Chapter 5
five
Calder stands at the kitchen line, dark hoodie sleeves shoved to his elbows, dribbling a ball with his paddle. He looks up, and the thought of aborting the mission flashes through me with such intensity that my stomach yanks.
What am I going to do? Turn and run? Rude. Also, I paid for this, and I only have one more night before I’ll be standing on the court with Garrett Davis.
“Hi!” I force myself onto the court with my sunniest expression. I don’t know why he makes me feel like my organs are rearranging themselves, but I’m sure once we get into the drills, I’ll get over it. “You and me again.”
Calder’s expression doesn’t change. “Frank’s out.” His tone is lower than I remembered, almost creamy and smooth. Like he took a nap earlier and just woke up, a little groggy, and then I’m imagining him waking up in crisp sheets. He doesn’t wear a shirt because why would he and—
“Ready?” He’s pointing with his paddle to the other side of the net, and I’m not sure how long I’ve been frozen, staring at his pecs.
My brain is far too visual for my own good. I clear my throat and bounce past the post. “Sorry.”
He nods with no “You’re fine” or “No need to apologize.” Just, “Start at the kitchen line.”
Fine. This would be simple. Just like last time we could talk or not talk for hours. I almost snort, imagining that line in Jennifer Coolidge’s voice. At least I can always entertain myself.
My first few dinks are objectively terrible. I know that now after watching an hour of pickleball YouTube with Sam on our lunch break. I send the ball high, and Calder, with very gentle hands, pushes the ball back to me. I breathe, bend my knees like Frank told me, and try to push, not swing.
“Bend your knees,” he says.
I smile. “Yep.” Okay. I was bending my knees, but maybe he couldn’t see that through the net?
“Lower.”
My legs are still sore from Tuesday, and it feels awkward, but I sink deeper into my knees, almost missing the next ball.
“Good.”
That word sends a flash of heat down my spine, and I instantly bristle. Red flag, A. This is why I need Sam here. I need her to shoot me a look or something, remind me that I shouldn’t feel so pleased by the fact that I gave him what he wanted.
But I can’t help it. Ever since I was a kid, exceeding people’s expectations was my own personal dopamine button.
I could press it whenever I wanted. Do extra research for my project, and I’d ride the high from that surprised look on my teacher’s face for weeks.
The problem was, in high school, that turned into cutting my hair because Oliver Weld liked it short or never wearing pink because Jesse M. said it clashed with my auburn hair.
In college, it was giving up carbs because Aaron Foster liked women with six packs and then giving up my friend group because Max Cooper didn’t like that they were so demanding when he just wanted to spend time with me.
So. Yeah. Red flag, A.
All the nervous energy makes my hands shake, so I do what I always do to get that feeling out of my body. Start talking.
“I signed up for lessons because there’s a pickleball club starting up at work.”
Calder blinks like he just remembered I was here. “Hm.”
“Yeah. I think some of the people I work with are pretty good. But it’s an open invite, so I’m assuming there will be other beginners.”
“Lift with your legs, don’t swing.”
I nod. “Right. Okay.” I try to do what he’s describing and feel like I’m playing whack-a-mole. This has to look ridiculous, but Calder doesn’t comment. The ball hits the net cord, and I hustle up to grab it and restart.
Calder motions for me to move cross-court before sending it back, and my brain lights up with the challenge. “Where should I try to hit it?”
“In the kitchen.”
I purse my lips. Obviously. I laugh like he just made a joke and didn’t sound like a complete patronizing ass. “Right, but where in the kitchen?”
“Not there,” he mutters as my ball lands wide, past the line.
I straighten and plant my hands on my hips as he chases it along the fence.
I could let it go. I normally would, but this is a pickleball instructor.
A substitute instructor at that. Someone I never have to see again, if I don’t want to.
If I can’t stand up for myself to him, then who will I be able to stand up to?
“Why not there?” I ask, my breathing quicker than it should be, considering how little work Calder thought I was doing.
“Gives too many angles.”
I nod, still trying to be pleasant. “Yeah. This is my second lesson. Ever. So I’m just asking questions because I don’t have any idea what the goal is.” I didn’t say, And you’re the teacher so you should know that and not treat me like an idiot, but I hope he reads the subtext.
Calder hesitates for a beat, then points at the center line. “For now, when you’re dinking, the goal should be to get the ball back to center. To reset. Try not to give them shots where they can be offensive and instead force them to make a mistake.”
I smile. See? That wasn’t so hard. “Thanks. That’s helpful.”
A muscle in Calder’s jaw jumps, and my mouth goes dry. It’s unfortunate he seems to have zero social skills because he’s truly quite the specimen. And at least once was capable of making a joke.
I start telling a story about him in my head.
How he was shy as a child, then got super hot and was traumatized when women had competitions to sleep with him.
Or his dad was like Mr. Agassi and forced him to play pickleball for hours in the backyard when all he wanted to do was work at an ice cream shop or make hemp bracelets on the beach.
My annoyance immediately dissipates when I imagine this poor, beautiful man being so unfairly treated.
He sends the ball back over the net, and I hit it with too much force. That’s the most difficult part. The ball is hard plastic. The shots are similar to what I knew playing tennis, but I can’t seem to figure out the power I need to hit it with.
Back to center. That was the goal. I blow out a breath and start again. “How long have you worked here?”
Calder hits the ball back low at my feet, and I barely get my paddle on it. When I do, the ball shoots high and lands past the kitchen line on his side. He grabs it and tries again, not answering my question.
The silence is torturous.
“You don’t like to talk about yourself?”
He frowns. “This is a lesson.”
“It is. But are you really going to drill me and not say anything for the next fifty minutes?”
Calder coughs, then clears his throat. “I’ve said things.” His voice is hoarse, and I grin. I made him choke on his spit and that brings me pure joy.
He sends another ball to my feet, but this time, I miss it on purpose. “Wait!” I hold up a hand and crouch down, dropping my paddle onto the court. A large, gray spider is hunched there next to the kitchen line. I almost smooshed it with my shoe.
“What are you doing?”
“There’s a spider.” I move my paddle closer, hoping it will climb on, but it jolts in the opposite direction. “Shhh,” I say, moving my paddle to the other side. I lay it flat, then move my hand behind the spider this time.
“Just kill it.”
I look up at Calder in mock horror. “He’s literally just existing.
Why would I kill him?” I was the kid who moved snails off sidewalks after storms. Who kept earthworms from sizzling on the asphalt.
How in the world someone could kill a helpless creature, regardless of how many legs they have, is beyond me. Calder is basically a monster.
My strategy works, and the spider bolts onto the paddle. I yank it up so he can’t sprint off the other side. “Just a sec.”
Calder watches as I leave our gated court and jog up the aisle to the front door of the club. I drop the spider in the planter out front, then reenter the building and hustle back.
“Okay, where were we?” Now I’m panting.
Calder’s expression is unreadable. He looks at me, then at the net, then says, “Let’s do a different drill.”
“Fun.” I position myself across from him, my feet wide. I refuse to let his attitude get me down. I’m going to learn some pickleball and enjoy myself on this Thursday night, damn it.
He glances down at my paddle hand. “You shouldn’t be using that.”
“Now you tell me.”
Calder’s jaw ticks. He stalks off the court, and for a moment, I wonder if the whole spider rescue broke him. When he returns, he’s holding a sleek black paddle with a blue wrapped grip. “Here.”
“For me? It’s beautiful.”
He’s holding a breath. Completely exasperated. Besides my four-sentence conversation with Garrett, this is the highlight of my day.
“Just try it.”
I give a heel kick and get back to the line.
After only a few shots, I realize the new paddle is life-changing, but I’m not ready to admit it. Every hit feels like it pops instead of dying on my paddle if I don’t hit it dead center.
Fifteen minutes later, we’re practicing backhands.
He has me stand directly next to the net and lean over, isolating the motion.
Calder feeds me balls, and I swing my arm like a pendulum to hit them against the wall.
I get bored after hit number five and commence babbling.
“ . . . and GoodBarrel approved the foil, which is probably the fastest any company has ever approved a proof. And then Friday we have a company pickleball night.”
“Less wrist. Just move from the shoulder.” Calder reaches out and adjusts my arm. My next words die on my tongue. His hand is warm, his palms a little rough.
“Got it.” The words come out breathy. How long has it been since I was this close to a man I wasn’t related to? You know, besides being whisked into his arms the other day to avoid pickleball shrapnel.
The thought sends me down a spiral of patheticness. No, there was that date I went on. The guy who was friends with Sam’s brother. It was a complete bust, but he did hug me after the show. That counted. Even though it didn’t have a smidgen of the effect on me that Calder’s right hand just did.
I panic. “There’s this guy at work who plays pickleball. Kind of why I’m doing this.” He doesn’t ask me to go on, and yet I do. “I figured if I took lessons, I wouldn’t look quite so terrible at our company pickleball night.”
“This is for a guy.” It’s a statement, not a question.
My cheeks flush. “Yeah. He’s . . .” How would I describe Garrett? “All around impressive.”
“You’re into him?”
Wow. After not piquing his interest for the last half hour, this was the topic that did it? “Well, I am picking up a sport for him. So . . .”
I hit the ball in a perfect, smooth motion.
“Hm. That was good.” I compliment myself since he won’t, and his lips twitch.
It was almost a smile, and I lock in right then on my new mission.
Break Calder by the end of the lesson. I may not be his cup of tea, but this is a public service.
I can’t release him out into the wild to terrorize other helpless pickleball amateurs without giving it a solid college try.
“No notes. I’m an expert now,” I declare after hitting the last ball in the basket. Calder hands me one of the ball-collecting tubes. I set my paddle on the ground and start next to the wall, the balls making a satisfying thunk as I drop the cylinder over them, forcing them into the chamber.
Another instant game. Beat Calder with how many balls I can collect. “I win.” I dump my first tube full into the ball basket.
He grunts. “Not a competition.”
“You’re only saying that because you lost.” I grin and start with the next gaggle of balls near the back fence. When I fill up a second time, I turn to see Calder walking faster than he needs to with his tube and note the location of the basket. “Not fair. You moved it.”
He shrugs and dumps his balls in. “Only saying that because you lost.”
My smile splits my face, and I can’t help it. I laugh out loud. It’s the second thing he’s said that proves he isn’t a pickleball robot, and it makes me giddy. Did I lose? I don’t think so.
A thousand questions fill my head, and the fact that he won’t answer any of them makes the itch of curiosity that much worse.
Why doesn’t he want to talk about himself?
He’s secretly a pro player and doesn’t want anyone to figure out his true identity?
He’s in witness protection? His ex works at the pickleball club across town and he’s raising a pickleball army to beat her at nationals?
I smirk at the possibilities when a woman walks past the court and waves. “Hey, Calder!”
He gives a polite smile, and she blushes.
Ooooh. Yeah. Now I get it. He acts this way because he doesn’t want women to get attached. I mean, look at him.
I suddenly feel sheepish. How many women has he coached who show up hoping for an after-hours drill session?
But he doesn’t know me. That I’m obviously taken. Futuristically.
When I’m standing next to the basket, I make a show of emptying my tube. “Sorry I pried. I won’t ask any more personal questions. But you don’t have to be so serious all the time. I think this is supposed to be fun.”
Calder hesitates, observing me for a moment, then takes the tube from me and hangs it on the fence next to his. “I finished clean up while you were distracted.”
Mm. It’s the small victories.