“Ready?” He’s pointing with his paddle to the other side of the net, and I’m not sure how long I’ve been frozen, staring at his pecs.
My brain is far too visual for my own good. I clear my throat and bounce past the post. “Sorry.”
He nods with no “You’re fine” or “No need to apologize.” Just, “Start at the kitchen line.”
Fine. This would be simple. Just like last time we could talk or not talk for hours. I almost snort, imagining that line in Jennifer Coolidge’s voice. At least I can always entertain myself.
My first few dinks are objectively terrible. I know that now after watching an hour of pickleball YouTube with Sam on our lunch break. I send the ball high, and Calder, with very gentle hands, pushes the ball back to me. I breathe, bend my knees like Frank told me, and try to push, not swing.
“Bend your knees,” he says.
I smile. “Yep.” Okay. Iwasbending my knees, but maybe he couldn’t see that through the net?
“Lower.”
My legs are still sore from Tuesday, and it feels awkward, but I sink deeper into my knees, almost missing the next ball.
“Good.”
That word sends a flash of heat down my spine, and I instantly bristle.Red flag, A.This is why I need Sam here. I need her to shoot me a look or something, remind me that I shouldn’t feel so pleased by the fact that I gave him what he wanted.
But I can’t help it. Ever since I was a kid, exceeding people’s expectations was my own personal dopamine button. I could press it whenever I wanted. Do extra research for my project, and I’d ride the high from that surprised look on my teacher’s face for weeks. The problem was, in high school, that turned into cutting my hair because Oliver Weld liked it short or never wearing pink because Jesse M. said it clashed with my auburn hair.
In college, it was giving up carbs because Aaron Foster liked women with six packs and then giving up my friend group because Max Cooper didn’t like that they were so demanding when he just wanted to spend time with me.
So. Yeah.Red flag, A.
All the nervous energy makes my hands shake, so I do what I always do to get that feeling out of my body. Start talking.
“I signed up for lessons because there’s a pickleball club starting up at work.”
Calder blinks like he just remembered I was here. “Hm.”
“Yeah. I think some of the people I work with are pretty good. But it’s an open invite, so I’m assuming there will be other beginners.”
“Lift with your legs, don’t swing.”
I nod. “Right. Okay.” I try to do what he’s describing and feel like I’m playing whack-a-mole. This has to look ridiculous, but Calder doesn’t comment. The ball hits the net cord, and I hustle up to grab it and restart.
Calder motions for me to move cross-court before sending it back, and my brain lights up with the challenge. “Where should I try to hit it?”
“In the kitchen.”
I purse my lips.Obviously.I laugh like he just made a joke and didn’t sound like a complete patronizing ass. “Right, but where in the kitchen?”
“Not there,” he mutters as my ball lands wide, past the line.
I straighten and plant my hands on my hips as he chases it along the fence. I could let it go. I normally would, but this is a pickleball instructor. A substitute instructor at that. Someone I never have to see again, if I don’t want to. If I can’t stand up for myself to him, then whowillI be able to stand up to?
“Why not there?” I ask, my breathing quicker than it should be, considering how little work Calder thought I was doing.
“Gives too many angles.”
I nod, still trying to be pleasant. “Yeah. This is my second lesson. Ever. So I’m just asking questions because I don’t have any idea what the goal is.” I didn’t say,And you’re the teacher soyou should know that and not treat me like an idiot, but I hope he reads the subtext.
Calder hesitates for a beat, then points at the center line. “For now, when you’re dinking, the goal should be to get the ball back to center. To reset. Try not to give them shots where they can be offensive and instead force them to make a mistake.”
I smile.See? That wasn’t so hard.“Thanks. That’s helpful.”
