Chapter Twenty-Five
I WAKE UP BEFORE MY ALARM. IT’S ALREADY WARM, AND I KNOW the courts will be brutal by mid-morning. Still, I’m weirdly energized, like my body knows something is coming.
This isn’t your average pickleball game. It’s a Harbour Island fundraiser, which means custom paddles, pristine tennis whites, courtside charcuterie, at least one friendship hanging in the balance, and a lot of money raised.
And Jack will be there. I haven’t seen him since he was pruning my roofline, not since I found the photo of him and Gran. Since the weight of it anchored itself.
By the time I pull up to Romora, the courts are already full. The faint thump of music drifts from a speaker some teens tucked into a palm tree. Players are milling around in matching sets and visors, casually hitting balls back and forth, like no one’s been secretly training for this all summer.
I tuck my visor over my ponytail, sling my Lazy Daisy tote over one shoulder, and head toward the courts, scanning the crowd. I find Jack right away, dressed in a perfectly fitted white polo and shorts. He’s standing near the fence line talking to someone.
“Damn,” Dawn says as I walk over. “If we’re going down, at least the pictures will look good.”
I grin, spinning in my white pleated skirt. “You think we’ll make it past the first round?”
“Depends on who we’re up against,” she laughs.
“When are we up?” I say.
“Two matches from now. Wanna grab a bite and warm up?”
I tug my visor lower as we move toward the clubhouse porch, where the refreshment table looks like it was curated by a wellness content creator with a Pinterest addiction.
There are sliced fruit skewers—pineapple, papaya, kiwi, topped with edible flowers that look almost too pretty to eat.
Mini croissants are stacked next to a dish of guava butter.
Energy balls dusted in shredded coconut line a rattan tray, and there’s a row of pressed green juices sweating quietly in glass bottles beside a Frosé machine already running in the corner.
The tree speaker is playing Gracie Abrams now, and I grab a juice, not because I’m thirsty, but just to feel like I’m doing something.
Something to focus on besides Jack stretching, arms overhead, shirt lifting just enough to show a flash of taut, tanned skin.
He turns, catches me looking, wipes the sweat off his brow with the hem of his shirt, and winks.
“Oh, he caught you,” Dawn murmurs, popping an energy ball in her mouth and offering me one.
I take a bite even as my pulse thumps in my throat.
Dinah and Sloane join us, assessing the table. “Y’all, it’s nine-thirty in the morning and people are already playing like there’s a trophy involved.”
“There is,” Sloane says, gesturing toward a nearby table. “The Rooster Cup.”
I follow her gaze. Sure enough, a gleaming ceramic rooster stands tall between a stack of towels and a branded cooler. Bright red comb, puffed chest, and a gold pickleball paddle clutched delicately in its beak.
I’m delighted. “Well now we have to win.”
Dawn nudges me again. “Agreed. Let’s go warm up.”
We step onto the court to rally, and Jack walks past us toward the sidelines, dragging his paddle along the net like a dare.
“Morning Luce. Dawn,” he says, catching my eye.
I roll my shoulders back, trying to look composed. “Morning Jack.”
His gaze drops quickly to my mouth and then back up. “You look nervous.”
“I’m not nervous,” I insist, tightening my grip on my paddle.
His voice softens, low enough that only I can hear it over the chatter of the sidelines. “You bite your lip when you’re nervous.”
I didn’t even realize I was doing it.
I let out a tiny scoff, more air than sound. “…stop trying to distract me, Jack.”
The girls cheer from the sidelines like we’re in high school again.
I toss the ball in the air, hit a serve toward Dawn, and tell myself I didn’t try harder because he’s watching.
By the time our match starts, the crowd has thickened.
An oversized whiteboard with the brackets is set up on an easel, manned by a stern-looking gentleman in tennis whites.
A drone whirs overhead. I hit three surprisingly decent shots in a row, and Jack claps softly from the sidelines and mouths something to me that I can’t quite make out.
Dawn jogs back into position, waving at me. “Earth to Lucy.”
I shake my head, trying to collect myself. “Right. Yes. Game face.”
But my game face has left the building. When we rotate sides I nearly trip over my own sneakers walking to the baseline. I send my serve straight into the net.
“It’s okay, shake it off,” Dawn says.
“Totally,” I say and then return the next ball straight into the net. Again.
On the next rally I manage to connect, but the shot sails high, a perfect lob for the other team to smash back at us. Dawn lunges, saving it at the last second, then shoots me a look over her shoulder.
“You’re trying to kill me,” she says, laughing.
I bend forward, laughing. “Luckily you’re fast.”
I try to focus. Slow my breaths. It doesn’t help. I whiff another return, then yell something that earns a look from the older couple playing next to us.
“Okay, what’s happening?” Dawn asks. “You’re playing like someone who just got emotionally flash fried.”
“I’m fine,” I insist, determination setting in.
From the sidelines, Jack’s leaning against the fence, still watching.
Even if I hadn’t looked, I would have known because I can feel his eyes boring into me.
I exhale, hard. Grip the paddle tighter.
And this time, when the ball comes my way, I’m ready.
I return it clean and fast, right past the girl waiting at the net.
Dawn lets out a little whoop. “There she is.”
I flash her a look. “Just needed a minute.”
Next serve, I hit a sharp backhand, surprising even myself. Someone in the small crowd claps.
I steal a glance at Jack, talking to Allie and Drew.
“Nine—seven, one,” I say, tossing the ball in the air and sending it across the net with a satisfying thwack.
We win our match, not by much, but enough to earn high fives and a cold towel from the tournament staff, which feels like victory in this August heat. There’s a break before our next match, so I grab a fruit skewer and head toward the porch to watch Jack as he steps onto court three.
He’s paired with Thomas, and they’re both irritatingly good at pickleball. Their opponents are a couple from London who have been coming to the island for a few years now, friendly but clearly out for blood. Jack catches me watching as he reties his laces, and I straighten and turn away.
Dawn flops down next to me, out of breath. “I couldn’t catch your eye to save me. I just got cornered by Barefoot Jimmy going on and on about the fish he caught this week.”
Barefoot Jimmy is a true island character, perpetually barefoot, with a weathered face and an endless rotation of fishing stories that somehow all last at least ten minutes.
“Let me guess,” I say. “Biggest one he’s ever seen.”
Dawn groans. “He said the fish had better footwork than half the players out here.”
I laugh, patting Dawn’s hand sympathetically, as we both turn our attention back to the courts.
Jack is playing now, and he’s beautiful to watch.
Understated in that infuriating way where he’s clearly in control but it looks like he’s not even trying.
I’ve played with him before; I know his game.
But he’s more strategic now. Whatever edges he had have only gotten sharper.
At one point, he wipes sweat from his forehead with the back of his wrist and sends me a heated look.
“Jesus,” Dawn murmurs next to me. “Even I’m turned on.”
I turn so fast my ponytail brushes my cheek and find her smirking at me. I give her a friendly shove, laughing.
On the next point, Jack fakes a drop shot then slams the ball down the midline. Thomas claps him on the back as he moves into serving position. I take a long sip of my water. I can feel the heat crawling up the back of my neck.
Dawn and I applaud after Jack and Thomas win their match. “Well, well, look who decided to show up today.”
Thomas grins. “You’re welcome for the entertainment.”
Jack laughs and refills his water bottle before sinking down next to me.
“Impressive,” I say, blocking the sun with my hand as I look at him. “It almost looks like you’ve been practicing.”
He shrugs, unscrewing the cap. “Good partner.”
Thomas claps his hands on his knees. “Finally. Some appreciation.”
Dawn tosses Thomas a towel. “You’re covered in sunblock and smugness.”
“Better than sunburn and regret,” Thomas quips, wiping the sweat from his face and sliding his sunglasses back on.
We talk match stats and court gossip, but Jack stays mostly quiet, eyes on the court.
And then, softly, just for me, “Scoot over, you’re hogging the shade.”
“You’ve got an entire side of this step,” I laugh, sliding an inch.
Jack leans in, close enough that I feel his breath on my ear. “Yeah, but your side looks better.”
Dawn pats my knee. “C’mon, Luce, we’re up again.”
I stand, giving Jack a look I hope comes off cooler than I feel. “Don’t miss me too much.”
His grin deepens. “Impossible.”
Our next match is tighter. Dawn and I hold our own, though. There are long rallies, some honestly impressive saves, and a moment where I hit a sharp angle shot that gets applause from the sidelines. My pulse kicks up. When I look over, Jack mouths something behind his water bottle.
I squint.
He mouths it again, slower this time.
“That. Was. Hot.”
I turn back to the court, cheeks flushed, but not from the heat.
A few points later, I misjudge a bounce and miss it completely, and from the sidelines, I hear Thomas yell, “She’s only human!”
We lose by two points, close enough to taste, which somehow softens the blow. Handshakes, paddle taps, a few sweaty congratulations. By lunch time, a polished Palm Beach couple lifts the Rooster Cup, cameras flashing.