Big Dill (Pickleball #1)

1. Jami

Jami

Canada.

Churchill Falls, Labrador—to be precise.

North of sixty.

Okay 53.5° N but that’s splitting hairs. Or rather latitudes.

Latitudes that tell us Churchill Falls with its subarctic personality disorder is…cold.

So cold rumor has it that the local birds get around on commercial flights. I really like to think that’s a joke, but honestly, I have my doubts. One thing I’m sure of though, is that you have to plug your car in at night to reduce stress on the battery.

Speaking of stress…

Stepping outside in mid-winter requires a full-body snow suit and eyes squeezed shut like you’re bracing for a frigid slap. Fashionable? Absolutely not. Necessary? Unless you want your eyeballs to freeze in their sockets before you dramatically die of frostbite…yeah.

No, I am not being over the top ridiculous. This place is so close to the Arctic Circle there’s still snow on the ground in May. I know this, because I can currently see it from the plane’s frosty window. A shiver goes through me, freezing the blood in my veins.

Freezing.

Ugh.

Not a fan of the word.

Ah, but it’s May, Jami, and summer is just around the corner, right?

Forget about it.

The mosquitos are big enough to carry you away. You can’t even donate blood in this company town. The people are all anemic, thanks to the rapidly breeding (read: randy) mosquitoes with their hardy appetites…and probably malaria.

Ahh, yes, Churchill Falls, Labrador, population twelve hundred. Soon to be twelve hundred and one. Right after I land.

The perfect place for a girl in her late twenties to live.

Said no sane person ever.

I sigh heavily as I dig my nails into the cracked, vinyl seat on this small…

cargo plane. Yeah. The Dash 8 we were supposed to fly on had mechanical errors and was grounded.

Very reassuring. This plane, with an engine the size of my sewing machine—a sewing machine that had recently been stolen from me—is obviously so much safer.

Don’t even get me started on the pilot. No seasoned veteran would ever take this god-awful route. Which is why I’m 98% sure we’re being flown by a junior first officer. A rookie. A literal child. I swear I saw him sneak a Happy Meal into the cockpit before takeoff.

Another jolt rocks the plane, and as the wings flutter, all I can think is…FML.

The plane bucks again. I rock with it, my spine cracking like bubble wrap.

My phone buzzes in my pocket and I’m grateful for the distraction.

I yank it out, praying it isn’t the airline texting ‘good luck with the landing’, but no, it’s my brother.

Which explains why I know so much about the coldest place on the planet.

Fine. Not the coldest.

Not really.

But okay.

Jaxon’s message flashes: Welcome to Churchill Fall with about six joyous emojis.

God, I love the guy. I really do. He’s been my rock since childhood.

Steady, loyal, the one person who remembered to feed me when Mom and Dad, Dalhousie University’s absent-minded professors, forgot children require more than Post-it notes on the refrigerator and lectures.

But I am seriously questioning his sanity. Why on earth would he abandon gorgeous, coastal Nova Scotia—land of salt air and reasonable temperatures, for this? A place so remote it might as well be labelled BUTT F$%# NOWHERE on Google Maps.

The laugh that escapes me is part hysterical, and part trying-not-to-cry, because really, who am I to judge. I’m the one hurtling toward the arctic tundra, leaving my whole world behind.

Only until you get back on your feet, Jami.

Right.

That little mantra again.

I hate that a man is the reason I’m fleeing my beloved home. Maybe a man is behind Jaxon’s move too. He came here with his buddy—the one I’ve never met—and sometimes I wonder if there’s more to that story than he’s letting on. Together they opened a pickleball social.

A pickleball social.

On the polar ice caps.

Fine. Not literally the polar ice caps.

But okay.

Way to put your business degree to good use, brother.

I hear those thoughts in my mother’s voice, complete with the judgy eyebrow raise. I cringe. Ugh. I hate when I accidently turn into her.

My brother can do whatever the hell he wants with his life.

At least he can now, with a college degree in his pocket and Mom and Dad finally ceasing their marionette routine—no more string pulling, no more demands for white-collar careers and respectable paths.

We both rebelled after graduation.

And look where that got me.

Turns out an early childhood education degree does not an entrepreneur make.

Okay, Mom. I get it. I never should have opened a yoga studio with my hot jock fiancé, and you’ll never be proud of me. Message received. Loud and clear.

I thought leaning on my fiancé’s fancy finance diploma would help keep the business side of things running smoothly. And yet here I am—hurt and humiliated—flying toward a frozen wasteland, a place I don’t belong.

Where do you belong, Jami?

I don’t know. I truly don’t. My stomach twists into a sad, self-pity pretzel.

Enough about me.

My thoughts shift to my brother and I warm a little inside.

Jaxon is an athlete through and through, a real-life Iron Man, not to mention a pickleball champion.

If he believes opening a pickleball social space in the middle of the Arctic is smart, then I’ll stand with him.

I just wish we were standing on sand, not glacial crust.

Brrr…

But seriously, his venture isn’t as wild as it sounds.

Apparently, a wave of new residents is about to hit, the population about to quadruple, thanks to the government rolling out a slew of new energy projects.

The guys will have a space for all the newcomers, something warm and welcoming upon their arrival.

The front tire slams the snowy runway, sending me pitching forward. A soft, terrified squeak escapes my throat as the bleak whiteness outside stabs my heart like a pointy icicle.

I miss home.

Ah, but you can’t go back now, Jami.

Nope, it’s true, I can’t. I mean physically I could, but what’s waiting for me. In the past few months I’ve lost three things.

One: My fiancé…good riddance a-hole.

Two: My yoga studio—along with the apartment above it—both of which I was locked out of compliments of said a-hole.

Three: My dignity.

Turns out, the building I found and secured could be yanked out from under me the second some girl who looked better in yoga pants—pants I designed and sewed, by the way—walked in.

An early childhood education degree does not an entrepreneur make…

Yeah, yeah, I get it, Mom. Enough already.

That’s what I get for trusting a jock with all the legal paperwork.

Did I mention I hated jocks? Minus my brother of course. But he’s more like a professional athlete.

I’d sworn off jocks after Tristan—the fiancé who I trusted to run the business side of things—only for him to put everything in his name, including my apartment and steal everything right out from underneath me while he sent me on an errand.

Bastard.

And I stood by that ‘no jock’ vow, right up until last month.

But what’s a girl to do? Lauren, my bestie, dragged me out to mourn my collection of recent life failures, and that’s when I saw him.

Quite possibly the hottest man on the planet.

Big. Strong. Gorgeous. Definitely a jock, but also giving full lumberjack vibes. You know, physical strength.

Packing wood.

Yeah, he was the kind of guy who could chop wood, carry it, stack it, build you a cabin, and wreck you on the rug in front of the fire.

My girlfriend encouraged me to go for it.

A going away present.

A lumber-snack…just for me.

It’ll be fun, she said.

She was not wrong.

I was reluctant at first. Well, slightly reluctant. Okay, like a miniscule. Probably a molecule. Is that smaller than a miniscule? I don’t know but hey, don’t judge my choices and yes, I realize I haven’t been making good ones.

Come on, though. I was a month away from moving to the land of the frigid, where my girlie parts were undoubtedly going to freeze over. I glance down to check on them. Only half frozen.

Didn’t I deserve a small (big) delicious distraction to keep my memories warm at night?

Sure, my nether regions might go dormant in this subarctic nightmare, but at least I’ll have the sweet recollection of Broderick—if that was even his real name.

Heck, I used an alias too—to help get me through the cold lonely winter.

Broderick the lumber-snack.

God, his hands…

He said something about being a pickleball player, but my brother, also being a competitor, never came up, because well…something else did. Something south…

Seriously though, when I first heard about such a sport from my brother, I thought it was some kind of competitive pickle-eating event. With a background in tennis, maybe I’d be good at it. Or terrible. Hard to know.

But what I do know is that Mr. Lumber-snack, the pickleball player, was…dill-icious.

A real big dill between the sheets.

I let out a laugh—half exhausted, half delirious.

Yep, I need sleep.

My phone pings again and pulls me back to reality. Goddammit, I hate this reality.

Jaxon: I’m inside waiting. Can’t wait to see you.

With fingers that are barely moving, thanks to the cold cargo plane, I start to text something sarcastic back, but stop.

Honestly, even though I don’t think I belong here, I’d be even more lost if he didn’t offer me a place to live and a job teaching yoga at his social facility.

I owe him so much. My heart thumps a little faster as tears prick my eyes.

I swipe at them, half expecting the droplets to be crystalized from the cold, but nope, still warm. Like lumber-snack’s hands…

Le sigh.

Me: Can’t wait to see you, too.

I slide my phone back into my pocket, and swallow against a painful lump punching into my throat. Maybe I won’t feel so lost or alone once my big brother wraps me in one of his epic hugs. He’s always had that effect on me.

The small plane comes to a jerky stop. Everyone jumps to grab their stuff from the bins.

I sit tight, and tug my bag out from the seat in front of me.

Other than one checked suitcase and my carry on, I didn’t bring a lot.

I don’t have a lot. I figured I could buy what I need once I was sure I was going to survive the tundra.

I wait. The attendants are bustling. What the heck is going on? After being on three different planes to get here, all I want is solid ground, even if that ground is frozen solid.

“Doors are stuck,” some man in the aisle grumbles, like it’s an everyday problem.

“Frozen,” a woman adds. “Might as well sit back down.” She guides her kid back to his seat. “Could take some time, b’y.”

B’y.

Boy.

My brother warned me that Newfoundlanders are a special breed. Accents, slang, customs… No, I am not kissing a cod and yes, that’s a real thing. A man and woman in the aisle strike up conversation, but they’re talking so fast, their rapid-fire dialect might as well be an alien language.

Wait, does this plane have emergency exits?

Dammit, I should have paid more attention during take-off.

I glance around, but the people filling the aisle prevents me from seeing anything, and why the hell am I suddenly breathing faster?

Fantastic. Claustrophobia, just in time for my too early, mid-life crisis.

The flight attendant comes over the intercom, insisting we all sit until they can get the doors open. Grumbles fill the cabin as passengers shuffle back. Outside, I glimpse the luggage truck inching toward the plane.

I tap Jaxon a quick message to let him know we’re stuck and try not to fidget as the metal walls of this flying delivery truck close in on me. Too bad they don’t serve drinks on cargo planes. I sure as heck could use one right about now. Or a dozen.

The curtain to the cockpit is drawn. No clue what is happening at the front.

Desperate to distract myself, I scroll through socials on my phone, resisting the urge to peek at Tristan’s.

AKA a-hole. Seconds turn into minutes, and just when I start to think we’re never getting off this plane, the attendant rushes by me, and leans in to say something to the passengers near the emergency exits.

Grunt and groans echo through the cramped cabin as they wrestle with the door.

It’s frozen solid. But of course, it is.

A loud bang reverberates through the plane, as the luggage hatch below finally opens.

The only thing that could possibly make this day worse is getting tossed out that hatch—probably ass first.

That can’t happen.

Right?

The attendant grabs a mic. “We’ll be exiting through the back of the plane...through the hatch.”

A hysterical laugh bubbles up in my throat. A few people instinctively step back. Smart.

The attendant—clearly as out of place as the rest of us—works to keep everyone calm, guiding us toward the back. Cold air blasts through the cabin, and I hug myself, shivering as passengers are ushered through the emergency hatch and into the cargo hold.

When it’s my turn, a man below plants his big, gloved hands on my hips and hoists me down. Did he just grunt?

Yes, I might have indulged in a few too many sugary donuts since my breakup. But come on—I am not oversized luggage. I glance around, praying no one is recording my ass-first plummet into cargo-plane history. At least here, the only person who knows me is Jaxon.

I land on my feet like… a cat. Well, a slightly clumsy, frostbitten cat, but upright. I spin around and see my brother waving through the small airport window. I wave back and trudge through the snow as we’re herded inside. Cattle. I resist the urge to moo.

“Jami,” Jaxon calls, and I practically sprint to him. His coat is unzipped—at least the airport is warm—and he pulls me into his arms. I exhale, feeling better now that I’m in his hug.

I pull back slightly and grin. His smile lights up his face—and his T-shirt features a giant mosquito with the slogan: I gave blood in Churchill Falls. Cute. Real cute. And sadly accurate.

“That was…embarrassing,” I admit, nodding toward the plane.

He shrugs, easy-going as ever. “Don’t worry about it.” He makes a fist and playfully nudges my chin.

“Yeah, you’re right.” I glance around at the passengers collecting luggage—not from a conveyor belt, but from a wheeled rack. Modern technology hasn’t quite reached Churchill Falls yet. “It’s not like any of these people know me.”

Just then, a man—a walking sex-in-a-flannel-shirt-coat—sidles up next to Jaxon. His eyes widen when they land on me, and… oh my God.

Oh-my-freaking-God.

I was dead wrong about no one here knowing me.