Chapter 16
Saturday morning Google searches:
What do I wear to pickleball?
How likely am I to get injured playing pickleball?
What is a pickleball?
“Why do you look like that and I look like”—I give myself a once-over—“this?”
Miles frowns. “What are you talking about? You look great.”
I do not, in fact, look great. I look like a mom who’s cosplaying as an athlete.
Miles, on the other hand, looks like he’s just been featured in a Gap activewear ad. I’m starting to think this guy couldn’t
look bad if he tried.
Even when he’s disheveled, he still looks sexy. The worst part? He doesn’t even have to try.
“I don’t really want to go,” I say, lamenting my yes. “I’m not good at sports.” Also, I’ve been actively avoiding situations
where I might make a public spectacle of myself. Twice is plenty. And if anyone is going to go viral getting smacked in the
face by a pickleball ball, it’s me.
“Come on, it’ll be fun,” Miles says. “Make a list, you’ll be fine.”
I shoot him a look.
“You already made a list, didn’t you?”
In lieu of a response, I hand him an apple turnover.
“I didn’t earn this. I haven’t sent you on any dates.”
I grab my bag and keys, then start for the door. “I need an honest opinion. In case I put them on the menu.” I turn back and
find him smiling.
“You’re doing it.” A statement, not a question. “The Porch.”
I hold up a hand to keep his expectations in check.
To keep my expectations in check.
To keep everyone’s expectations in check.
“I’m not doing it, I’m thinking about it. I went over everything you sent, and maybe I’ll talk to Lennon about the space. But it’s all just talk, you know.
Just . . . dreams.” John’s voice creeps in at the back of my mind, but I quickly shut it down.
He levels my gaze. “You’re totally doing it.” He takes a huge bite of the turnover. “And this definitely needs to be on the
menu. Oh, can you add my favorite dessert? Those chocolate Scotcheroo things. They’re—”
“Rice Krispie treats with peanut butter, butterscotch, and a layer of chocolate on top,” I say. “I love those too.” And I
already added them to my menu, but I don’t tell him that.
“You’d probably have to make them huge, like the size of a brick, to sell them in a bakery, but . . . I’d buy them.”
“Noted,” I say as we walk out to his Range Rover. “I’ll get right on that.”
As I walk around to the passenger side of his car, he shouts at me, “You’re totally doing it!”
I shout back, “Shut up!”
But I secretly smile.
Because he’s in my corner.
We drive over to the park where the pickleball courts are located.
We park the SUV and get out, then make our way over to the courts, where we find Lennon wearing a cute green skirt and matching high-necked tank.
Her white Nikes have a green swoosh on them, and she is, as expected, gorgeous.
She’s got on a cute white visor that somehow makes her blonde bob even more adorable.
I could not pull off that visor.
She rushes over and pulls me into a tight hug, and again, I’m stunned by her physical display of affection. It’s so genuine
I’m not sure how to process it.
“I’m so glad you’re here!” She pulls back and looks at Miles, hugging a clipboard to her chest. “And you must be Miles. Claire’s
neighbor-not-romantic-partner.” She sticks a hand out in his direction.
Miles laughs and shakes it while I search the immediate area for a hole to dive into. “That’s right,” he says.
“Are you sure about that relationship status?” Lennon squints at both of us.
Miles and I look at each other, then back at Lennon. “Yes,” I say, teeth gritted. “Just friends.”
“Okay, I just wanted to be absolutely sure before everything kicks off.” She pulls two white papers off the clipboard and
hands one to each of us.
“What are these?”
“Your numbers,” she says.
I look at Miles, who seems as confused as I am. Did we accidentally sign up to run a 5K?
“I think you’re both going to be very popular today.” Lennon writes something down on the clipboard as a man appears by her
side and wraps an arm around her shoulder.
“Oh, hon, this is my new friend, Claire, that I told you about,” Lennon says. “Claire, this is my husband, Daniel.”
My mind has snagged on Lennon’s previous comment, but I don’t want to be rude the first time I’m meeting her husband, so I
shake his hand, then introduce Miles.
Daniel is a tall guy with a wide smile who bears a striking resemblance to Henry Golding. If I weren’t mentally spiraling, I’d probably spend a bit of time admiring what a striking couple they are.
“Sorry, Lennon,” I say once the pleasantries are done. “What did you mean we’re going to be very popular?”
“You and Miles,” she says. “Because you’re both so good-looking.”
I frown, doing a slow survey of the pickleball courts. And that’s when I realize that Miles and I aren’t here to play pickleball
with Lennon and Daniel.
There’s a big banner strung up on the chain-link fence that says: Chicago Singles PickleMixer.
Miles must see the sign at the same time I do, because he busts out laughing, clearly less horrified by this tragic turn of
events than I am.
“Lennon?!” I do nothing to disguise the horror in my voice.
She glances up from the clipboard. “Yes?”
“This is a singles event?” My tone still says “horrified.”
Her smile is wide, and I briefly marvel at how white her teeth are. “Yes!”
“You failed to mention that!”
She purses her lips. “Did I not?”
“No.” My eyes are wide. “You didn’t.”
So far, every date I’ve been on has required a certain amount of mental preparation. I didn’t do that today. Most of my time
was spent worrying about the whole idea of playing pickleball. Because one stressor is enough.
“Daniel and I actually met at one of these events,” she says. “So now we help organize them. It reminds us of those early
times—when it was all magic and butterflies and not dirty diapers and late-night feedings.” She smiles. “I promise it’s going
to be so fun—and so much better than those horrible dating apps.” She shudders. “I have to go help Daniel, but we’re almost ready to start.”
My smile probably looks as forced as it feels, and as Lennon rushes off, I slow-turn back to Miles, who is checking out the rest of the group, completely unbothered by this new information.
He glances at me. “Why do you look like you want to throw up?”
“I thought we were coming here to play a friendly game of giant, life-sized Ping-Pong. I had no idea I was going to have to
learn this game in front of strangers who are essentially rating my date-ability.”
He smiles like this is no big deal. “Don’t overthink it, Claire. Just have fun.”
“That’s easy for you to say,” I spit. “I bet you were never picked last in gym class, were you?”
He pulls a face.
Clearly not.
“Everyone! If we could have your attention!” Daniel calls out from the center of the courts. “Come a little closer and we’ll
explain how the event is going to go!”
“He is way too cheerful,” I groan.
“Come on, Oscar,” Miles says, which makes me wish I had a trash can I could dive into.
We move into the center of the courts and listen as Daniel breaks down the rules.
“You’re a single now, but with any luck, today is the day you’re going to find your double!” Lennon says this like she’s a
cheerleader at a basketball game.
I take a step toward Miles. “I didn’t think she was such a cheeseball, but—”
He glances down at me, and when he does, I realize just how close I am to his face. Per usual, he’s unfazed, but me?
Even my brain is stuttering.
“Everyone’s cheesy when they’re in love,” he whispers, mouth dipping into that trademark lazy grin.
He’s so close I can smell the woodsy scent of him, and my insides tingle at his nearness.
“All players have been given a number,” Daniel says.
“Attach the number to your chest. You’ve been divided into brackets based on your age, and my lovely wife is handing out those brackets now.
You’ll rotate through playing doubles with other singles.
At the end of the event, you’ll fill out a card with the numbers of any other players you’d like to stay in touch with.
We’ll go through the cards, and if there’s a match, we’ll make sure to get you connected. ”
I groan. “This is my worst nightmare. It’s like a public, real-life version of swiping left.”
“Wow,” Miles says. “Is your glass always half empty?”
“Only when my dignity is on the line,” I say as Lennon hands us cards with what looks like a tournament bracket breakdown,
complete with court assignments and pairings.
“Just find your number and the number of your partner and get to playing! After the first round, we’ll rotate on through.”
Lennon squeezes my arm, clearly oblivious to the fact that this is my actual worst nightmare.
“Number forty-three?” A perky redhead walks up to Miles.
“That’s me,” he says.
“I think you’re my partner.” She giggles. She’s wearing an actual pickleball outfit, like Lennon, and I imagine she’s done
this before.
He glances down at the card Lennon gave him. “I think you’re right.” He smiles at her, and the woman smiles back.
Ugh. He’s probably going to have eighteen phone numbers after this.
I look at my own card as the two of them leave and a very large, very muscular guy with dark hair and a beard walks up to
me. “Number forty-two.” He nods at my chest. “Are you ready to crush the competition?” He lets out a sound that’s somewhere
between a grunt and a yell, then starts off in the direction of court number five.
I glare over at Lennon, who responds with an enthusiastic thumbs-up.
“Forty-two!” the Hulk shouts from court number five. “You coming?”
I raise a hand in a wave and start walking toward him. “Yep!”
The Hulk frowns. “Where’s your paddle?”
“Oh, right.” I jog over to Lennon as my doubles partner lets out a loud groan.
“They put me with a newbie again,” he says—and not quietly.
My skin is on fire. What am I doing here?
When she sees me, Lennon’s eyes brighten. “Oh! You need a paddle!”
“Or you could take my place,” I say weakly. “I’m not going to be good at this.”
“You’ll be fine,” she says, handing me a bright green paddle. “Just hit the ball over the net! Everyone is just here to have
fun, so go have fun!”
Pickleball is not fun.
And do not let Mr. Popular, Miles Westbrook, tell you differently.
Over the course of a couple of hours and not nearly enough water breaks, I played five matches of pickleball. Matches? Rounds?
Sets? Whatever they’re called.
My partners were as follows:
Partner one: The Hulk. Judging by his wildly competitive streak, this man has never lost a game in his life.
He missed the whole point that this was a singles event and not an actual pickleball tournament.
He covered the entire court and threw a tantrum if the ball came my way and I didn’t return it.
At one point, he yelled, “Do NOT hit that ball!” Zero out of ten do not recommend. I did not ask for his number.
Partner two: Fred. At least twenty years older than me at the very top end of our age bracket. You might be thinking “sweet
old man,” but Fred is a pervert. He smacked my butt with his paddle three different times (and once without) and refused to
call me anything but Sweet Cheeks. At the end of the match, he told me he could “rock my world.” Hard pass.
Partner three: Randy. A bit on the younger side. Wore earrings. Invited me to hear his Journey cover band play at a bar in
the suburbs. Every time we got a point, he played the air guitar and let out a death-metal-inspired screech that would make
dogs cock their heads from side to side. Nope.
Partner four: Neil. Started our match by mansplaining the rules of pickleball to me. Twice. As if I were four years old. Granted,
I’m not the Pickleball Queen, but the condescension! Broke down his strategy for “maximum domination,” which involved a spreadsheet
on his phone. Maybe even more intense than the Hulk. No thanks.
Partner five: Greg. Actually nice. Totally normal. Self-effacing. Equally as bad at this game as I am. Able to laugh at his
mistakes, and between the two of us, I don’t think we scored one point. I wrote his number on my little card and handed it
to Lennon.
And he asked for my number too.
I was not happy Lennon conned me into coming, but she was not about to apologize.
“You left with a number, Claire,” she pointed out. “All’s fair in love and pickleball.”
In a weird twist, when I was making plans with Greg, Miles and his only match of the day, the redhead from his first game, walked up. She’s a bartender named Daphne with an arm sleeve of tattoos, but she had to be at least mid-thirties, so in my mind, that was a switch from his normal fare.
Still, I didn’t like seeing her hanging on Miles.
It bothers me that it bothers me.
We all started talking, and somehow I agreed to a double date.
Tonight.
With Miles and Daphne.
What could possibly go wrong?