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Grandma and Jim burst out laughing. They’re so loudthat the basketball game happening a few courts over pauses to see what’s so funny. What the hell is going on?

“Oh, that’s a good one!” Jim wipes at his eyes. “Have you kids looked up nothing about this game?”

I slowly shake my head, fighting annoyance that they’re laughing so hard at me.

“You’re standing in the kitchen right now.” He points to the section of the court closest to the net and painted a different color. “Now back up so I can get another point.”

I do as he says, having no idea what’s going on.

Fifteen minutes later, Logan is at my side with a wild expression. The score is nine to eight, and we’re still losing to them. We only play to eleven points, so it’s now or never.

“Quinn, we’ve got to beat them. No more Miss Nice Granddaughter. You need to smash that ball at your grandma as hard as you can.”

“Logan! She’s seventy-five—I’m not going to do that!”

Although…I’m tempted.

“We have to! It’s not like they’re taking it easy on us. They’re clearly pickleball prodigies or something!”

“I’m pretty sure prodigies are supposed to be young.” I bite my lip. His hair is tousled from running his hands through it and his cheeks are flushed. He leans farther forward until our faces are only inches apart and my heart speeds at his nearness.

“Call it out when you’re going for the ball so there’s no confusion,” he whispers. “And try to hit toward Jim’s left side. He seems weaker there. I bet he’s got a trick hip or something.”

A giggle escapes my lips. “What have we gotten ourselvesinto?”

“War, Quinn. This is pickleball war. And I’m not losing.”

I salute him. “Yes, sir.”

We actually get a point on the next round—tying us for the first time at nine points each—but we’re fighting for our lives out here on this tiny court. The volleying back and forth is insane. It’s amazing how Grandma and Jim can keep the ball from hitting the ground without having to move much at all.

“Next point.” Jim returns the ball in an arcing downward motion, and I completely miss it. Why is this game deceptively hard? Or am I just too distracted by my partner to playwell?

“Ten to nine. Nice dink, Jim!” Grandma yells, and gives him a thumbs-up.

He bows.

“What’d you say?” I ask, readying my serve.

“A dink! Jim is great with dinks.”

I turn to Logan. He mouths,What the hell?and we burst out laughing.

“Stop flirting and start serving,” Jim calls.

That sobers me right up. Logan puts up a hand to stop me and comes to my side. “If they get one more point, then they win,” he tells me, like I’m not already fully aware. He takes two fingers and points back and forth between my eyes and his. “We’ve got like sixty-five years on these two. Wewillwin this game. Team Dink!”

“I still don’t know what that is!” I reply as he returns to his side.

“No one does,” he cries, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “It’s gibberish to confuse us!”

I serve the pickleball and Grandma returns the serve easily. Logan lunges for it.

“Dink it!” I cry out randomly, and Logan laughs as the ball connects with his paddle. This may be the weirdest game in the world, but it’s pretty good exercise. My legs are getting sore, I’m sweating in my jeans (which I’m highly regretting wearing), and my heart is working double time—although there’s likely a secondary cause for that.

Grandma returns the ball right down the midline that separates my side of the court from Logan’s. I don’t think; I only lunge for the ball. Unfortunately, Logan does the same thing. We both realize and try to slow our momentum, but it’s too late. The ball goes flying past us and we knock into each other—a tangle of arms and legs and pickleball paddles—and drop like a heavy sack of trash. The air is knocked out of my lungs and Logan lands half on top of me.

We both groan and suck in a breath. “I think I broke a hip,” he whispers, and rolls onto his back.