But if he wasn’t trying to sleep with her, then was I completely off? Had I missed a cue in Garrett’s body language? And why was there a pit in my stomach instead of a pink bubble of happiness?
It had to be my own ego. Megan knows I was at Smash Point, but now Calder knows this is the company I work for.And didn’t I tell him I had an office crush?
I groan and turn my back on them. “He knows, Sam.”
“Knows what?”
“I was all nervous, and I babbled about tonight. I told him I was learning pickleball to impress a guy?—”
“No.”
“Yes!” I hiss, taking a play from Garrett’s book and pinching the bridge of my nose. Why do we do that? It’s not likeputting pressure on my nasal passages will make this any less embarrassing.
I don’t wait to find out if Garrett will call my name or if I’ll magically end up on the same court as him. I grab Sam’s arm and yank her back to the court she came from with a breezy, “Mind if I hop in?”
The man from sales—Jerome?—opens his palm with a flourish. “Be my guest. What’s your DUPR?”
I blink, frozen like a deer in headlights. Sam doesn’t seem to have a translation at the ready either, so I ask, “DUPR?”
He gives a self-satisfied smile. “It’s a ranking system for pickleball. To show your level of play.”
I laugh. “Oh, well, then I’m probably whatever the lowest number is. Zero?”
Jerome shakes his head. “I doubt that. But you should play with me. Megan will be back in?—”
“Perfect. You found a partner.” Megan pushes through the gate. “Jerome and Alecia against Sam and me.” She hops over to the other side of the court, and I pray I look even half as good as her in my tennis skirt.
My heart pounds so fast, I’m lightheaded and jittery. What was I thinking? I barely know the rules to this game—haven’t even played a game with a partner. But, I remind myself, most of my favorite things in life came because I ignorantly jumped into something. Including Sam and my current job.
Jerome spins his paddle. “You want to serve, or should I?” He’s lanky, mid-thirties, and he’s wearing black socks with dill pickles on them.
“You serve.” I stand dead-center at the baseline of the right-side box.
Jerome walks closer and waits a second. “We have to switch spots then.”
“Oh! Right. Of course.” I pretend I understand that even though I don’t. Note to self. Sam stacks across from me, holding her paddle at her side. I motion for her to bend her knees and hold it out a little. Ready position. Calder drilled that into my head at our last lesson.
Jerome calls, “Zero-zero-start!” then smacks the ball with his paddle. It flies over the net in a clean, low arc. I do know where the serve needs to land, at least. In the opposite box.
Sam swings and misses, and Megan claps a hand against her paddle and says something I can’t hear over the plinking of plastic.
Jerome and I swap places, and he calls: “One-zero-two.”
Perfect, okay. We have one point. Because we’re serving and they missed it.
On the second serve, we aren’t so lucky. Megan returns the ball with a smack, and it comes straight toward me. I move into position, my footwork rusty but coming back from my tennis days, and promptly slam the ball into the net.
“Definitely not a zero.” Jerome chuckles behind me. “Just get lower and that’ll be a killer drive.”
I nod, then grab the ball, not sure what to do with it.
“It’s their serve. Whoever starts only gets one chance to serve, then from there on out, each person on the team gets a turn to serve,” he explains.
I give a grateful smile and toss the ball to Sam. She looks nervous, but her first serve goes in. My palms are sweaty. I draw a deep breath and take a little more time getting into position before my swing. This time the ball sails over the net.
I let out a cheer of surprise, and Jerome has to yell at me to get up to the kitchen line. I can’t wipe the grin off my face, even when I miss a shot and they tie up the score.
This is fun. It’s fast-paced and unpredictable. My brain lights up recognizing patterns with the ball and trying to coordinatemy out-of-practice body. Even though I’m awkward, Jerome and I find a rhythm.
