“Got it.” The words come out breathy. How long has it been since I was this close to a man I wasn’t related to? You know, besides being whisked into his arms the other day to avoid pickleball shrapnel.
The thought sends me down a spiral of patheticness. No, there was that date I went on. The guy who was friends with Sam’s brother. It was a complete bust, but he did hug me afterthe show. That counted. Even though it didn’t have a smidgen of the effect on me that Calder’s right hand just did.
I panic. “There’s this guy at work who plays pickleball. Kind of why I’m doing this.” He doesn’t ask me to go on, and yet I do. “I figured if I took lessons, I wouldn’t look quite so terrible at our company pickleball night.”
“This is for a guy.” It’s a statement, not a question.
My cheeks flush. “Yeah. He’s . . .” How would I describe Garrett? “All around impressive.”
“You’re into him?”
Wow. After not piquing his interest for the last half hour, this was the topic that did it? “Well, I am picking up a sport for him. So . . .”
I hit the ball in a perfect, smooth motion. “Hm. That was good.” I compliment myself since he won’t, and his lips twitch. It was almost a smile, and I lock in right then on my new mission. Break Calder by the end of the lesson. I may not be his cup of tea, but this is a public service. I can’t release him out into the wild to terrorize other helpless pickleball amateurs without giving it a solid college try.
“No notes. I’m an expert now,” I declare after hitting the last ball in the basket. Calder hands me one of the ball-collecting tubes. I set my paddle on the ground and start next to the wall, the balls making a satisfying thunk as I drop the cylinder over them, forcing them into the chamber.
Another instant game. Beat Calder with how many balls I can collect. “I win.” I dump my first tube full into the ball basket.
He grunts. “Not a competition.”
“You’re only saying that because you lost.” I grin and start with the next gaggle of balls near the back fence. When I fill up a second time, I turn to see Calder walking faster than he needs to with his tube and note the location of the basket. “Not fair. You moved it.”
He shrugs and dumps his balls in. “Only saying that because you lost.”
My smile splits my face, and I can’t help it. I laugh out loud. It’s the second thing he’s said that proves he isn’t a pickleball robot, and it makes me giddy.Did I lose?I don’t think so.
A thousand questions fill my head, and the fact that he won’t answer any of them makes the itch of curiosity that much worse. Why doesn’t he want to talk about himself? He’s secretly a pro player and doesn’t want anyone to figure out his true identity? He’s in witness protection? His ex works at the pickleball club across town and he’s raising a pickleball army to beat her at nationals?
I smirk at the possibilities when a woman walks past the court and waves. “Hey, Calder!”
He gives a polite smile, and she blushes.
Ooooh. Yeah. Now I get it. He acts this way because he doesn’t want women to get attached. I mean,look at him.
I suddenly feel sheepish. How many women has he coached who show up hoping for an after-hours drill session?
But he doesn’t know me. That I’m obviously taken. Futuristically.
When I’m standing next to the basket, I make a show of emptying my tube. “Sorry I pried. I won’t ask any more personal questions. But you don’t have to be so serious all the time. I think this is supposed to be fun.”
Calder hesitates, observing me for a moment, then takes the tube from me and hangs it on the fence next to his. “I finished clean up while you were distracted.”
Mm. It’s the small victories.
six
It’s Friday after work,and my whole body buzzes as I wait for Sam to change in the locker room of the pickleball club. The vibe is opposite of Smash Point, and I’m already judging it. Didn’t know two lessons could build loyalty, but all the chrome and black, plus the heavy bass that makes me feel like I should be wearing a mini skirt or at least a thong, makes me antsy.
If Smash Point is Instructor Frank, then this place feels like Calder personified.
It’s a bummer we won’t be going back. Smash Point had a great vibe, but we only had one lesson left in the packet I booked with Frank, and since he was definitely going to be out for a couple of weeks, he sent an email apologizing for zero notice on the switch Thursday and offered to refund me.
“Did you bring an elastic?” Sam emerges from the changing stall. I hand her the one from my wrist. At least once a week, she’s in need of a little hair support.
Sam and I push through the locker-room door into a narrow hallway that opens to the courts. The ceilings are lower than Smash Point’s. The lights are brighter, too, and there are only three courts in one row. Past the back wall there’s a tiny lounge—a handful of bar stools, a glass cooler with canned seltzers, craftbeer, and energy drinks. A chalkboard sign says, “Have a ball, Paper and Pixel!” which is kind of adorable, but very much not on brand.
We gather near the others. I recognize Megan and Garrett, of course, and a couple of other people from the design team. I clock people from different floors—prepress, sales, accounting—including a quiet, moustached man I’ve only ever seen on the elevator and a woman from bindery who once sent Sam and me cookies at Christmas.
