A sliver of guilt lodges itself in the tender spot beneath my ribs. “That was rude. I’m sorry. It’s probably me who’s the problem.” It was the likely scenario. I was out of my element, bristling at everything. Competitiveness was only helpful when you had the skills to back it up. Otherwise, you turned into a self-aggrandizing jerk. I didn’t want to be that person.
I set my water bottle down and start walking back to my side of the court, but before I know what’s happening, I’m ripped sideways and thrown against something warm and solid. The split second it takes me to process my change of location seems to stretch into slow motion. Calder’s left arm is around me, his right arm stretched over my head, catching a pickleball that’s screaming straight toward my face.
“Ball!” A voice echoes through the club, but Calder has already plucked it out of midair.
“You okay?” he asks, dropping his eyes to mine.
I find it difficult to focus. He smells like soft cotton and clean sweat. I’m so close, I can feel his exhale on my forehead. And his eyes. Holy hell, hiseyes.
I nod, since words have betrayed me, and Calder slowly releases his arm. I shiver, the hairs rising on my neck. That felt dangerously good. To be held by someone, literally protected from a projectile . . . How had he gotten here that fast? Reacted so quickly?
“Can’t lose that one! It’s a Franklin!” The guy calls.
Calder mutters something under his breath and throws it to him. I march back to the baseline. Doing my best to hide my flushed cheeks.
“Has Calder worn you out yet?” Frank teases as I take my spot.
Well. I’m certainly breathing hard.
“Takes a lot of drilling to make Alecia tap out.” Sam says, stifling a snicker.
I purse my lips.
Calder bounces a ball on his paddle. “Maybe her partners just aren’t drilling hard enough.”
My jaw drops. Did he just—? Is Calder making a joke? Or is he oblivious to the baller innuendo he just dished out?
Sam’s eyes water, she’s trying so hard not to laugh.
Frank chuckles. “Well, we’ve got the right guy for the job then. Calder will keep drilling until you can’t walk!”
He wasdefinitelynot aware of what he just said. When Sam excuses herself to get another drink of water, I spin toward the fence, finding as many new muscles to stretch as possible to keep from looking at Sam’s shaking shoulders.
four
Sam
So. Did Calder drill you until you can’t walk?
Alecia
YOU’RE A TERRIBLE PERSON
I’ve had hundreds of mornings where I woke up sore after a workout, but this feels like I got dragged behind a pickup truck. I wince as I shuffle to the bathroom like an eighty-year-old, then hiss air through my teeth when I drop to sit. Did pickleball activate muscles never before used in my glutes and inner thighs? Ugh, or my abs. My fricking triceps. Every piece of me is steeped in a lactic acid bath.
If I thought sitting was hard, getting up is even worse. I wash my hands, then immediately drop to the floor to stretch. My hamstrings feel like brittle rubber elastics, and my hip flexors are solid knots.
I haven’t felt trashed in a fun way since high school tennis, when Coach Prewitt used to make us run ladders while telling us we were “barely approaching our potential.” It hurts so good. I’m both concerned about my level of accepted masochism and excited that we have another lesson scheduled for Thursday. Hopefully sans Calder.What kind of name even was that?
He didn’t say more than a few single words for the rest of our drill session after dropping his drill bomb. Sam and Frank were having a grand old time laughing and chatting next to us, and all I had was the thwack of the ball on my paddle and my insane curiosity to keep me company.
The way he moved . . . Not only to catch that fly ball, but on the court. It was like he had more time than I did. There I was, rushing and flailing to get my paddle under the ball, but he was already in position for what felt like a full second ahead of time. Like he was waiting for the ball to come to him. It was the same even when Frank had us standing directly next to the net, trying to keep the ball bouncing between our paddles.
And once I noticed his eyes, I couldn’t unnotice them. They were seafoam green. Pale and almost mystical, like the crystals I used to pine after as a kid in gift shops. They held magical properties, and I was convinced that if I held them in my pocket or wished on them, I’d see fairies or acquire a talent for spells.
Not Calder’s eyes. The crystals. Regardless, it was weird that I was thinking about either one this much.
I rush to get out of my apartment since everything takes longer with my new mobility issues. Putting on pants? I feel geriatric. But shoes? Pure torture. It takes me five minutes to lower myself into the driver’s seat.
