Chapter 24
24
Eleanor
“Have you ever played pickleball before?” Carson asks, looming over me in bed.
“I love pickleball,” I say. “I’m actually the reigning Broadway Press Union Pickleball Champion for two years running.”
If they look up Broadway Press Union Pickleball League, they will know I’m bluffing. Until then, this narrative survives on the strength of my convictions.
“Really?” they ask, making no effort to hide their disbelief.
“Oh yeah. Give me a pickleball ball and a paddle and I’m in my paradise.”
Carson kisses me once, quick but meaningful. “That’s fantastic news, because that’s what we’re doing with the family today, and we’re one person short to make complete teams. It would be very highly appreciated if you’d join us.”
My face gets hot. My lie was supposed to be playful—a subversion of expectation. “Only if you’re my teammate.”
“Nope. It’s actually for my dad.” Their bright, uncensored grin shows me they’re enjoying this. Too much. They know they’ve got me cornered, and they’re milking it for all it’s worth. “My mom’s sciatica has been flaring up, and she can’t play. It’s a pairs tournament. There’s no way to redistribute the numbers without having someone compete twice, and that defeats the point. Everyone will really be devastated if the teams aren’t even.” They point at themselves.
“I see,” I say. “ Everyone will be devastated. Brother Ben has surely been sobbing for hours. Aunt Irene can hardly get out of bed. How brave you are, being able to come to me and ask this.”
Climbing back on top of me, they collapse in performed grief. “It’s been really tough, getting through the morning, not knowing if our family’s first ever pickleball tournament would be completed. Now that I know I’m in the presence of a champion, I feel the peace my heart has been seeking.” They blow a raspberry onto my neck. “Get dressed, champ.”
···
There are six pickleball courts side by side at the park district. Each one has a Ward lingering about in sportswear. In a strange twist of fate, Dr. Ward and I match, both of us wearing the exact same shade of mint green.
“Would you look at that?” he says, gesturing to our shirts. “We were meant to be a team!”
Then he hugs me in the same way my own dad used to, from the side but squeezing tight. After yesterday, I thought I was done being reminded of the parent-shaped holes inside my heart that can never be filled. And here is Dr. Ward in his mint-green polo, making me remember.
Thank god I don’t cry again. Three days in a row would suggest a new emerging behavior.
We’re up against Sister Laney and Brother Ben for our first match. They make a fun pair themselves. Laney hands Ben a hot- pink headband that matches hers. He puts it on gamely, letting it sit on his forehead the same ways hers does.
“I hear you’re good,” Ben calls from the other side of the court.
It takes a second to register that he means me . “I might be,” I tell him. Not a lie. I really might. Who knows?
“Not as good as us,” Laney says, puffing her chest in what must be an attempt at intimidation.
Ben, reading Laney’s cue, folds his arms across his chest. “Definitely not,” he adds.
I have to laugh. “If this is supposed to be trash-talking, both of you are terrible at it.”
“You just wait until we start playing,” Laney says. “Even the night dogs fear us.”
“I don’t know who the night dogs are, but if your trash talk is anything like your pickleball skills, there won’t be much waiting to do, because Dr. Ward and I are going to be too busy mopping the floor with you both,” I tell her.
Dr. Ward fist pumps. “Now, that’s some good old-fashioned smack talk!”
“Dad, please ,” Laney warns.
We flip a coin to see who will start. Our team wins, earning us the first serve of the game.
“We’re playing tournament style,” Dr. Ward says as we walk to our positions. Not knowing what tournament style means, I nod. “You want to serve first?”
“Sure,” I tell him. Challenges have never ruffled me. There’s nothing for me to hide, even if I don’t actually know what’s going on.
I can feel the pressure of Carson’s gaze, watching me from two courts over. They are curious, I know. To see how far I will take my lie. To find out where I will buckle.
Which is why they gasp when I smack the ball across the court with power and precision. Laney, my diagonal opponent, is not fast enough to get a return shot.
I wink at Carson.
I don’t play pickleball, but I do play tennis.
“Really nice, Eleanor!” Dr. Ward says, thrilled. He gives me a thumbs-up, then leans over the net to get the attention of Laney and Ben. “Sorry, kids. We’re winning this one.”
Seems the trash-talking abilities might be genetic too.
As our match progresses, it becomes clear that Ben might not be a pickleballer, but he is an athlete. He’s fast, with good instincts and fullhearted commitment to the game. Laney is equally committed, but she’s clumsy. Her passion makes up for it, though. She’s unbelievably enthusiastic—clapping for Ben, cheering on his every serve and success. It inspires me to take this as seriously as possible.
I may not sing with every serve like she does, and there’s no chance in hell anyone is going to catch me doing a jazz square to celebrate scoring a point, but I can scowl and huff, pretending to be one of the brilliant, tortured tennis greats.
Eleanor Chapman, a brilliant, tortured pickleball great.
The real surprise of the day is how good Dr. Ward and I are as a team. We have this weird simpatico that again reminds me of my own father. My dad and I couldn’t always talk about things, but we could usually enjoy a harmless activity together without conflict. We’d look at each other after a trip to the grocery store and say, “Ice cream?” in unison. And it would be March in Pennsylvania, during the bitterest of colds, and we’d both still be excited to have had the same idea.
With Dr. Ward, I see his confident stance and his deceptively casual demeanor, and I can feel what choices he’s going to make on the court. He looks harmless, maybe even slow. He is neither. He’s patient . It doesn’t surprise me when he makes a quick dive for one play. It doesn’t surprise him either when I pounce on the next, slamming the ball over the net.
Soon the entire court becomes a symphony of pickleballing. Grabbing a sip of water between serves, I take a peek at the other matches. Thanks to yesterday’s picnic, I can recognize a decent amount of the participants now.
There’s Uncle Gary, who hates coffee, paired up with the woman everyone just calls Lydia. She’s related to the family in a way no one has been able to explain. She’s always one of the first to arrive at these things, and she is guaranteed to be the last to leave.
There are two cousins with uncannily similar names, Jason and Jaycee, playing against two other cousins whose names I can’t recall.
Then there is Carson, matched up with Aunt Irene. I watch one of Carson’s volleys, enjoying the way their shirt pulls up as they stretch their arm to hit the ball, revealing a glimpse of their torso, where their tattoo peeks out just a little. Just enough.
They’re lithe, sneaky, as mischievous on the court as they have the reputation for being in life. With their long legs, they can cover ground quickly, making up for Aunt Irene, who is nowhere near as quick on the pickup. Carson scores a point, then looks straight at me, aware of my admiration.
“Hey, Trouble!” they call out. “Don’t you have a game to play?”
Blushing, I towel off my sweat, ignoring the comment.
Dr. Ward and I hold our lead all the way to the last point. Tournaments go up to fifteen, apparently. At least this one does.
It’s Dr. Ward’s serve. He calls out the score, then starts the volley. We settle into a nice rhythm among the four of us. We’ve been beating them handily, but they’re still going out with dignity.
I admire that.
Unfortunately for Ben and Laney, they’ve once again left open the same pocket they’ve been missing all game long.
Ben hits the ball toward me, and I square up my paddle, ready to close out this first match and secure our spot in the next round.
“You’ve been sleeping on that corner all day! Pathetic,” I say as I slam the ball in the direction of the opening. This is how trash talk works.
Laney takes a huge lunging step, desperate to change the narrative.
At once, she falls to the ground, letting out a groan of shock that isn’t quite loud enough to cover the horrific cracking sound her leg has made. Her cries of agony come next, silencing the rest of the pickleball court.
Dr. Ward springs to action without hesitation, running across the court to tend to Laney. With startling efficiency, the rest of the family reworks into a hive, assembling a plan of action before I can even process what’s happened. They’re hoisting Laney up, securing her injured leg, and supporting her under the arms as they carry her to the SUV that’s parked closest to the nets. Jason and Jaycee follow with water and towels. The aunts start cleaning up the paddles and balls.
It unfolds as fluidly as our games on the courts. My feet are glued to the ground. I’m feeling shocked, sad. Disappointed in myself. Maybe if I hadn’t mocked their weakness, Laney wouldn’t be hurt.
“Are you okay?” Carson asks, startling me out of my fog.
“Your sister just broke her leg or something. Are you okay?”
“It wasn’t your fault,” they say.
“I’m not blaming myself,” I lie.
“Okay then, pickleball champion. Maybe not. But just in case. That was an accident, plain as day.” They put an arm around me. “Do you want to ride with me to the hospital?”
“I hate hospitals,” I say, which is the first true thing I’ve told them all day. “I don’t think I’ll go. I’ll head back. You should be with family anyway. Keep me posted on what happens with Laney. I hope she’s okay.”
“I know we haven’t been able to practice again, but would you be able to drive my car to my parents’ house for me? I need to ride to the hospital with them and Laney.”
“Sure,” I say, still dazed.
Carson hands me their keys and rushes off to catch a ride with their family. They don’t even hesitate in handing over their vehicle. Not even after the atrocity that was my driving lesson, only two days ago.
Our hookup situation has evolved way too far past its original inception. Never has that been more clear to me than right now, watching the entire Ward family unite around Laney.
Family is the one thing I don’t have.
One week in Trove Hills can’t change that.