“Okay?”
“Yeah. Okay.” She walks toward her next court. “Just haven’t heard you laughing as much.”
“As much as what?” It was a Friday. I was a little worn down from the week. Sure, my energy wasn’t at a ten, but what did she expect?
“I don’t know. Lessons?”
My eyes widen, and I scan for Garrett. He’s still in the middle of his game, which is lucky. Sam gets to keep her life tonight.
Playing pickleball here versus playing in lessons wasn’t a fair comparison. In lessons, I have Calder constantly pushing my buttons. Forcing me out of my comfort zone. Here, I can just do what I’m supposed to do. Take the shots I know I’ve got. That’s what makes a good partner, right?
It’s nice to just play and let Garrett or Jerome or whoever my partner is take the tough shots. To know I don’t have to do anything special, just not screw it up. When we wrap, Garrett tells me I’ve leveled up since last week, and I glow for an hour. That was a real compliment.
The next day is Oktoberfest with Sam, which means we commit to pretzels as a food group and joyride a pedal cart with too many seats and a custom countertop down a closed-off block with a dozen strangers who become our best friends for exactly seventy minutes. The guide has thighs like a Greek statue and a whistle he uses with far too much exuberance. The playlist is all 2000s bangers intermixed with party polkas. We cycle past a guy in lederhosen playing the accordion, which really solidifies the vibes.
Sam insists on us taking turns as “steering captain.” A total farce because the wheel is fake and we all know it. But why is it so damn fun to pretend?
I have two steins of something with a name that sounds appropriately German and a third drink that smells and tastes like sour apple suckers. It’s delicious and mostly sugar syrup. It makes me think of Calder, which is annoying and a little bit hot now that I’m tipsy.
“I think Calder would be fun as, like, a one-night stand.”
Sam laughs. “Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. He’s got that intensity, you know? I bet he’s . . . really focused.”
She chortles. “And Garrett’s the long-term option?”
“Yeah. He’s got a stable job?—”
“You don’t know Calder doesn’t have a stable job.”
I scoff. “How could he? He’s always at Smash Point. Like, what does he even do besides pickleball? That’s probably why he doesn’t talk about himself. He doesn’t want people to know he’s got nothing going for him.”
Sam takes a long draw from her beer, then sets it down and starts singing along to Death Cab for Cutie.
“What, no comment?”
“I have plenty of comments. I just don’t think you want to hear them.”
I fold my arms over the countertop and stop pedaling. “I always want to hear your comments.”
Sam sets her drink in the cup holder and leans in, cupping her hand around my ear. “I think you have a thing for Calder.”
“What?” I rear back, losing my balance on the bucket seat. “No! He’s—no! For sure he’s hot, but then you get to know him?—”
“See? That’s why I didn’t say it.”
I roll my eyes. “He’s just annoying. And wildly unhappy.”
“He makes you laugh.”
“Because he’s ridiculous.” I don’t have time for a stronger rebuttal because we’re stopping for schnitzel and if I don’t eat some solid food, I’m going to yarf.
At one stop, the barman slaps down free shots “for the pedal cart athletes,” and I learn I am not, in fact, an athlete when it comes to cinnamon liquor. Sam leans her head on my shoulder on the way back, cheeks pink, eyes bright, and I think this is what makes everything in life possible.
“Maybe we should just get married,” Sam says.
I laugh. “If only I loved boobs, this would all be so easy.”
