Page 12

Friday, April 21

I’M EXPERIMENTING AT my dining room table, and I can’t stop laughing at the words I’ve plastered across the front of a faded yellow T-shirt. Only a few hours earlier, I practically crawled up the stairs to my apartment, exhausted from a day that started with an hour of practicing against Niko’s power shot, followed by back-to-back lessons until dinnertime. Once upstairs, I reheated some lasagna rolls, turned on Bravo for background noise, and starting playing around with the transfer paper I’d dug up in my craft drawer the other day.

I relish the feeling of getting immediately sucked into a project, the way it both soothes and invigorates me. And even though I’d done a ton of sewing with my mom’s old machine over the last couple of years, I’ve never tried to print anything until tonight. I’m teetering on the edge of delirious, but I am also obsessed with this new idea, especially when I imagined all my seventy-plus-year-old friends wearing these shirts and asking me what the slogan means.

Except Deb. Deb will know, obviously. If she is already familiar with the inner workings of polyamory, thanks to TikTok, she is definitely going to be up on this.

There is another thing coursing through me like caffeine, spurring me on despite the fact that I have to be up at the ass crack of dawn tomorrow morning to practice with Niko. It is hope, and it has been bubbling up over the course of the past few days, since Niko and I stumbled into this plan and decided to go for it.

Maybe it’s the fact that he’s been instantly amazing at pickleball or that I enjoy our sweaty practice sessions together way more than I thought I would. But winning the tournament—and more important, the money—feels like less of a long shot than it did a week ago, and a steady, determined calm has settled into my body where restless anxiety was previously squatting.

Once I have two shirts printed—one for me and one for Niko to wear to the cocktail party tomorrow—I crack open a window to let in the cool night air. Outside, the sliver of moon is hazy behind cloud cover, but the stars are full and bright, hanging over the shadowed edge of the mountains. Despite being exhausted, my mind is still churning, and so I opt for a quick walk outside to try to sooth my amped-up nervous system. Sliding on my sneakers, I leave my phone on the kitchen counter and head down into the silent sanctuary that is the club’s reception area at night.

I’m about to turn toward the front door when I catch a glimpse of the south court lights still blazing, an oasis of neon yellow in the otherwise vast darkness. Of course, it’s possible I forgot to turn them off. But it’s also possible Niko is out there, preparing to slam his tennis racquet around.

I can’t help it. I’m curious.

I can take a quick detour to the courts to shut the lights off , I reason. Wouldn’t want to waste electricity. Our bill is sky-high already.

I push through the swinging glass doors and walk toward the closest court. I’m barely on the edge of the green asphalt when a person seems to come out of nowhere, like they’d materialized from the shadows just to scare the life out of me.

I know immediately that it’s Niko, because who else could it be? But I still let out a shriek, my hands instinctively reaching for my face.

“Jesus Christ, Bex,” he chuckles as he slowly comes into focus in the sharp brightness of the overhead lights. “I know I’m terrifying, but I didn’t realize I could make you scream like that.”

My brain short-circuits, the fear and adrenaline of being surprised mixing with the rush of seeing him standing here, lit up like an angel, shirtless.

“I thought I told you to tell me if you’re going to stay late to play after the club closes.” My voice pitches a few octaves too high, sounding like I’ve just inhaled helium.

His body shimmers, covered in a sheen of sweat, and he squirts a shot of water into his mouth before turning the bottle upside down and spraying it onto his hair. He runs a hand through the messy dark strands and shakes the drops free with a quick twist of his head. They scatter across his shoulders and chest, and my tongue feels like it’s swelling up inside my mouth. I’m having an allergic reaction to how unfairly attractive he is. Niko looks downright pornographic, like Mr. Darcy emerging from the pond in the BBC version of Pride and Prejudice that my mom and I once watched together in fits of swooning giggles.

“I wasn’t playing tennis,” he says, lifting his hand up with a smile. Wrapped in his fingers is the pickleball paddle I gave him the other day.

I swallow back my surprise. “Wow. I didn’t expect you to be so committed.”

Niko shrugs, dragging a hand across the back of his neck. Every muscle in his body flexes as he moves, visible thanks to his lack of any sort of body fat. He is built like a machine, and I can’t forget the way it felt to touch him, rock solid.

“Let’s have a little scrimmage,” he says, quirking his brows up in invitation.

“I was going out for a walk,” I counter, and he brushes me off with a dismissive smirk.

“Come on, Princess, let me try to beat you,” he teases, and the hint of flirtation in his voice sends fresh adrenaline flooding into my veins. “Don’t make me beg.”

Sorry, nervous system , I think to myself. Change of plans.

“Well, when you frame it that way.” I flip him the middle finger and jog over to the lost and found bin by the benches at the edge of the court, grabbing one of the nicer paddles left behind. “I’d say that for every point, the loser has to take off an article of clothing, but you’d be naked in, like, two seconds.”

“If we’re playing strip pickleball, then I’ll definitely win,” he says, and the look on his face is scorching. Why do I keep walking right up to the line with him? Rein it in, Bex.

“How about instead of an actual game, if you win a point, you get to ask the other person anything—and the loser has to answer,” I offer, my curiosity about Niko getting the best of me.

“Deal,” he says as he reaches over for a fist bump before jogging off to his side of the court. I make my way across from him, taking a couple of practice swings as I bounce on my toes. I have a vague memory of being tired just a few minutes earlier, but I’m reinvigorated and feel like I could play pickleball all night.

“Okay, Tennis Prince!” I shout, egging him on. “Let’s see that ATP ranking in action.”

To his credit, Niko doesn’t acknowledge my taunts. Instead his focus is solely on the ball, which he bounces once, twice, and then—boom. His serve is textbook perfect, so good, in fact, that I almost let it whiz by me as I marvel at his skill. Thankfully, I jolt to life just as it bounces a couple of feet in front of me and make it in time to return his serve.

Niko plays a long game with each swing, trying to keep the ball far back on my side of the court so I can’t move up to the net, which is where players ideally want to be. No matter what I do to try to thwart him, his returns land far and deep in the corners of the court, and soon I’m sprinting back and forth trying to make each shot.

I finally lob the ball over his head, and he swings with determination, just barely missing it. “Goddamnit!” he huffs as he slices his paddle through the air like an ax, almost like he wants to split the court in half. It’s just a scrimmage, a silly practice game, but it dawns on me that he approaches every task with the same level of intensity, no matter the gravity or importance.

Which makes it all the more fun to torment him for losing a point to me.

“Wooooo!” I pump both arms in the air. He saunters up to the net with his usual swagger, unsmiling and serious, his arms wide, as if he’s inviting whatever questions I throw his way. And there’s one I’ve been dying to ask over the last few days that feels unanswered.

“Well?” he says once I’m directly across from him, still catching my breath.

I study Niko for a moment—and not just to ogle the shape of his body, which is, undeniably, mouthwateringly perfect. I’m noticing for the first time that the defensiveness I always sense in him—the slightly protective arch of his shoulders, the touch of a scowl always lingering in the lines of his brow—is starting to seem less and less angry and more about self-preservation. With all his bravado, he reminds me of a wounded animal at times, even when he’s trying his best to hide it.

“Why me?” I ask finally, looking directly up at him. His eyes shift as he tries to figure out what I am asking.

“As your partner,” I add. “For this tournament. You could have asked Deb. She’s almost as good as Loretta. You could have found some old tennis pro friend, or someone way better at pickleball than me. So why did you ask me?”

I can see a current of something vulnerable ripple across his face, but it’s there for barely a millisecond before disappearing. “I just needed someone who could keep up,” he says cooly. “And you’re here all the time. It’s not like I’d have to chase you down to practice.”

“Mm.” My lips flatten into an irritated line, and the exhaustion is back, refilling my bones. Maybe he is just an angry, bitter jerk after all. “How flattering. You really do have a way with words.”

“It’s all part of my charm,” he replies, his stare severe. “My turn.”

“I’ll give you one free question,” I tell him, “but I’m done playing for tonight.” I plop down on the ground, right in the kitchen. Niko comes to sit directly across from me, legs crossed, his knees close to touching mine even though he’s sitting right on the other side of the net.

“Fine,” he agrees. “One question.”

He stares at me for a moment, and I can’t tell if he’s hesitating or figuring out what to say. But then he opens his mouth. “Why’d you say yes?”

I’ve never met anyone with eyes like his, that seem to penetrate my skin and bones and see directly into my brain. His muscles may be the thing that carry him on the court, his athletic skill and dedication keeping him afloat, but his eyes are the true secret weapon, what he inflicts on all his competitors to make them stumble and second-guess themselves.

“Do you mean aside from the fact that you told that reporter I was your partner?” I say, giving him an incredulous look. “It’s not like I had a choice.”

“Bex, I’ve seen you in action,” he says, his voice softening just a smidge. “You’re not someone who’s afraid of saying no. If you had wanted to back out, you would have.”

I pick at a flaky piece of the court and let out a sigh. “Sometimes it feels like the club is actually crumbling around me. And I don’t know how to put it back together.”

He leans in a bit closer, peering at me curiously through the woven nylon net.

“Money,” I say finally, and I can hear the desperation reverberate in my voice just as much as I feel it in the tight ache of my shoulders. “I need that prize money to pay for all the repairs we have to do on the courts.”

“Oof” is all he says.

“Yeah, oof just about sums it up.” I give him what feels like a pathetic smile. I’m stuck back in a pit of stress; maybe that hopeful feeling from earlier was just a mirage.

“The club is my whole life. I don’t have anything if I don’t have this place. The thought of losing it terrifies me because it’s like I’d lose myself and everything that makes me me.”

“I don’t know if that’s true,” he starts, but I shake my head at him.

“Think about all the pressure you’ve put on yourself over the years,” I tell him. “And now imagine that, but bigger. At first, I thought I was just doing all of this to honor my mom and her legacy here, but it’s been hitting me how much bigger it all is than her, or me.”

“Which is…” he says.

“I can’t let the members down,” I say as I rest my elbows on my knees. “This is their home. And it’s my home. So there you go. That’s why I said yes.”

Niko is quiet for a moment and then reaches his hand under the net and slides it over my calf. The weight of it is warm and reassuring, even if his face is still stony.

“I’m sorry I gave you a hard time about the condition of the courts when we first met. I didn’t know how much Loretta loved it here.”

“Okay, now you’re just sweet-talking me because you’re my pretend boyfriend,” I joke. I consider reaching for his hand, but he pulls it away before I can do so.

“No, I’m serious. I overreacted. I was afraid…” His voice shorts, and he’s quiet for a moment. “I know how hard it is to bounce back from an injury, but especially when you’re her age. I was worried about her. It wasn’t the best way to handle things.”

“Thanks,” I say, meeting his eyes and giving him a small smile. “I appreciate that.”

“So let’s just focus on winning the tournament, then,” he says with a confident tilt of his chin. “We’ll put on a good show for the interview tomorrow at the cocktail party, we’ll keep practicing, and we’ll do whatever it takes to win.”

“Whatever it takes?” I reply. “That sounds serious.”

He doesn’t mention anything about the dating part of this plan, and I don’t ask.

“If it’s pickleball, it’s all fair,” he says.

“Deal,” I agree. “We play to win.”

And we leave it at that.

For now.