Chapter 8
eight
The neon paddle sign over Smash Point Social blinks as we cross the parking lot, trying not to blow away.
Sam and I parked next to each other. It would’ve been ideal to drive together, but she has to leave ten minutes early to get on a family video chat.
Her brother’s planning a wedding, and she’s doing the invitations.
I shiver, wishing I’d brought a better jacket.
The wind picked up after work, and now the black clouds are rolling in with it.
The Tuesday night air smells like fall leaves, rain, and smoked meat from the taco truck sitting at the back of the parking lot.
My stomach wishes we’d arrived a half hour earlier.
Sam bumps my shoulder with hers. “What secrets do you think he’s going to dish?”
I groan. “I have no idea. This is a bad idea, right?” Who am I kidding? Even if we had shown up earlier, I couldn’t have eaten tacos. My stomach has been in knots since the weekend.
“I don’t know. He’s the one who offered.”
I wince. “Meaning what? That he won’t tell Garrett?” That was the “what if” keeping me up at night. What if this was all some stupid set up? What if Garrett had seen me salivating, peering at him through my office windows, and thought it would be hilarious to play a game with me?
I think of Calder bringing me the ice pack. Of Garrett closing deals at work. Did I think either of them were capable of something so mean-spirited? No. But the insecurities inside me aren’t quite so confident.
We step inside and the familiar Smash Point soundtrack envelopes us. Paddles kissing balls, sneakers squeaking, the playlist bumping 90s hits. Cool air slinks under my skirt, raising goosebumps along my thighs.
The lobby and open spaces between courts are surprisingly packed. People cluster around high tops, laughing and sharing food.
“Is this some kind of event?” Sam murmurs.
I look for one of the signs we saw last time, but don’t find anything, so we weave to the front desk. The girl with space buns and razor-winged liner blinks up at us. “Hey! Court reservation?”
“Lesson with Calder.” I almost call him Frederick for fun. I didn’t tell Sam about that. Huh. Not sure how that slipped my mind.
Space Buns tilts her head. “Calder’s in the round robin right now.”
My stomach does the cartoon-fall-through-a-rug thing. “Did I mess up the day?” I mutter to myself, hunting for my phone in my bag.
“Hey!” Someone yells, and all three of us look up. Calder leans over the fence, his paddle in hand. He yells again, and I don’t catch the first part, but I do hear, “. . . check your email?”
I whip out my phone and tap on my inbox. Frederick sits at the top, and I thumb the message open.
Round robin’s running late. Finish in 30ish, then I’m yours. Sit by court two.
-C
My heart does a stutter step. Then I’m yours? I blink and shake my head. That was a common turn of phrase. I press the screen against my hip. No need to read that over again. “Looks like it will be a few more minutes. You good to wait?” I ask Sam, and she nods.
Space Buns smiles. “Perfect, so drop in fee or—”
“Erin! Don’t charge them. I’ll explain later!” Calder leans over the fence closest to us. He waits for her acknowledgement, then jogs back to the baseline. The group of people at the table next to the court look over in curiosity. Perfect. We’re attracting attention.
“We can pay.” I reach for my wallet, but Erin shakes her head.
“Nope. Calder’s got it figured out. He’ll help me take care of it. Just give me your names.”
We do so, and since we’ve been there before, our waivers are already in the system. We end up on a row of stools next to court two, shoulder to shoulder with a knot of people who are already shouting at Calder and his partner like this is the US Open.
A woman with curly red hair offers us a paper tray of sweet potato fries. “You new?”
“Kind of? Just starting lessons. Alecia. This is my friend Sam.”
Sam gives a wave.
The curly-haired woman grins. “I’m Natasha. That’s my husband, Ben.” She points to a tall, easygoing guy who’s got a toddler on his hip using a paddle like a drum. “We’re the unofficial Smash Point peanut gallery. We heckle out of love.”
A guy in a vintage Nuggets tee leans in. “I’m here for the snacks.” He takes a fry and Natasha swats at his hand.
Another woman—platinum bob, glossy lips—opens a cooler bag. “We’ve got seltzers if you want one.”
“I—sure,” I say, taking a can and handing one to Sam. Cold condensation hits my fingers, and the tension in my chest unkinks a degree.
“Who are you cheering for?” Ben asks. “You got a horse in this race?”
“Uh, our lesson is with Calder.”
The group hoots like I announced a celebrity crush.
Natasha leans in. “Ben says I’m not allowed to have real people on my hall pass, but Calder’s on it.”
“What is she saying?” Ben fights off the child in his arms who’s currently trying to reach inside his mouth. “It better not be about the damn hall pass.”
Sam snorts.
“You haven’t bought any skorts yet, babe,” Ben says, returning to the table.
Natasha rolls her eyes. “Oh, don’t start.”
“Calder is into them. That has to be your first move—”
“You’re into them, and I don’t have the thighs for that. We’ve discussed this,” she snaps back, and their conversation devolves from there.
Sam and I exchange delighted smiles and try to focus on the game. As the play heats up, the chatter is replaced by reactions to the shots. It gives me a second to sip my drink and watch.
Calder is different when he plays. Not that I have much to compare against, but just with the three other people on the court, he looks smooth.
Seamless. He’s playing with a woman in a neon visor, Kari, according to Natasha’s running commentary, who prowls at the net and loves to hit hard. Watching her gets my blood pumping.
That’s the kind of player I want to be. Aggressive. Not afraid to go for the ball.
After three points in a row, I notice a pattern.
Calder sets up points like puzzles. He serves it deep, then hits the return ball at the feet of whichever player is farther back in the court.
He and Kari adjust position depending on who the ball goes to.
It’s like they’re tag teaming, and it’s super effective until the guy on the other team flips a perfect lob over both of them.
Calder has to run back to hit it. He returns it over the net, but the other woman slams it at Kari’s feet.
Calder taps paddles with his partner, gets back in position, and then stills.
“Kari coaches Saturdays,” Natasha says. “Really nice person. Never want to play her, though.”
Ben adds, “She body bags like nobody’s business.”
I glance at Sam, and she shrugs. At least I’m not the only one who has no clue what that means.
We fall into cheering with the others. Giving teasing groans when someone flubs, appreciative “oohs” when Calder threads one down the line.
Between points, the group adopts us wholesale.
Sam tells them we work in printing and design, which immediately sparks a debate over cardstock vs.
linen. A woman behind Natasha is printing graduation announcements, and somehow that leads to my confession that I once cried over a deckle edge.
By the time the game hits 8–8, I know Natasha’s kid is named Junie, Ben hates pickles, platinum bob’s name is Myra and she runs HR at a tech startup, and Nuggets Tee is actually named Marco and prefers filing his taxes in February so he can bring it up as much as possible in March when everyone’s stressed.
I’ve never felt so at home somewhere I’ve only been twice.
“Side out!” someone yells, as Calder’s team takes the serve.
He and Kari creep up from the baseline with smart drops. The rally has me on the edge of my seat, especially when Kari smashes it only to have it come straight back. Damn, these people are good.
Kari gets a dink that hits the net cord and drops into the kitchen, and the other team can’t get it in time. 10–8. Game point.
The other team buys one more chance to serve, but Calder and Kari hold them. They take eleven with an ace serve by Calder.
“They got third!” Ben says to Junie, brushing his nose against hers.
Oh. This was an actual tournament. “How often do they do these?”
Natasha shrugs. “Usually something competitive every week. These are just our in-house tournaments. We only have the big hosted ones every few months or so.”
Calder, Kari, and the other team all tap paddles over the net. Calder says something that makes the other guy laugh, and when they walk off the court, everyone is all smiles.
“Alright, time to get this little one to bed.” Natasha takes Junie from Ben. “Gah, I’m sore.”
Ben laughs. “Weird. You only played for five hours today.”
“Five hours?” My jaw drops.
Natasha laughs. “Someone needed a sub in Net Queen tonight. We never have enough women—ooh! You two should come sometime!”
I draw in a breath. “Is that—are we allowed to come?”
Marco slings his bag over his shoulder. “Are you members here?”
Sam and I shake our heads.
He waves it off. “No worries, just talk to the front desk to add you for the day. I think it’s a fifteen-dollar drop-in fee or something.”
“But you should obviously buy a membership so we can play together.” Natasha winks. “We have events almost every weekend, singles meet-ups.” She waggles her eyebrows. “Not that I think you’re single, I’m just saying you’d both do well there.”
Ben chortles. “What does that even mean?”
“What? It means they’re young and cute!” Natasha smacks him with her free arm, then adjusts Junie on her hip to grab her water bottle.
Calder’s making his way over, and he looks stupid hot. His skin glistens, his shirt clings to his toned chest.
When my pulse rushes, I turn back to the group and hop off the stool. “We’ll definitely look into it.”
Sam quirks a brow. My voice was a little too high, and even I heard it. “I’m nervous,” I murmur, just to make sure she knows that’s all this momentary weirdness is. Because that is all it is.