I lean over my plate, getting as close to her as I can. “You keep telling me about how this is my second chance. Well, you have one too. You’re not stuck in this life, Nina. You can change your fate.”
“How?” She practically whispers the word, but I hear the way her voice breaks.
“One day at a time,” I say. “Make a list of non-negotiables. What is it you want out of life? What will you absolutely not put up with? Write it down, and every day commit to it.”
“That…sounds like a good idea.”
“Now…about tomorrow,” I say, remembering our plans to meet Jill. “Do you know anything about pickleball?”
She makes a disgruntled noise. “Not much. And for the record, this was all your doing. If this goes sideways, I’m blaming you.”
I smirk. “Deal. But what could go wrong with a game seemingly made for senior citizens?”
She shoots me a look that suggests a whole host of things could go sideways.
“Either way, you’d better be prepared, because I am not about to lose to Jill Kincaid.”
Their rivalry apparently lives on.
17
Five of Wands
The sun beatsdown on the pickleball court, causing sweat to drip from places it should not. My boobs are smashed into one of Nina’s sports bras that’s a size, maybe two, too small, because the last thing I anticipated while packing for a getaway to Florida was an intense game of pickleball and thus the need for a boulder holder for sports.
Nina and Jill were dubbed captains, not that it was necessary. In no way was I potentially playing with a stranger who, within minutes of meeting her, made it clear that this was her sport.
Jill and her friend Sandra came in matching outfits: neon pink skorts with white racerback tanks, and matching white sneakers with pink swishes. They swore total domination, and honestly, I believed them. I was ready to fake an ankle sprain and bail before the game even started. But then I saw Nina’s eyes light up with that competitive fire—she was in it to win it, and there was no turning back.
Her determination is evident in every swift movement, every lethal swing of her paddle. She plays like she’s been at this for decades,which leaves me sputtering profanities every time Sandra nails the ball right at my face.
“Shit!” I shriek as the yellow missile rockets toward me. I barely avoid it, but I don’t miss Nina’s exasperated groan, which is quickly smothered by cheers.
“Nice call, Ally,” she shouts.
She doesn’t bother to explain, so I’m left assuming the ball must have gone out of bounds. I’d do about anything to make my own exit at this point.
“You’re up,” she says, handing the ball over to me, apparently my turn to serve.
I’ve been watching the three women, who seem to know the game like the back of their hand, and think I have the method figured out. The key is to get it in the big rectangle, but over the part called the kitchen.
I make my move, and the ball is in motion, flying back toward me. I allow it to bounce, then hit it back over the net. My feet move me instantly up toward the net, next to Nina.
The pickleball court crackles with energy as the intense match continues. The ball pings back and forth, creating a noise that is beginning to grate on my nerves. From the sidelines, an outsider might mistake me for a pickleball prodigy, but let’s be real. It’s my sheer terror of losing the game for Nina that fuels my surprisingly competent performance.
I have to admit, Jill and Sandra make for a dynamic duo, playing with seamless coordination, anticipating each other’s every move. Meanwhile, Nina and I are faking it until we make it. Or at least I am. I’m clinging on to the idea of beginner’s luck carrying me through this shit show.
We’re in the middle of a long rally that stretches on as both sides refuse to yield an inch.
I’m simply trying to not let Nina down.
Sweat glistens on Jill and Sandra’s brows as they dart across the court, their focus unwavering amidst the intensity of the game. With every volley, the tension mounts, the stakes growing higher with each passing moment.
As the game progresses, it becomes apparent that Jill and Sandra aren’t just playing to win; they’re aiming their shots directly at Nina with the precision of vengeful sharpshooters. Each time they hit their mark, it feels like the court is about to turn into a full-blown war zone.
Nina stops mid-play, throwing her hands up in the air, apparently done ignoring the deliberate targeting. “What’s with all the aggressive shots?” she calls out, frustration lacing her voice.
Jill smirks, her eyes glinting mischievously. “Just having a bit of fun. Aren’t we, Sandra?”
