Chapter 7
seven
I suck in a breath at the flash of cold, and I must stumble because Calder grabs hold of my arm. “What is that?”
“Ice pack.”
I blink. I can’t see anything under his hand. “I’m fine.”
“It will help with the swelling.”
“I doubt it’ll even bruise.”
His eyes flick up. He lets go of my arm, but keeps his hand in place on my leg, crouching so he doesn’t have to bend over, and my mouth goes dry.
His face is directly in front of my stomach, and I have the sudden urge to reach out and run my hands through his hair. His thumb slips against my skin, and my stomach lurches.
“Here, I can—” I put out my hand, motioning for him to let me hold the ice pack against my own skin.
“Oh. Right.” Calder hesitates, then straightens and hands me the ice pack. He steps back and looks a little dazed, bumping into the sink before backing up toward the door. “Just wanted to give you that.”
“In the women’s bathroom?” My pulse is still rushing through a crazy straw.
“Uh, yeah. I . . . wasn’t thinking.” He scrubs a hand over his jaw, but doesn’t leave.
“Thank you.”
He nods once. “Okay.”
“Okay.”
And then he’s gone, ducking through the door. What just happened? Calder was in here barely thirty seconds after I was. He was playing on the winner’s court wasn’t he? Had he left his game for this? Did he think something worse had happened? That I’d gotten hit in the face?
Maybe he was a medic or a doctor for his day job. Maybe his life was so stressful treating patients in the hospital, pickleball was his only way to unwind. And I treated him with such disrespect.
I hold the ice pack on for a few more seconds, then slip it into the pocket of my tennis skirt and march back toward the courts.
I don’t want anyone to think I’m upset, but I’m not worried about looking it.
Any tears threatening to escape were shocked back into my body the second I saw Calder on the other side of that door.
Court one is empty, and there’s a group of coworkers laughing and drinking, gathered around a table with high stools. I seriously debate joining them until I see a threesome, including Sam, waiting for me on court two. Garrett’s on the top court with Calder. Guess it doesn’t matter that we lost?
I grab my paddle and apologize for the wait, showing off my battle wound.
My new teammate is an accountant named Josh who reminds me of an antelope when he moves for the ball.
A little jerky and bouncy at the same time.
We rotate partners twice, and at some point, I have to rally with Sam.
It feels unfair. We both started at the same time, but I have years of tennis experience to draw on.
I try not to hit it too hard, but Sam is going all out, and by the end of it, she and I are laughing so hard we can barely stay upright.
By the time our court bookings are up, my calves ache, I’m soaked in sweat, and the ice pack has melted to a lukewarm blob in my pocket.
The group trickles off the courts, people chatting and joking around.
I sit on the bench by the court, pull off my indoor shoes, and stretch my legs, sighing with the release.
It really is more work than I thought. Mental and physical.
Half the time I miss points it’s because my head is out of it, not my body.
In tennis, I have more time to react. More buffer. With pickleball? I have microseconds.
After slipping my sandals on, I glance down the aisle and see Calder packing up by himself. No Garrett. I scan until I find him leaning on the counter at the front desk, laughing with the staff.
I grab my backpack and shoes and walk over to Calder. “Are you a doctor?”
He stares at me. “Because I carry ice packs?”
“No, that’s—no.” I compose myself. “It made more sense than you just being a nice guy.”
Calder huffs what sounds very much like a laugh. His eyes meet mine, a smirk still playing on his lips, and something about the weight of that look makes my pulse trip. He follows my motion as I pull the pack free, and heat rushes straight to my cheeks.
He takes it slowly, fingers brushing mine for a fraction of a second. “Definitely not a doctor. Not a nice guy either.”
“Nope. Your cover’s blown.”
He flips the pack in his hand, then walks over and drops it in the trash can. All while maintaining eye contact. My face flushes hotter. It’s a single use ice pack. Of course it was a single use pack. Why would Calder have a frozen reusable ice pack in his bag?
“I’m an idiot.”
“You say that a lot.” He slings his bag over his shoulder.
I frown. Do I? “Really, I just wanted you to throw it away. So I don’t have the personal guilt of ruining the planet.”
Calder just stands there, watching me. I back up and drop my gaze.
“Well, thanks for the help. I wish you the best of luck with your pickleball . . . stuff.” I turn, desperately searching for Sam to give me an easy out from the cherry on top of my most awkward night ever.
I gave Calder my warm, used, disposable ice pack. Ugh.
“You’re not doing more lessons at Smash Point?” Calder asks.
I shake my head, scouring the area outside the washrooms. Sam is probably changing. Hurry up, I silently plead. “No. Frank refunded me for the last lesson we booked.”
Another pang of sadness hits my chest. It was fun playing tonight.
Less fun partnering with Garrett because I couldn’t stop worrying about what he was thinking, but that was my fault, not his.
I did want to get better, but signing up with a different club and starting over again sounded worse than reliving my last blind date.
It involved a man who ordered milk with dinner and asked if I believed in chemtrails.
Garrett’s laugh sounds from the front. He says something and turns to walk back toward us, smiling like he has a secret. I decide to stay put instead of hustling to the bathroom, just in case Garrett’s things are in the bag still sitting on the bench. Maybe we can chat while he packs up.
“It’s him.”
I flinch, my head whipping back to Calder. “What?”
“The guy you’re trying to impress.”
I make a sound in my throat, already sweating again. “What? No. He’s not—”
“So it’s Jerome? Or Josh?”
I open my mouth and close it. I had a choice to make, and neither option was pretty. Admit I was into Jerome with his mustache and sleeveless shirt, or Josh who was at least four inches shorter than me, or admit the truth. “It’s J . . . erome.”
I made a decision and height won out. It was the wrong choice, based on the expression on Calder’s face. I’m instantly in middle school again. Do you have a crush on him? Circle yes or no.
Calder glances at Garrett walking closer, and his brows pinch. “I need coaching hours at Smash Point to finish my certification.”
“Okaaay.”
“You could take lessons there. From me.”
I laugh. “Do you not remember our last lesson? Pretty sure that was your personal Hadestown. Not an exaggeration this time.”
His frown deepens. “I thought it went well.”
My eyes widen. “See, now I’m concerned. If you thought that went well, what do your worst lessons look like?” When he doesn’t respond, I worry I’ve hurt his feelings and backtrack. “It’s not that the lesson was bad. I learned a lot, actually. You just seemed miserable.”
He grunts. “Because I wasn’t chatting and saving arachnids?”
I scoff. “No! Because you seemed allergic to my personality!” I school my features. “Sorry. It’s just that when humans make expressions like this,” I grimace and hunch my shoulders, “It usually means they aren’t in love with their life choices.”
“That’s my normal face.”
I laugh. “No it’s not. I saw you on the court tonight.”
“You were watching?”
“I—no. I just happened to notice you didn’t look like you were about to pass a kidney stone.”
“Hey!” Garrett appears next to us, throwing an arm over Calder’s shoulders. “Looks like you two are talking about something juicy.”
I sigh. “Just waiting for Sam.” She still hasn’t left the restroom, and I’m starting to worry she got stuck in a stall with no toilet paper.
“Did you get to play together?” Garrett asks.
Calder shakes his head, and I say, “Didn’t make it to the winner’s court.”
Garrett laughs. “Yep, that’s where he was parked all night. Mostly because of Megan, though, right?”
I bristle, then remind myself I literally started this sport a week ago. Of course Megan’s better than I am. It was a miracle I could play at all.
“You made it to the middle court, though.” Garrett smiles and shoves his paddle in his bag.
I sigh. “I did. And then made you lose.”
Garrett chuckles. “They were using some off-brand balls. If we had Franklin, we would’ve been fine.”
Calder’s jaw tenses, and he mutters. “It’s never the balls.”
“What?” Garrett grins.
“Ah, nothing.”
“Thanks for waiting.” Sam nudges my side and hands me my elastic. I slip it over my wrist.
I grin, the world settling back into equilibrium now that she’s here. “Shall we?”
“Please.”
I turn back to Calder and Garrett. “This was fun.”
Garrett nods in agreement. “Have a great weekend.”
“Will do!” I link arms with Sam and we walk to the exit.
“He complimented you,” Sam hisses as we step out to the street.
“What?”
“Garrett. I heard him when I walked up. He said you made it to the middle court, and it was the ball’s fault.”
I bark a laugh. “That’s not a compliment.”
“Absolutely was. He could’ve said it was all your fault you lost, but he didn’t. First of all, he claimed you as a team member by using ‘we,’ then insinuated he made mistakes too, which means, by default, that you didn’t make all the mistakes and must’ve done some things right. So. A compliment.”
I’m grinning at her. “You’re my favorite person.”
We debrief on the drive home, and by the time I drop Sam off at her apartment, I’m wiping tears from my cheeks, I’m laughing so hard.
“Maybe a little shaming is good for us?” I call out the window.