A muscle in Calder’s jaw jumps, and my mouth goes dry. It’s unfortunate he seems to have zero social skills because he’s truly quite the specimen. And at least once was capable of making a joke.
I start telling a story about him in my head. How he was shy as a child, then got super hot and was traumatized when women had competitions to sleep with him. Or his dad was like Mr. Agassi and forced him to play pickleball for hours in the backyard when all he wanted to do was work at an ice cream shop or make hemp bracelets on the beach. My annoyance immediately dissipates when I imagine this poor, beautiful man being so unfairly treated.
He sends the ball back over the net, and I hit it with too much force. That’s the most difficult part. The ball is hard plastic. The shots are similar to what I knew playing tennis, but I can’t seem to figure out the power I need to hit it with.
Back to center. That was the goal. I blow out a breath and start again. “How long have you worked here?”
Calder hits the ball back low at my feet, and I barely get my paddle on it. When I do, the ball shoots high and lands past the kitchen line on his side. He grabs it and tries again, not answering my question.
The silence is torturous.
“You don’t like to talk about yourself?”
He frowns. “This is a lesson.”
“It is. But are you really going todrill meand not say anything for the next fifty minutes?”
Calder coughs, then clears his throat. “I’ve said things.” His voice is hoarse, and I grin. I made him choke on his spit and that brings me pure joy.
He sends another ball to my feet, but this time, I miss it on purpose. “Wait!” I hold up a hand and crouch down, dropping my paddle onto the court. A large, gray spider is hunched there next to the kitchen line. I almost smooshed it with my shoe.
“What are you doing?”
“There’s a spider.” I move my paddle closer, hoping it will climb on, but it jolts in the opposite direction. “Shhh,” I say, moving my paddle to the other side. I lay it flat, then move my hand behind the spider this time.
“Just kill it.”
I look up at Calder in mock horror. “He’s literally just existing. Why would I kill him?” I was the kid who moved snails off sidewalks after storms. Who kept earthworms from sizzling on the asphalt. How in the world someone could kill a helpless creature, regardless of how many legs they have, is beyond me. Calder is basically a monster.
My strategy works, and the spider bolts onto the paddle. I yank it up so he can’t sprint off the other side. “Just a sec.”
Calder watches as I leave our gated court and jog up the aisle to the front door of the club. I drop the spider in the planter out front, then reenter the building and hustle back.
“Okay, where were we?” Now I’m panting.
Calder’s expression is unreadable. He looks at me, then at the net, then says, “Let’s do a different drill.”
“Fun.” I position myself across from him, my feet wide. I refuse to let his attitude get me down. I’m going to learn some pickleball and enjoy myself on this Thursday night, damn it.
He glances down at my paddle hand. “You shouldn’t be using that.”
“Now you tell me.”
Calder’s jaw ticks. He stalks off the court, and for a moment, I wonder if the whole spider rescue broke him. When he returns, he’s holding a sleek black paddle with a blue wrapped grip. “Here.”
“For me? It’s beautiful.”
He’s holding a breath. Completely exasperated. Besides my four-sentence conversation with Garrett, this is the highlight of my day.
“Just try it.”
I give a heel kick and get back to the line.
After only a few shots, I realize the new paddle is life-changing, but I’m not ready to admit it. Every hit feels like it pops instead of dying on my paddle if I don’t hit it dead center.
Fifteen minutes later, we’re practicing backhands. He has me stand directly next to the net and lean over, isolating the motion. Calder feeds me balls, and I swing my arm like a pendulum to hit them against the wall. I get bored after hit number five and commence babbling. “ . . . and GoodBarrel approved the foil, which is probably the fastest any company has ever approved a proof. And then Friday we have a company pickleball night.”
“Less wrist. Just move from the shoulder.” Calder reaches out and adjusts my arm. My next words die on my tongue. His hand is warm, his palms a little rough.
