Page 50 of This is a Kissing Book

“Linc!” Jules waves me over.

I’m unintentionally walking a tightrope. One slip of the tongue about penalties or playoff schedules and my whole summer as a regular guy crashes down. For once, someone is getting to know me before they know my stats, my salary, or what team I play for. I’m not ready for that conversation to happen over pickleball and burgers.

“These are my friends. Olympia—Oly—and Nate.”

Oly gives me an appraising look. “So you’re the mysterious boss.”

“The Abraham Lincoln descendant,” Nate adds with a grin.

Because my competitive spirit cannot be contained, I add, “And pickleball champion. Jules called upon the best.”

It doesn’t escape my notice that Oly mouths Jules as if questioning the nickname I settled on for her. The one that came out when we were at the rooftop party and I felt protective. I temporarily turned into a territorial caveman. Which makes no sense because Jules isn’t mine to protect. She’d probably kick me in the shins if she thought for a second I was jealous of the guy with the man bun or irate at how Iva acted.

She folds her hands like she’s saying a prayer. “Okay, so here’s the thing. It’s not exactly a standard pickleball game.”

Of course it isn’t.

“We need another couple for the Grand Old Flag tournament,” Oly explains. “But we play with … variations.”

“Variations?”

Nate produces a jar of actual pickles that look like they came from a farmer’s market. “Winner of each point gets to eat one. Loser has to answer a truth-or-dare question.”

I look at Jules. “You’re kidding.”

“It’s fun!” she insists. “And silly. But mostly fun.”

When we reach our side of the net, I whisper to Jules, “Confession, I’ve never actually played this game.”

Face stricken with horror, she looks like I just warned her that a werewolf prowls behind her. “Um, that’s a problem.”

“How hard can it be?”

“On a stomach full of pickle juice?”

“We’re going to win.” I spin my paddle in my hand.

She doesn’t look convinced.

Pickleball, it turns out, isn’t exactly easy, but I am a professional athlete. The game area is smaller than a tennis court, the paddle is solid, and it’s played with a veritable wiffle ball. Jules is terrible and tries to offer a lengthy explanation every time she misses. Oly is competitive and the reigning trophy holder in their community. Nate treats it like comedy hour.

I score a fair number of points, eating my share of pickles and Jules accepts increasingly ridiculous dares. She has to do an impression of Kermit the Frog (adorably accurate), sing the alphabet backwards (she gets stuck at L), and demonstrate her best “trying to be professional at work” face (which makes everyone, including me, crack up because it’s a glare cast in my direction).

Unfortunately, I lose our next point and choose truth.

She asks me, “What’s the weirdest thing you’ve ever eaten?”

“Fermented shark in Iceland,” I answer.

“Why were you in Iceland?” Nate asks.

“Work trip,” I say smoothly.

My other work. The one that involves skates and sticks and gliding smoothly, while I hear the rush of my breath in my helmet and experience the satisfaction of a team working together to win.

Unlike this, but it’s not so bad.

The tournament ends with Oly and Nate winning, mostly because I started playing with Jules on my back like a koala—it was one of the dares. She’s breathless and glowing a happy grin as we exchange a high five that lingers …