Chapter 2
TWO
NORA
The wiffle ball pops against my paddle, and a round blur of neon green cuts back over the net. The ball lands on the other side of the court, on my opponents’ side, between Charlie’s and Lydia’s feet. Charlie swoops down to scoop up the ball, with the attempt of sending it back over to my partner and me, but his paddle hardly makes contact.
The ball ricochets to the side and flies out of bounds.
My lips spread into a huge grin.
“Yeah!” I cry, excitement ripping through me while I tap paddles with Jeremy, my pickleball partner who I’ve been playing with for only the last month. With the weather warming up, we’re going to have all summer to get our game on to prep for the tournament at the end of August, the professional open that happens in conjunction with the Seaside Festival. I’m going in for the 3.5 mixed doubles division.
A shit ton of people drive or fly in every year to either watch or play, and it’s so huge around here that it’s even fucking televised on all the local news channels.
Last year, I lost every single game in both the 3.0 women’s doubles and 3.0 mixed gender doubles divisions, but I was a pickleball newbie, and had been completely out of shape.
This is going to be my year to focus on one division, with one partner (Jeremy)—and kick some ass and take some names. As the saying goes, anyway. Given the fact that sayings aren’t typically my thing as I tend to screw them up. I tend to screw a lot of my verbal communication up, between stuttering and drawing a blank of what to say and, uh, literally just not being able to communicate the thoughts in my head the right way.
That’s why I much prefer playing games (sports, board, video, you name it) than having a conversation with another human.
“Side out!” my partner Jeremy says, as Charlie races to grab the ball that ended up in the corner of the courts on his side.
In pickleball, when you’re playing doubles, each side gets two serves. When you serve, if your side gets the point, you serve again. If your side loses the round when you’re serving, no one gets a point, but you switch to the second server. If your side loses the round on the second serve, then that’s a side out, and the ball comes back to the other team to serve.
Which means it’s now our turn to try and score.
And I’m the player on the right side, so I’m first.
Smoothing out my Los Angeles Kings jersey, I try to get into the zone. I bounce the ball in front of my feet, mentally prepping to serve, taking a deep breath to clear my jitters every single time the pressure falls on me. If I’m not careful, during a serve I will sink into an anxiety attack that makes it hard for me to breathe, remembering how I was always picked last in gym class as a kid and how out of shape I used to be. Remembering how even the thought of running a simple mile would cause me to want to vomit.
But I’m not that kid any longer.
I’m an adult. A woman well into her thirties.
And I’ve learned to allow that anxiety to fuel my power.
To step into the serve and be fully present.
For the briefest of moments, the rest of the world fades away. It’s just me, and my feet, and a bright neon ball bouncing beside me. Inhaling, I lift my hand with the ball in it. As it drops to the ground, I bend into the serve.
The ball soars across the court and directly over the net.
It crosses the “kitchen” space next to the net—it can’t land in the kitchen on the serve—and hits directly on the other side right beyond the non-volley zone. Lydia rushes forward, but by the time she reaches the spot, the ball has already double bounced.
The three others cheer (because in pickleball, even the opponents appreciate a good play, and we all support one another). Their mouths open wide with excitement as they begin complimenting me on my serve, going back and forth between the three of them.
“Ooph, Nora,” Charlie says. “Don’t take this in a bad way, but your serve always scares me.”
I laugh, and my mouth parts so that I can say something, to give some comical retort. In my head, I want to say something super jokey along the lines of, ‘What? You can’t handle all this?’ and then point to myself. But then, a huge flash of discomfort washes over me, and the anxiety I know so well makes my body tense. My brain instantly flashes with ten reasons I shouldn’t say that, or how it might come across. Like I’m some narcissist or egomaniac. Except I wouldn’t have truly meant it. But would they know that it was a joke? Would I even say it the right way?
Worse yet: what if I say it and they all think it’s dumb and no one laughs at all?
A few seconds pass, which is enough time that I know in my gut the moment is lost. So, instead of saying anything at all, I relax, facial features returning to neutral, while I bounce the ball at my feet again, back near the line at the end of the court.
As I get ready to serve for the second time, I clear my mind by remembering my one cardinal rule.
Talk as little as possible.
Smile more.
Oh, wait, scratch the second part—this isn’t Hamilton .
But not talking really is my one cardinal rule.
Anyway, I play sports for a reason. Pickleball, ice hockey, even sometimes basketball.
They’re activities I enjoy that keep my brain too busy to think, and my mouth too preoccupied to start saying words.
The ball drops from my hand, and I swing, allowing the serve to bring me back to my happy place.
When I reach my Ford Edge in the parking lot after the pickleball session is over, I shake out my hair, curly strands of mousey blonde strands escaping the band. Using the reflection of the metal as a mirror, I readjust my Kings jersey, my lips stretched into a slight frown. Jeremy and I may have won most of the games we played today, but when I see myself, it’s hard to remember the positive.
In my mind, I continuously see the little chubby girl, the one who’s spent so much time and energy trying to lose weight and keep it off.
And I’m still not happy with my body.
My jersey hugs my curves, highlighting a figure I wish I did not have. Typically, I wear tops that are slightly too big so I can hide. But this morning, in a rush to get out the door, I only found a more form-fitting jersey that showcases me in a way I do not like.
My little ego—because my little ego is actually huge, and my big ego is essentially non-existent—keeps reminding me that anyone would wear this jersey better than I’m wearing it now.
Literally, anyone.
Ignoring the negative thoughts, I pop the hatchback, securing my bag with my paddle and shoes in a little nook in the back. Then, heading around the front, I open the door and hop inside.
After I start my car, I dial up the volume, hoping there will be some music to help distract me from the distaste I feel seeing my body.
“…to run, right?” a female voice says on the radio.
“Just like him,” a guy says. “He’s always running from his problems instead of facing them head on.”
I roll my eyes, sighing. I subscribe to satellite radio, yet I can’t seem to get away from the bullshit gossip discussions. My whole entire life, I’ve been around superficial, egotistical people. You learn to hate that nonsense when your family is a group of judgmental jerks.
Especially since my family criticized me the most of all.
My finger touches the button to change the channel, but I stop when I hear the name of the person they’re talking about.
“Ryan’s a real putz,” the woman over the radio says. “There are children involved.”
Oh. Him .
“Yeah, but… I dunno…” the guy says. “Like, these are some very, very attractive people we’re dealing with here. It’s almost expected that there’s going to be some mix-ing and match-ing. They’re together on that show all the time. Close quarters and all that.”
I groan, but I can’t stop listening.
Even though they’ve only said his first name, I know they’re talking about Ryan Lane. The guy from the sitcom Ungratefully Yours. He’s been in the news the last couple of weeks—ever since some ass live streamed a fight that happened during filming for the last episode of the season.
For context, that show is the most watched show in America right now—hell, probably the most watched show for the last ten years, with no signs of losing steam any time soon. It’s like Big Bang Theory meets Sex in the City , and everyone who watches gets addicted. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t give a shit about some celebrity’s life, and Ungratefully Yours isn’t exactly my type of show.
Except, a few years ago, I met Ryan.
Well, met is the wrong word.
I was in New York City, back home visiting family at some huge gathering in my old house. And as usual, they started driving me crazy, so I booked tickets for a hockey game to get the hell out. It was Rangers versus the Flyers at Madison Square Garden (I’ve been a Rangers fan since I was a little girl, so a Rangers game beat dealing with mom’s fat jokes, dad’s sexist opinions, and literally everything that was coming out of racist Aunt Melanie’s mouth).
The game was a great break from the family that quite literally makes me want to slam my head against a wall. The Rangers were winning, and during one of the intermissions, I even found a new jersey to wear for their away games out on the West Coast.
I was having a nice time—until near the end of the game, when the cam panned around the rink, focusing on random people. They stopped on Ryan Lane, his thick, dark hair neatly groomed, intense blue eyes gazing down at the ice with crinkled brows. A Flyers jersey covered his broad chest and one of his hands was pressed against his mouth in a fist. Like he was in deep contemplation, upset that his team was losing.
Almost instantly, the whole entire arena started booing him.
Literally tens of thousands of people.
It took Ryan a second to realize the cam was on him—that so many people were giving him an attitude for nothing. When he did notice, he startled, pulling away his hand, eyes slightly widened. For a moment, he appeared so hurt, and also a little bit confused. Then, he composed himself, a rough exterior showing indifference as he glanced back at the ice, ignoring the camera and the entire stadium.
They lingered on him for a moment more—a moment too long.
Beneath that exterior, I knew he must have been really upset.
Who wouldn’t be?
And I hurt for him, too.
Don’t get me wrong: I am a Rangers fan through and through (and I was incredibly stoked when they beat the Flyers that day). That being said, I was so angry on Ryan’s behalf. Some guy I’ve never even met.
No one deserves to be booed for supporting their team. I don’t care how famous that person is. Famous, not famous, young, old. Does it really hurt anyone else if someone supports a different team? Fuck no. And even though I don’t know Ryan Lane personally, and he could be a real asshole, I felt bad for him. It would’ve been nice to bump into him after that, to truly have met him.
So that I could have apologized for how all those other assholes treated him.
And to tell him I hoped he didn’t think all of us Rangers fans were that bad.
Because we’re really not.
“Mix-ing and match-ing?” a woman on the radio asks (this time a woman with a nasally voice), bringing me back from my thoughts. “Don’t people take relationships seriously these days? I agree with Bree. There are children involved.”
“Yeah, well, all I’m saying is, it’s Ryan’s life,” the guy continues. “Besides, marriages break up all the time, and the rumors about Jasmine and Dan’s marriage falling apart have been circulating for years.”
“Maybe Ryan should’ve been a little more careful than to get in the middle of a marriage with two people he works with,” the nasally woman says. “Come on now. How stupid do you have to be?”
“Uh, yeah, and where is this guy, anyway?” the first woman asks. “Did he really think it was a good idea to just run after this mess he started? It sounds like he’s the kind of guy who really enjoys all this drama and then wants the world to talk even more by disappearing.”
Uh, isn’t fading away into the background exactly what you want to do in this type of scenario?
“He’s probably off with Jasmine, trying to figure out how to make things work,” the guy says. “At least until he starts messing around with Heidi.”
Heidi Butler is another actress on the show.
I scoff.
“We’ve certainly seen a lot of Jasmine lately in Beverly Hills,” the nasally woman says. “Girl knows how to shop. And Ryan has been MIA.”
“He’s not in Los Angeles,” the first woman says. “Photos have been circulating of him getting off a plane in Portland, Oregon. And he was seen driving out toward the coast in a blue Porsche.”
My ears perk at this, and for the slimmest of seconds I wonder if he might have come out here to Seaside or Cannon Beach or maybe even Astoria. Then, I remind myself that just because he was seen driving toward the coast doesn’t mean here . We have a shit ton of beaches in Oregon—our coast is pretty damn expansive. Besides, for all those goons know, he ended up making a U-turn and going to Bend or Portland proper or driving back to the airport and flying to Honolulu. Or they’re totally wrong, and he was never here in Oregon at all.
“We’re not sure those are recent photos,” the guy says. “I’m telling ya, he’s back in LA with Jasmine, and she’ll be filing for a divorce by the end of the summer. I’m always right about these things.”
I roll my eyes, but at myself, ashamed I’ve continued to listen to this.
Ashamed that part of me is curious where Ryan’s at—if he is, in fact, in Oregon right now.
Thing is, I don’t know Ryan Lane.
He’s some random guy I’ve never even met. And even though I feel bad over what happened to him at that game, his business should be of no concern to me.
Or to anyone else in America who doesn’t know him.
I quickly press to tune in to another channel, the Beatles station.
As I drive, I lie to myself and pretend that I’m not a little bit curious if Ryan Lane is, at this very moment, down the street, within minutes of me.
Then again, why does it matter, even if he is?