“Is this some kind of event?” Sam murmurs.
I look for one of the signs we saw last time, but don’t find anything, so we weave to the front desk. The girl with space buns and razor-winged liner blinks up at us. “Hey! Court reservation?”
“Lesson with Calder.” I almost call him Frederick for fun. I didn’t tell Sam about that. Huh. Not sure how that slipped my mind.
Space Buns tilts her head. “Calder’s in the round robin right now.”
My stomach does the cartoon-fall-through-a-rug thing. “Did I mess up the day?” I mutter to myself, hunting for my phone in my bag.
“Hey!” Someone yells, and all three of us look up. Calder leans over the fence, his paddle in hand. He yells again, and I don’t catch the first part, but I do hear, “. . . check your email?”
I whip out my phone and tap on my inbox. Frederick sits at the top, and I thumb the message open.
Round robin’s running late. Finish in 30ish, then I’m yours. Sit by court two.
-C
My heart does a stutter step.Then I’m yours?I blink and shake my head. That was a common turn of phrase. I press the screen against my hip. No need to read that over again. “Looks like it will be a few more minutes. You good to wait?” I ask Sam, and she nods.
Space Buns smiles. “Perfect, so drop in fee or?—”
“Erin! Don’t charge them. I’ll explain later!” Calder leans over the fence closest to us. He waits for her acknowledgement, then jogs back to the baseline. The group of people at the table next to the court look over in curiosity. Perfect. We’re attracting attention.
“We can pay.” I reach for my wallet, but Erin shakes her head.
“Nope. Calder’s got it figured out. He’ll help me take care of it. Just give me your names.”
We do so, and since we’ve been there before, our waivers are already in the system. We end up on a row of stools next to court two, shoulder to shoulder with a knot of people who are already shouting at Calder and his partner like this is the US Open.
A woman with curly red hair offers us a paper tray of sweet potato fries. “You new?”
“Kind of? Just starting lessons. Alecia. This is my friend Sam.”
Sam gives a wave.
The curly-haired woman grins. “I’m Natasha. That’s my husband, Ben.” She points to a tall, easygoing guy who’s gota toddler on his hip using a paddle like a drum. “We’re the unofficial Smash Point peanut gallery. We heckle out of love.”
A guy in a vintage Nuggets tee leans in. “I’m here for the snacks.” He takes a fry and Natasha swats at his hand.
Another woman—platinum bob, glossy lips—opens a cooler bag. “We’ve got seltzers if you want one.”
“I—sure,” I say, taking a can and handing one to Sam. Cold condensation hits my fingers, and the tension in my chest unkinks a degree.
“Who are you cheering for?” Ben asks. “You got a horse in this race?”
“Uh, our lesson is with Calder.”
The group hoots like I announced a celebrity crush.
Natasha leans in. “Ben says I’m not allowed to have real people on my hall pass, but Calder’s on it.”
“What is she saying?” Ben fights off the child in his arms who’s currently trying to reach inside his mouth. “It better not be about the damn hall pass.”
Sam snorts.
“You haven’t bought any skorts yet, babe,” Ben says, returning to the table.
Natasha rolls her eyes. “Oh, don’t start.”
