C'mon, I'll take you to my mom." He waited for Kurt to pull the handle up on his cooler, and than grabbed his other hand.
Kurt allowed Blaine to drag him enthusiastically through the manicured lawns without protest. He was too busy fighting his nerves about seeing Mrs. Anderson again. They'd met before, of course, but somehow it was always intimidating to see her now that he and Blaine were dating. "Why, hello Kurt," Mrs Anderson smiled warmly as her son dragged his boyfriend (with the cooler bumping behind him) up into the stands. "How are you today?" She patted the seat next to her, and Kurt sat as though pulled by a magnet.
"I'm fine, thank you." Kurt struggled not to stammer. He couldn't help it; Mrs. Anderson freaked him out. She was genuinely interested in his answer--he knew that. Mrs. Anderson was one of the nicest people on the face of the planet, but she was also the kind of person who prayed before opening meetings at work and visited inmates in high-security prisons. Kurt knew without a doubt that Mrs. Anderson prayed for him every night-- and he suspected her prayers for his soul were closer to those she said for prison inmates than her co-workers. "Have you been having a nice summer?" he asked desperately when the silence stretched between them. Mrs. Anderson smiled benevolently.
"Why yes, I have. I was recently recognized as a manager of excellence at work. The president of the company gave me the award himself. Wasn't that just so kind?"
"Yes," Kurt nodded, a little surprised at the specificity of her story.
"Hey Mom," Blaine interrupted. "I need to head down and check in before my first match. Where's Dad?"
"He had a meeting he couldn't reschedule this morning, honey. But he told me that if you make the semi-finals, he'll be here right after lunch."
"Sounds good," Blaine smiled and hugged her goodbye. He grabbed Kurt and pulled him close, too. "Watch closely. I want a loud cheering section."
"Blaine," his mother said mildly. Her tone implied that he was not only running late, but also needed to remember where he was. Kurt practically jumped out of Blaine's arms, blushing horribly.
"Good luck," he mumbled. Blaine shot him a grin a mile wide and then skipped down the steps toward the center court where the tournament's participants were gathering.
"We're so pleased that you're in Blaine's life, Kurt," Mrs. Anderson commented earnestly.
"I...I beg your pardon?" Kurt stiffened immediately. This conversation was suddenly far too intimate and personal, not to mention completely unexpected.
"Blaine is a sweet boy, but he's so impulsive. When you became friends with him, he just blossomed. Suddenly, he's home ten minutes before curfew every night. He's also more polite to everyone. We can just tell that you're a good influence."Kurt stared at her, perplexed with how to answer. On the one hand, it was flattering to hear that Blaine's parents, despite their objections to their son's lifestyle, liked him. On the other hand, he and Blaine frantically planned their dates and "practice sessions" to end punctually so that he NEVER missed a curfew, because they got so little time together anyway that they weren't going to risk any punishments. And Blaine was already one of the sweetest, most polite boys he'd ever met, so what exactly was his parents' standard, anyway? "Oh, look," Kurt said with relief as the familiar screech of a microphone's feedback echoed through the stands. "They're getting ready to start."
Mrs. Anderson smiled as the tournament's participants lined up by age and gender along the court. "This will be fun," she commented. Her eyes sharpened slightly. "I don't recognize a few of the boys playing against Blaine this year."
Kurt tore his eyes away from his boyfriend and was surprised to see Sam standing four boys down from Blaine.
"The blond one in the blue polo shirt ('and UGLY black basketball shorts, what are you thinking?' his mind added) is from my Glee club. His name is Sam."
Mrs. Anderson smiled. "Well isn't that nice? It looks like he's in the other group, so you can cheer for him when Blaine's group isn't playing this round."
It only took Kurt's brain approximately three-tenths of a second to figure out that if he watched Sam, he didn't have to talk to Mrs. Anderson the whole tournament. "That's a fantastic idea," he agreed. With that, he and Mrs. Anderson both stood solemnly for the National Anthem as they officially opened the tournament.
When Blaine had broached the idea of spending several hours watching him sweat in the sun, Kurt had honestly expected to be bored. Bored was not the right word, he decided thirty minutes into Blaine's first set. Fascinated was much more apt. It wasn't just the way Blaine kept pulling his shirt up to wipe the sweat off his forehead and revealing his stomach in intriguing flashes or the way his white shorts started to cling to his thighs as he got hotter, although those were certainly interesting enough to have him shifting in his seat. No, the fact that Kurt was seeing Blaine's competitive side was much more enthralling. While he'd never doubted Blaine's abilities as a leader, he'd always characterized Blaine as an easy-going guy who reluctantly stepped up to the forefront at the behest of the Warblers. Watching Blaine beat his first opponent in straight sets, with accompanying grunts and fist shakes when he got a good point, forced Kurt to revise his opinion. Blaine was, in fact, very competitive. And it was really hot.
Forty-two minutes into the tournament, Blaine shut down his opponent in straight sets. Mrs Anderson leaned back with a satisfied, "Well. Looks like my ladies might get their money after all this year."
Kurt raised his eyebrows a little, but chose not to comment. Apparently Blaine got his drive from both sides of his family. The boy in question bounced up the bleachers to them.
"Hi," he said breathlessly, immediately back in his approval seeking "puppy-mode." "Did I look okay?"
"You were wonderful," Kurt told him firmly.
"You looked good, sweetheart," Mrs Anderson agreed. "When's your next match?"
"As soon as the other three games are played they'll start the second round. So, maybe an hour and a half?"
Mrs. Anderson nodded. "Why don't you and Kurt go say hi to his friend and maybe grab some gatorade so you don't get dehydrated? I need to make a couple calls."
"Sounds good." Blaine held his hand out to Kurt to help him up.
He glanced over at his mother, who was already absorbed in her Blackberry, and murmured to Kurt, "I really want to hug you right now, but I'm all sweaty."
"Yes, you are," Kurt answered, looking at the way his hair curled around his face, and flushed when he realized that his tone was a lot closer to intrigued than grossed-out. "We should get you something to eat, too. You probably enough time to digest it as long you eat lightly."
"Nachos," Blaine hopped happily down the bleacher stairs. "I've been looking forward to them all day."
"Banana," Kurt replied firmly. "You still have at least one game to play, and we don't want you cramping."
"You're going to be such a good Dad one day," Blaine commented absently as he brushed his fingers over the back of Kurt's hand, silently requesting to hold it.
Kurt happily held hands with him, but couldn't resist asking, "What do you mean?"
"Well, you're a great cheering section. Thanks again, by the way. And you worry about whether people are eating right or complimenting them. I guess, you'll just be a great Dad because you get it from your dad." Blaine shrugged, like it was no big deal.
Even if he wasn't really sure whether he wanted to be a dad someday, Kurt was so touched and, dammit, embarrassed yet again (he was supposed to be watching tennis, not taking an emotional roller coaster) by the compliment that he had to look away as they reached the line for the concession stand. And doing so allowed him to catch a quick flash of a familiar zebra-print vest disappearing towards the bleachers.
"Blaine, that looked like Mercedes. Did you see her?"
"What? Oh yeah, of course. We'll go see her in a minute. Isn't that what Mom meant by going to see your friend? I was really touched she came to see me play. It was nice of you to invite her, but I can totally understand why she didn't want to sit with you and Mom."
Oh. Kurt dropped Blaine's hand to rub his face guiltily. Why HADN'T he invited Mercedes? It would have been the perfect opportunity to see her and she probably would have come. "I didn't invite her, Blaine," he admitted quietly. "Your mom was talking about Sam--he's playing in the other bracket."
Blaine looked at the four people still in front of them in line. "You should go find her and talk about it. I'll eat a banana and take a quick cool shower. I really am gross."
Kurt shook his head, but Blaine gave him a little push. "Go. I'll come find you before my next match, I promise."
Kurt kissed his cheek quickly and headed off after Mercedes. She wasn't hard to find, since she was wearing her beloved animal prints in a nearly psychadelic combination. She stuck out like the diva she was.