Chapter 13
CHAPTER
THIRTEEN
Jory
“What are we doing, boss?” I ask, swinging open the gate to the pickleball area.
Markie faces me, a grin on her lips and a hand on her hip. “I hope you’re not being facetious.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” I plop my water, keys, and phone on the bench next to her bag. “I texted Gus that I’d be here for a while, so I’m at your disposal.”
“Great. I’ve already warmed up. So, you should go ahead and stretch out so that you don’t pull a muscle.”
I don’t know whether to laugh at her or shut up and do what she says. Surely, she knows that I understand the benefits of stretching before a workout.
“Just to be clear,” I say. “You do know that I’m a professional athlete, right? Like this is my literal job.”
She smirks. “I told you, rugby boy. You’re in my office now.”
“Actually, I believe the part of the court that you’re standing in is called the kitchen.” I laugh at the look of surprise on her face. “But sure, I’ll call it whatever you want.”
She drags her eyes from mine and turns away from me, picking up her phone. I did a quick warm-up before I left the house, so I’m ready to rock and roll. But God forbid she thinks I’m not taking this seriously, so I do a few stretches and calisthenics for her edification.
Besides, it gives me a couple of minutes to have an unobstructed view of her ass.
Our back-and-forth earlier at my house was unexpected.
Sure, we’ve had a connection since the moment I met her.
But I truly didn’t think our interactions would reach the level they did today.
She was honest with me, told me about Jasper, and answered my questions even though I was a little concerned it might be too personal for her. Yet she trusted me.
And that cleavage. Fuck me.
Yet it did, and it’s all I can think about.
“All right,” I say, bouncing on the balls of my feet. “Let’s go.”
She puts her phone down and grabs two paddles. “I brought you one of these in case you don’t travel with one in your suitcase.”
“I knew I forgot something.”
She rolls her eyes, moving to the far side of the court.
“You obviously know a little about pickleball, or at least the terminology.” She positions herself near the baseline.
“But, so we’re on the same page, from the net to that line, known as the non-volley zone line, is known as the kitchen.
You can’t hit the ball out of the air while standing inside that area. ”
“Got it.”
“This,” she says, motioning to one half of the court, “is the right service area and this one is the left.” She gestures to the opposite side. “When you serve, you have to hit it diagonally across the net in the opponent’s correct service area.”
I already know all of this. I used to play in a pickleball league in Connecticut, but I’m not about to say that and steal her glory. After her fuckhead ex-teammate pulled the plug on her, the last thing she needs is a know-it-all in her face.
This isn’t my world. She’s the pro here. I’m just a guest.
“When you serve, the paddle must swing in an upward arc like this,” she says, demonstrating the move. “Well, there are two ways to serve, but let’s cross that river when we get there.”
“Good thing we have paddles,” I say, holding mine in the air.
She glares at me.
“Oh, come on. That was funny,” I say, laughing.
She shakes her head. “Let’s rally for a few minutes so I can see what I’m working with here.”
We get into position, and she sends the ball over the net. I’m not sure what level we’re supposed to be playing at, so I tap it back. She returns it a bit harder, so I drive a shot deep toward the sideline. She reaches for it and sends a screaming forehand down the line.
The speed of the shot catches me off guard, and I hesitate a moment too long. It whizzes by me, bouncing off the ground inches away from the baseline.
She beams. “Not bad. But we need to work on your court awareness.”
“My court awareness? Please,” I say, giving her a look. “I thought we were rallying so you could see my skills, not that we were trying to score a point. I could’ve gotten a point in on you on my first return.”
“You wish.”
I know better than to laugh because that would really piss her off. But for fuck’s sake, this woman is adorable. I’ve never seen someone take something like pickleball so seriously.
“Your biggest flaw is that you don’t think,” she says. “You react. Maybe that works in rugby, but it doesn’t work in pickleball.”
“I beg to differ,” I say, meeting her at the net. “The only reason you scored just now is because I didn’t react. I hesitated.”
She drops her shoulders. “Jory, I get that you’re a pro athlete and you think you can walk onto the court and know what you’re doing. And I appreciate that. I love the confidence. But I need you to listen to me. Let me help you.”
“Do you know what you can’t rely on in rugby?
” I ask, letting my wrists dangle across the net.
“Playing your own game. It’s a team sport for a reason.
You have to trust your teammate and give them space to do what they do best, or you don’t have a team.
You have a bunch of guys running around trying to outdo each other. ”
She walks backward without responding. “Let’s take it from the top.”
I drop serve the ball, sending it careening her way with about half of my power.
She drives the return, forcing me to respond faster than I anticipate.
Instead of trying to match her pace, I feather a soft third-shot drop into the kitchen.
Markie races forward, getting her paddle beneath the ball at the last minute, grunting as she sends it behind me on my left.
Fuck.
I chase it down, hitting a crossbody shot that surprises even me. She’s waiting for it, dropping a perfect dink into the opposite corner and winning the rally.
“Nice one,” I say, jogging toward her.
She watches me closely. “You’ve played before.” It’s an accusation more than a statement. “Be honest.”
“Yeah, I’ve played. I never said that I hadn’t.” I pick up the ball. “Some of the guys had a very unprofessional pickleball league for a couple of summers. Why? Do my skills impress you?”
“What is it with men always assuming their skills impress?”
I toss her the ball. “Because most men have delusions of grandeur.”
“Yourself included?” she asks, lifting a brow.
“It would be pretty egotistical to assume I’m impressive. I’m more than happy to give you a demonstration and let you be the judge.”
She pivots on her heel, hiding a grin, and walks back to the baseline.
“This time let’s just keep the ball in play,” she says. “No showboating. We’re working on consistency, not speed.”
“You got it.”
We spend the next half an hour rallying until one of us loses the ball.
Then we start again. Over and over, we trade shots with the aim of keeping it in bounds.
She pauses the game every now and then, giving me a pointer or a not-so-subtle suggestion on paddle control or shot selection.
I have to say, her commentary is spot-on.
It’s impressive. She’s impressive.
“Markie,” I say when we break for a drink of water. “I mean it when I say this: you’re the best fucking pickleball player that I’ve ever played with. Damn.”
She tries to act like my compliment doesn’t affect her, but the way her eyes light up tells a different story.
“You’re pretty good yourself,” she says, sitting on the bench. “I expected more aggression, less precision. You surprised me.”
I take a seat beside her, resting my elbows on my knees. Sweat drips down my face, and my shirt is soaked. Markie’s face is bright pink, her hair matted to her head, and I’m not sure that I’ve ever seen a more attractive woman.
“What?” she asks, noticing me looking at her. I can’t tell if she’s blushing or if the color is simply from the heat.
“Nothing.”
She takes a towel from her bag and runs it over her face. “I’m sure I look gross right now.”
“Actually, I was thinking how pretty you look.”
“Oh, please.” She tosses the towel onto her bag. “You don’t have to be charming. You’ve already got the job.”
I chuckle, watching her redo her ponytail. “I’m not trying to charm you. I’m just being honest.”
“Jory, there is nothing pretty about me right now. It’s okay. It’s fine.”
I don’t want to fight with her about this, nor do I want to push in places that I shouldn’t.
But the way she says it, the way she presses back against my compliments, makes me think she truly doesn’t believe me.
That someone, some asshole she’s encountered before who had a delusion of grandeur, made her think that a little sweat is a bad thing.
“Do you know what I see?” I ask.
Markie doesn’t answer me.
“I see a woman who loves her game,” I say. “You’re passionate. You’re great at what you do. You might take it a little too seriously, and you might not trust your partner enough …”
She peeks at me out of the corner of her eye as the corner of her mouth lifts.
“There’s nothing wrong with that. As a matter of fact, that, Miss St. James, is fucking sexy,” I say quietly.
She turns her head, her eyes searching mine. There’s something in them, a glimmer that I haven’t seen before, and the sight of it wallops me in the chest.
It’s as if she’s come alive. Like a match has been relit. And watching that flicker, the flame growing hotter, is wild.
“Thank you,” she says, her voice just above a whisper. “No one has ever really said that to me.”
“If there’s one thing that I’ve learned about you, it’s that you surround yourself with some pretty stupid men.”
She laughs, her smile never leaving her face.
“How do these fools fumble a woman like you?” I ask, brushing a strand of hair out of her face.
Her breath holds in her chest as my knuckles drag against her cheek. Her skin is so soft, so warm, that it knocks me off-balance.
I’m used to contact. It’s my job. And I’ve never quite understood it when people act like they feel electricity or a jolt of energy when they touch another person. But now? I get it.
She leans against my hand, and my thumb traces her jaw. Warmth spreads through my chest in a gentle wave, flooding every empty space in my body.
My brain tells me not to do this, that she’s not the kind of woman who wants to fuck around for a few weeks and then walk away like it’s nothing.
There’s also a niggle that walking away from her at the end of summer might not be as easy as I think it would be.
But when I withdraw my hand from her skin, I immediately want to put it back.
“Sorry,” I say, forcing a swallow. “You had a hair …”
“Well, aren’t you a gentleman?” she says with a grin.
“I try.”
“Do you?”
I shrug. “Sometimes.”
She gets to her feet and picks up her paddle. “Well, I don’t want to see a gentleman on the court. I want you to be smart. Aggressive. Alert.” She looks at me over her shoulder. “Got it?”
Just like that, the boss lady is back.
“I got it,” I say.
“Good. Now let’s go practice our core shot consistency. Deep serves are something good to master. I love to target the opponent’s backhand and keep them pinned deep.”
She turns, facing me, just as her words seem to register.
I smirk. “Don’t worry. I’m great at pinning them deep.”
She smacks the ball at me, and I hit it back, laughing the whole time.
This is going to be fun.