I groan and stalk back to the courts, praying he’s only trying to piss me off and isn’t going to word vomit all this to Garrett.
Somehow, I end up playing with Jerome again. We win a close game, moving us into the middle court. We have to split and play with the losers of the top court, and my knees go weak when I see it’s Garrett and Lisa from accounting. I glance over and see Calder with his partner waiting for the middle court winners. It’s Megan and her partner. Of course it’s Megan.
Garrett gives me a half smile as he approaches. “Looks like it’s me and you.”
I hope the blush rising to my cheeks looks like athletic effort. “Looks like it.” I smile, but my insides are now inside a Vitamix that is cranked up to the soup setting. I won with Jerome, and Garrett seems better than him. All I have to do is minimize mistakes. Breathe, stay low.
Garrett shades his eyes with his paddle. “Want to start serving or receive?”
He’s smiling at me. Garrett Davis is maintaining eye contact, proposing we engage in a physical activity together, andsmiling at me.
I’m a genius. I wish Sam were standing here because she would know this exact look on my face and find some way to bring me back down to earth. All this time I thought it was skincare and pilates that were the key to attracting men, but turns out, it’s a pickleball membership.
“Receive,” I say, because the idea of serving right now makes me queasy. The ball would fly into the back wall with the adrenaline pumping through my veins right now. Plus, Lisa’s the one serving. Not nearly as intimidating as Jerome. As long as Istay opposite her for the entire match, I might not have a panic attack. Technically that’s impossible, but still.
Lisa calls out 0-0, and her serve zips. I return it cross-court, and when Lisa sends it back toward me, Garrett slides a half-step in front of me and takes the shot, feathering a drop into their zone.
I rush forward to the kitchen line, but Jerome sends the ball to my knees, and I can’t get my paddle low enough before it bounces through my legs. Fantastic. Not embarrassing at all.
“Nice try, Alecia!” Jerome grins and waves his paddle. I roll my eyes. He has no idea I’m a total beginner, and I don’t expect him to give me special privileges, but we just played together. He knows my weaknesses.
Garrett holds out his paddle, and I tap it. Not a big deal. It was one shot, and at least I returned the serve respectably. Jerome and Lisa switch spots so she can serve to Garrett.
“Let’s get it back,” Garrett says.
Lisa serves to him, and he smacks the ball to Jerome, who immediately sends it my direction. My paddle’s up, but it doesn’t matter. The angle’s all wrong, and the ball flies straight up.
Garrett turns his back to the net. “He’s targeting you.”
“Yeah, I noticed.” I grit my teeth, trying not to imagine slamming the ball into Jerome’s crotch. Can’t he see I’m trying to impress a guy here?
Lisa’s next serve comes straight at my body. I manage to send it back, and Garrett intercepts the counter. He spins a sharp drop right into the corner, and we snag a point. 2–1. We’re rally scoring, which is both exhilarating and stressful. Every point counts, and we can’t let our guard down.
I plant my feet wider, try to remember to keep my paddle out in front, higher closer to the net, and a thousand other things, and for three whole rallies, I hold my own. My returns stay low, my resets land where they’re supposed to. We get ahead, 4-3.
Then Jerome starts aiming lower. Faster. They go up 8–5 before I blink, and I hate this. I don’t know why I ever decided to pick up a paddle and sign that stupid form. Now, instead of just being the girl across the hall, I’m the girl across the hall who sucks at pickleball and who Garrett probably hopes won’t come back.
I’m not a person who struggles with negative self-talk, but standing on that court with my palms sweating unlocks the door to my inner critic.
We score a couple more points, but so do they. It’s 10-7, and they’re serving.
My nose burns as Jerome serves and Garrett returns deep. I drop to my ready stance, and Lisa pops it back to me. I step in, bend my knees, swing?—
Too much.
The ball arcs, and I know what’s coming before Jerome even moves. The smash echoes across the court. Pain blooms sharp and immediate in my thigh where the ball connects with bare skin just below the hem of my dress. A red-hot sting radiates outward, and my breath catches.
“Oh, shit, Alecia, I’m so sorry.”
I force a smile that feels like stretching with a sunburn. “No, it’s fine.”
“I was aiming for your feet.” He runs a hand over his buzz cut.
My eyes sting. Tears start to blur my vision. Maybe if I were a pretty crier, I wouldn’t worry so much about showing emotion in public, but I’m not. I’m a puffy-eyed, snot-nosed, blotchy-cheek kind of girl, and I’m not going to allow any of these people to see that over a stupid welt from a ball.
“I’m going to hit the restroom,” I chirp, then rush off the court. I drop my paddle on the bench and jog toward thehallway. Inside the restroom, I lift the loose fabric of my skort and check out the red mark blooming across my thigh.
The sting is already starting to dissipate. I slip into a bathroom stall and pull out a handful of toilet paper to blow my nose. It’s a game, it isn’t a big deal. It didn’t even hurt that bad, it was just shocking, and I can’t keep my eyes from watering. I just need to?—
