But did Megan play?Why else would she plan something like this if she didn’t? Unless it was a team-building exercise she’d volunteered for. That was absolutely something she would do.
I scan the list and find her name at the tippy top. The first person on the list. This was her idea.
Daaaang.She’s into him, too. She has to be. Even if she volunteered to organize an extracurricular, there are a thousand different options. But this one equates to sweat, tank tops, and tiny tennis skirts.
I do the mental math. First day of the club is—I check the calendar on my phone—October 10. That gives me?—
“Red flag, A,” Sam hisses.
I scoff. “What? This is a recreational activity. I do actually like sports.” True. I probably wouldn’t have ever considered this one had Garrett not signed his name on the line, but relationships were supposed to broaden your horizons, weren’t they?
“It’s barely a week and a half.”
I reach for a pen from the cup organizer on the countertop below. “I played tennis in high school.”
“Pickleball isn’t tennis! I don’t think?”
The truth is, neither of us has any idea, but how hard could it be? There’s a net and a racquet or paddle—something to smack the ball with. Easy, peasy.
I hand the pen to Sam, fluttering my eyelashes. “I hear learning a new sport is really great for mental health.”
“You know what’s not great for mental health? Rediscovering your lack of athleticism in front of all of your coworkers.”
I press my palms together. “We’ll take lessons together.” The plan is already taking shape in my mind. Plenty of time. We’d have at least a couple of lessons and time to practice in between. All I have to do is find an instructor and open courts. Not at The Court Collective, obviously. We don’t want anyone here getting wind of our extra practice.
“I’m not a sports person,” Sam insists.
“How do you know, huh?” I nudge her, guiding her hand to the sign-up.
Sam hesitates a moment, then locks her eyes on mine, and I know I’m in for it. “You know that Oktoberfest bar hop?”
“The one on the pedal cart? Sam?—”
She brandishes the pen like a weapon. “You’re doing it.”
I grit my teeth, my eyes flicking between the ballpoint and the sign-up sheet. This could be my last chance to make an impression before Megan unintentionally convinces Garrett to give up the company and buy a bakery in Granby. I could endure six hours trying to figure out how all of the pedals on that cart were connected to make the wheels move in one consistent direction. “Fine. I’m in.”
Sam nods with approval, then scrawls her name under mine. “Find us some damn lessons.”
three
It takes me a few days,but I finally find a place for lessons, and Sam and I dutifully show up at our time on Tuesday after work. I’m painfully aware that we don’t fit the vibe as Sam and I check in at the desk of Smash Point Social. It’s been years since I felt like a fish out of water, but when a woman walks out of the bathroom, her hair pulled up into a high ponytail, her skirt and tank top crisp in white and blue, my lungs struggle for oxygen.
I glance down at my oversized T-shirt and soccer shorts. Not my best moment, but with a portfolio collapse this weekend, I didn’t exactly have time to wardrobe shop.
The sound of plastic balls hitting paddles, floors, and probably walls assaults my eardrums while I try to understand what the teenager behind the desk is saying to us. He wears a hat with the Smash Point paddle logo, his hair curling around the bottom edges.
“Fifteen-dollar drop-in fee, or you can purchase a membership and save?—”
I smile and hold up a hand. “I called yesterday. I purchased a semi-private lesson series with . . .” I check my phone to confirm the details. “With Frank.”
“Oh, got it.” The employee peers at one of the four computer screens facing him. “Yep, there it is. You’re on court three.” He points to the back corner, and I thank him.
“Were we supposed to bring balls?” Sam clutches her twenty-dollar paddle we picked up at Dicks on the way over. We stopped right after work and changed in their restrooms since I didn’t want to be seen like this in the office. I’m wondering now if we should’ve listened to the guy who was trying to sell us on carbon fiber. Our paddles appear to be about half the thickness of the ones people are using on the courts we pass.
“I think they have balls,” I say.
Sam snorts, and I nudge her shoulder. “Stop. This is a respectable establishment. We can’t be?—”
