Chapter 6
six
It’s Friday after work, and my whole body buzzes as I wait for Sam to change in the locker room of the pickleball club.
The vibe is opposite of Smash Point, and I’m already judging it.
Didn’t know two lessons could build loyalty, but all the chrome and black, plus the heavy bass that makes me feel like I should be wearing a mini skirt or at least a thong, makes me antsy.
If Smash Point is Instructor Frank, then this place feels like Calder personified.
It’s a bummer we won’t be going back. Smash Point had a great vibe, but we only had one lesson left in the packet I booked with Frank, and since he was definitely going to be out for a couple of weeks, he sent an email apologizing for zero notice on the switch Thursday and offered to refund me.
“Did you bring an elastic?” Sam emerges from the changing stall. I hand her the one from my wrist. At least once a week, she’s in need of a little hair support.
Sam and I push through the locker-room door into a narrow hallway that opens to the courts.
The ceilings are lower than Smash Point’s.
The lights are brighter, too, and there are only three courts in one row.
Past the back wall there’s a tiny lounge—a handful of bar stools, a glass cooler with canned seltzers, craft beer, and energy drinks.
A chalkboard sign says, “Have a ball, Paper and Pixel!” which is kind of adorable, but very much not on brand.
We gather near the others. I recognize Megan and Garrett, of course, and a couple of other people from the design team.
I clock people from different floors—prepress, sales, accounting—including a quiet, moustached man I’ve only ever seen on the elevator and a woman from bindery who once sent Sam and me cookies at Christmas.
My nerves set in as Megan raises her hand to get everyone’s attention. What was I thinking, believing I could pick up a sport in a week and a half?
Breathe. You wore the cute skort. The goal was never to be the best, just not to be laughable.
When nobody stops talking, Megan whistles and calls, “Alright, team!” Ten heads swivel.
“Welcome to week one of Friday Night Pickle,” she chirps.
“We’ll keep it fun and fair.” She points with a paddle.
“We’ll rotate partners every game so we can all get to know each other’s style.
No two fresh beginners on the same team, and court one will be the winners court.
You win, you stay. You lose, you hop to the next court down. ”
Winners court. Okay, that makes me want to barf.
Megan continues, “If you’re newer, start on courts two and three. If you’re feeling spicy, try court one. If you don’t know a rule, ask! We’re here to have fun.” She seems to finish, then remembers, “Oh! And first drink is on Pixel and Paper!”
The group cheers at that.
Garrett calls out, “Also, you may have noticed our odd number. I invited a friend to make us an even twelve. He should be here any minute, so start your warmups and we’ll be good.”
“Damn. I was hoping I’d get to sit for a game.” Sam folds her arms in front of her.
I put an arm over her shoulders. “You’re the best for being here.”
“You’re booked for Oktoberfest.”
I snort.
“Hey, now we know Garrett has friends.”
She gives me a look. “Was there ever any doubt?”
“Just sayin.’ Seems like a green flag.”
Sam laughs as we walk toward the courts. We hover like twin satellites waiting for some group’s gravity to pull us in as pairs begin to form around us. I avoid looking Garrett’s direction. Don’t want to make it too obvious, plus it’s probably better if I play my first game with someone else.
“I guess we should split. Two newbs.” Sam glances toward court three.
“Probably.” I don’t like it but she’s right. I drift toward court two and see Garrett jog through the gate. He runs past me and slows at the front, greeting someone who—
Oh. My. Hell.
Is that—?
Sam calls my name, and I turn to see her nod toward the entrance. I mouth, “I know!” then turn back to make sure my eyes aren’t deceiving me.
Nope. It’s him, alright.
Calder walks past the front desk with Garrett.
He’s in a dark T-shirt and shorts, his paddle bag slung across his back.
Garrett says something, and he huffs a laugh.
It’s only a small smile, but the sight of it tightens a knot in my chest. He looks like a normal guy.
Yes, still a bit serious, but not nearly as buttoned up as he was at Smash Point.
Was he like that because of his job? Or was he in a pissy mood because of me?
He scans the room, cataloging people, courts. When his eyes land on me, they widen. He blinks, then drops his gaze and hangs his bag on the fence.
This is Murphy’s Law. Absolutely impossible. There are a million people in this city, and he’s the friend Garrett invited to play pickleball tonight?
Sam is suddenly next to me. “He knows Garrett?”
“Apparently.” I already filled her in on my lesson with not Frank.
Megan leaves her court and runs up to greet Calder with a hug. He stands there and takes it, doesn’t even lift his arms, then nods and says something I can’t make out from here. Not sure what to make of that, but I don’t have time to speculate because I’m already freaking out.
They must know each other from Smash Point. Or did Megan know him before she started playing there? Were they—?
“Are they together?” Sam asks
That thought should’ve sent my body through the roof with excitement.
If Megan was with Calder and Garrett was Calder’s friend, then he wouldn’t be trying to sleep with her.
Unless he was a complete asshole. I guess it wasn’t completely out of the realm of possibility, but he didn’t seem that type to me.
But if he wasn’t trying to sleep with her, then was I completely off? Had I missed a cue in Garrett’s body language? And why was there a pit in my stomach instead of a pink bubble of happiness?
It had to be my own ego. Megan knows I was at Smash Point, but now Calder knows this is the company I work for. And didn’t I tell him I had an office crush?
I groan and turn my back on them. “He knows, Sam.”
“Knows what?”
“I was all nervous, and I babbled about tonight. I told him I was learning pickleball to impress a guy—”
“No.”
“Yes!” I hiss, taking a play from Garrett’s book and pinching the bridge of my nose. Why do we do that? It’s not like putting pressure on my nasal passages will make this any less embarrassing.
I don’t wait to find out if Garrett will call my name or if I’ll magically end up on the same court as him. I grab Sam’s arm and yank her back to the court she came from with a breezy, “Mind if I hop in?”
The man from sales—Jerome?—opens his palm with a flourish. “Be my guest. What’s your DUPR?”
I blink, frozen like a deer in headlights. Sam doesn’t seem to have a translation at the ready either, so I ask, “DUPR?”
He gives a self-satisfied smile. “It’s a ranking system for pickleball. To show your level of play.”
I laugh. “Oh, well, then I’m probably whatever the lowest number is. Zero?”
Jerome shakes his head. “I doubt that. But you should play with me. Megan will be back in—”
“Perfect. You found a partner.” Megan pushes through the gate. “Jerome and Alecia against Sam and me.” She hops over to the other side of the court, and I pray I look even half as good as her in my tennis skirt.
My heart pounds so fast, I’m lightheaded and jittery. What was I thinking? I barely know the rules to this game—haven’t even played a game with a partner. But, I remind myself, most of my favorite things in life came because I ignorantly jumped into something. Including Sam and my current job.
Jerome spins his paddle. “You want to serve, or should I?” He’s lanky, mid-thirties, and he’s wearing black socks with dill pickles on them.
“You serve.” I stand dead-center at the baseline of the right-side box.
Jerome walks closer and waits a second. “We have to switch spots then.”
“Oh! Right. Of course.” I pretend I understand that even though I don’t. Note to self. Sam stacks across from me, holding her paddle at her side. I motion for her to bend her knees and hold it out a little. Ready position. Calder drilled that into my head at our last lesson.
Jerome calls, “Zero-zero-start!” then smacks the ball with his paddle. It flies over the net in a clean, low arc. I do know where the serve needs to land, at least. In the opposite box.
Sam swings and misses, and Megan claps a hand against her paddle and says something I can’t hear over the plinking of plastic.
Jerome and I swap places, and he calls: “One-zero-two.”
Perfect, okay. We have one point. Because we’re serving and they missed it.
On the second serve, we aren’t so lucky. Megan returns the ball with a smack, and it comes straight toward me. I move into position, my footwork rusty but coming back from my tennis days, and promptly slam the ball into the net.
“Definitely not a zero.” Jerome chuckles behind me. “Just get lower and that’ll be a killer drive.”
I nod, then grab the ball, not sure what to do with it.
“It’s their serve. Whoever starts only gets one chance to serve, then from there on out, each person on the team gets a turn to serve,” he explains.
I give a grateful smile and toss the ball to Sam. She looks nervous, but her first serve goes in. My palms are sweaty. I draw a deep breath and take a little more time getting into position before my swing. This time the ball sails over the net.
I let out a cheer of surprise, and Jerome has to yell at me to get up to the kitchen line. I can’t wipe the grin off my face, even when I miss a shot and they tie up the score.
This is fun. It’s fast-paced and unpredictable. My brain lights up recognizing patterns with the ball and trying to coordinate my out-of-practice body. Even though I’m awkward, Jerome and I find a rhythm.