"Alecia?" She slows on her approach, probably confused as to why I'm skulking behind the fully packed sling bag hanging off the shoulder of the guy in front of me.
I pretend to be inspecting the snacks in the cooler along the wall. "Oh, hey Megan. What are you doing here?"
Megan smiles and pulls me into a hug because, of course she does. "I saw your name on the list, but I had no idea you played here."
I shake my head. "I don't exactly play here. I'm just checking it out."
Her eyes widen, and I get the same pit in my stomach as when I stopped at the table outside the library a couple of weeks ago because they were offering free cookies.
"Oh, you're going to love it here. Everyone is so friendly, and there are plenty of lesson options, open plays, and leagues for all levels.” She glances down at my paddle with more pity than judgment. “You can reserve the courts ahead of time. They even offer guest passes with a monthly membership purchase. Ooh! Does Sam play too?"
First off, I give her credit for knowing that Sam and I are friends. I honestly didn’t think she’d noticed either of us. Second, I have no idea how to respond to that. I'm usually the perky one in any given conversation, but Megan's energy is unmatched.
I swallow the anxiety of this getting back to Garrett and try to accept her bid for socialization. "Yeah. We actually came and did a lesson the other day. I really want to get her into it."
Not untrue, though it did give the impression that I'm further along in this sport than she is, which is absolutely a lie. I still can't remember how to tally points in this game, let alone make one.
Megan smiles with approval, and I feel oddly accomplished. "Oh, that's amazing!" Someone calls her name, and she holds up a finger just as the man in front of me moves out of the way. I'm up for check-in.
"Are you here for the round robin?" she asks.
"Nope. Just here for a lesson."
The employee at the desk is the same one Sam and I met on Tuesday. I'm about to give my name when he says, "Alecia Monroe, I've got you on court three again."
I blink. That’s twice people have remembered who I was tonight.
"Who's your instructor?" Megan asks.
"Frank," I start to say, only to have the employee jump in.
"Actually, Frank got himself into a pickle the other day. Strained something in his knee. He'll be out for at least the next week. Possibly six if his doctor gives him bad news."
Was that part of the training? They had to use “pickle” in everyday conversation?
Megan sighs. "Oh, Spencer, make sure to tell him I'm so sorry to hear that. Actually, you know what? I'll just post a message on the group chat."
Spencer smiles and moves on to the next person in the line while Megan pats my arm, tells me to have a great lesson, and jogs back to her friends, who are not so patiently waiting for her next to the fence of one of the courts.
Frank injured himself? Why didn't I get a notification about this?
I meander toward the aisle leading to court three and check my email. I only have to scroll down a few messages to see the one from Smash Point.There's been a change to your lesson.I click on the email, still walking as it loads. It's fine. I'm sure every instructor here is as good as Frank. I can roll with the punches. Be flexible.
The status wheel is still spinning when I reach the bench. I set my bag down, blow out a breath, and look up.
A man stands inside the fence with a basket of balls on wheels. Even from here, I can see I was right about the color of his eyes. Definitely liquid aquamarine.
Calder.
five
Calder standsat the kitchen line, dark hoodie sleeves shoved to his elbows, dribbling a ball with his paddle. He looks up, and the thought of aborting the mission flashes through me with such intensity that my stomach yanks.
What am I going to do? Turn and run? Rude. Also, I paid for this, and I only have one more night before I’ll be standing on the court with Garrett Davis.
“Hi!” I force myself onto the court with my sunniest expression. I don’t know why he makes me feel like my organs are rearranging themselves, but I’m sure once we get into the drills, I’ll get over it. “You and me again.”
Calder’s expression doesn’t change. “Frank’s out.” His tone is lower than I remembered, almost creamy and smooth. Like he took a nap earlier and just woke up, a little groggy, and then I’m imagining him waking up in crisp sheets. He doesn’t wear a shirt becausewhy would heand?—
