Page 16

Monday, April 24

WHEN I WALK up to court 4 two days later, Niko is already leaning against the chain-link fence, arms crossed, looking bored. He’s the only person here, and I swear I see a twitch of excitement at the corner of his eyes when I stop in front of him.

“You’re late” is all he says, but there’s a smile creeping up at the edge of his lips.

“No, you’re just weirdly early,” I tease. Every interaction with this man waffles between ice-cold and scorching hot, and it seems to permanently raise my heart rate to its maximum level and torment my nervous system.

But even with that weighing on me, the past week has felt oddly like a relief, the first time in ages my thoughts haven’t been totally tainted by the shadow of grief or the stress of keeping the club running. Even this morning feels sunnier, like the light is streaming in just a bit more.

And there’s something else cranking the joy on inside me today. Dragging Niko here today—to play against some of the club’s longest-running members—has triggered a forgotten, dust-covered truth about myself: I love playing pickleball.

I haven’t given myself a chance to simply play for fun or let myself enjoy it in so long. But the pure pleasure of it, the playfulness that’s at the heart of the game, and my fierce competitiveness have come rushing back since pairing up with Niko, and my entire being feels slightly more buoyant than it did just a few weeks ago.

“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” Randall rasps in his familiar scratchy drawl as he saddles up to the court. His scraggly gray hair is swept back in a faded red bandana, and the tank top that hangs off his lean runner’s body looks like it has been in his closet since the sixties. Unlike most of the residents of Sunset Springs, Randall is a lifelong local and a total desert rat. He was one of my mom’s first tennis clients, and I went to elementary school with his son, which is why he still calls me “kid” even though I’m inching closer and closer to thirty.

“Randall!” I crack a cocky smile in his direction as I weave my hair back into a braid. “What are you doing here? Did you escape the nursing home again?”

Before Mom got sick, I used to roll in here on the weekends with a dozen donuts from Krispy Kreme and a penchant for kicking boomer ass. But now running the club comes first, and I haven’t made it to the long-standing meet-up, nicknamed the Six AM Club, in months. This crew has been gathering to play for years—Randall is one of the other few members who has a key to the courts—and the shit-talk and teasing is as important to the Six AM Club as the game play, if not more.

Randall envelops me in a warm hug, and when I pull away, I push him over toward Niko.

“Randall, this is Niko. Niko, Randall.”

A flicker of recognition passes across Randall’s face. “You’re the tennis player I see on court one all day long, right? Going apeshit on the ball machine?”

Niko nods.

“You’re a monster out there,” Randall says, still sizing him up. “Do you coach clinics?”

“Only a little. I just did one at UCLA a few weeks ago,” Niko says.

“Well, give me your number. I have a whole crew I still play with, and we’d kill for a coach. We’re getting rusty.” Randall glances around, lowering his voice. “Just don’t tell anyone here today that I’m still playing tennis.”

“I heard that!” I quip, teasing him back. But I clock his words on a serious level, too. No one has taught tennis at the club since Mom passed, and hiring a new pro has been on my to-do list forever. I’ve been putting it off because I haven’t been able to square it with our budget, or at least that’s what I’ve been telling myself. But I know there’s a deeper reason I’ve been avoiding filling that spot, one that is intertwined with the complex feelings of replacing her with someone new, even though it feels sort of absurd. I’m not hiring a new mother, just someone to coach a few tennis lessons. And yet, I can’t bring myself to do it.

“She always does,” Randall says as he reaches in and grasps Niko’s hand in a firm handshake. “Has she served your ass to you on a platter yet?”

Randall points in my direction, and Niko lets out a loud laugh.

“She’s definitely tried,” he says, and I can already see the two of them forming some sort of alliance. “Even though we’re supposed to be partners.”

“Niko and I are playing in our first tournament in a couple of weeks,” I explain. “We’ve gotta toughen him up and help him lose the bombastic tennis swing.”

“Ooooh, a project.” Randall claps his hands together eagerly. “I’m excited already.”

Then he steps a little closer to me, giving my shoulder a kind squeeze. “It’s good to see you back here.”

“It’s good to be here,” I say. “It’s been so busy.”

“Well, you two can get first game then,” he says courteously with a little bow, as the rest of the regulars start to gather nearby, unpacking their equipment bags and spraying copious amounts of sunscreen on their bodies.

When the group is fully gathered, I introduce Niko and then give him the rundown.

“Norma—former prosecutor and a vicious serve,” I say, pointing my paddle at the tall, glamorous woman across from me, her platinum hair secured in a perfectly coiffed bun at the nape of her neck.

“Guilty as charged,” she says, her pun eliciting groans from the rest of the crew.

“Vikram’s a snowbird from Minneapolis,” I continue with a smile, because it’s a jab I know will get under his skin.

“Oh, come on, Bex, I’ve been here full-time for twenty years,” Vikram scolds me with a shake of his head.

“Doesn’t count!” I tease back, before moving on. “And this is Derek. He likes to forget that he’s not still playing tennis, so you two will definitely get along.”

Derek, an older Black man with a shock of gray-white hair, lets out a snort at this accusation.

“Is she always this tough on tennis players?” Niko asks him, and Derek nods yes with a roll of his eyes.

“And here come the vultures,” Randall murmurs, pointing at the trio of women who just stepped out from the lobby, all with short grandmotherly hairdos of various colors. “We call them that because they’ll tear you apart until you’re just a pile of bones and skin left to rot on the court.”

“Jesus Christ,” Niko mutters under his breath, as he readjusts his sweat band.

“Randall used to write screenplays,” I explain. “He’s got a flair for the dramatic. And his net game is sick.”

“So what now, we play?” Niko asks.

“Yeah,” I say, nodding. “And win.”

Niko’s swagger is in full force as we saunter onto the court to warm up for our first game. He plops down on the bench, legs man-spread so wide there’s barely room for me to slide in next to him.

“Is it really necessary to take up three-quarters of the bench just to air out your crotch?”

“Jesus, Bex.” He crosses his legs in front of him self-consciously. “I’m just tall.”

“I know a lot of tall women, and none of them need to spread out like that,” I say, squirting a shot of Gatorade into my mouth as I sit down next to him, shifting into coach mode. “Listen, just because you’re an amazing tennis player doesn’t mean we’re automatically going to win every game.”

He nods like he agrees with me, but everything in his face screams arrogant skepticism.

“Niko, I mean it,” I say firmly. “You need to actually try to play pickleball today, and not just the glorified tennis crap you’ve been giving me in practice.”

“Bex.” He folds his hands behind his head and leans back against the metal bars. “I want to remind you that you’re asking me to take playing a game named after a pickled cucumber seriously.”

“No, I’m asking you to take me seriously.”

This shuts him up for a moment, and he swivels around to look at me. “I do” is all he says.

“Then you better remember everything we’ve gone over so far. Because again, you’re not going to be able to just rely on strength and dominance alone.”

“I can be soft, Bex,” he says, and I immediately feel like my entire body is blushing. His voice is so cool sometimes that it’s hard to know when he’s trying to torment me with his words and when he’s just, well, talking. Constantly being on edge around Niko frays my nerves, my heart never slowing down from its persistent, amped-up beat.

“Promise me, you will take this game seriously,” I say, desperate for some assurance that he understands what I’m saying.

“I promise,” he replies, and he sounds so steady and sure of himself that I let myself believe him.

Two of the vultures do indeed kick our asses in our first game. We lose eleven to three, but not before Niko lets out a loud “Fucking shit” when his serve goes out of bounds for the fifth time.

“You’re still thinking like a tennis player,” I say softly, as he downs a Gatorade in one giant gulp. I trail a glance over his Adam’s apple and then remind myself to focus. “I know it seems counterintuitive, but you need to do less.”

He runs the back of his hand across his mouth, his tongue darting out against his lips. I blink extra hard and try to stifle the thumping in my chest. He has taken up residency under my skin, and I try not to let on.

“That goes against everything I normally do on the court,” he says finally, and he seems to actually be pondering my advice.

“Pickleball is a different beast,” I remind him. “I’m your teammate. You have to rely on me now. And technically, I’m also your coach. I want you to be successful here. You should trust me on this.”

He gives me a surprised look. “You don’t think I trust you?”

“I don’t think you trust anyone, at least not on the court.” The words spill out of my mouth before I even realize what I’m saying. “Besides yourself.”

Niko considers my words for a moment and then nods in agreement. “Fine, Bex,” he says. “I trust you. Let’s go win this next one.”

We take our positions on the court across from Randall and Vikram. Vikram hollers out the starting score. “Zero-zero-two!”

There’s a whole catalog of things that could distract me this morning, everything from my growing list of club repairs to the way Niko bites his bottom lip when he’s concentrating in a game. But a few deep breaths clear everything out of my head, and the second Vikram raises his paddle, my brain settles on one simple thing: returning the ball.

This was one of the first things my mom taught me about pickleball, all those years ago: Just worry about getting the ball back over the net. That’s how you stay alive in this game.

And so I channel all my focus into that one act, blocking out everything else—my grief, my worry, the way the tag of my shirt keeps irritating a spot at the back of my neck. It all falls to the back of my mind as I keep my eyes laser-focused on the ball, following its every move as it connects with Vikram’s paddle with a loud, satisfying tap and shoots over the net, fast and low, landing just in front of me.

I knock it back with a powerful return, keeping my opponents far on their end of the court before dashing up to the net beside Niko. Randall lobs a perfect third-shot drop back at us, soft and low in the kitchen, but Niko’s there with a quick return down the centerline.

They volley back at us, but we keep the ball in play and go back and forth with ease, despite their best attempts to thwart our returns. They switch up the speed of the ball, and even try to knock a shot behind us toward the end of the court, but I never take my eye off the ball, even as sweat starts to pool on the bridge of my nose, my breath now clipped and short.

Finally, after it feels like they’re never going to back down, I knock the ball right into the left corner of the kitchen. Randall’s backhand is no match for the placement of my shot, and he hits it right into the net.

“Yes!” I shout, pumping my paddle into the air. I feel downright euphoric, as if this is the only thing that matters in the world because, right now, it is. This is the magic of pickleball, and I’d forgotten the high that comes from finally shutting down your opposing team. It feels fucking amazing.

“Shit, Princess.” Niko sounds downright impressed as he smacks a sweaty palm on my shoulder. “You’re vicious out there.”

“I know.” I puff up my shoulders proudly, jogging backward toward the edge of the court to take my first serve.

Thirty minutes later, Randall and Vikram are slapping their paddles against ours, congratulating us on our win. “Good game, new guy,” Randall says to a clearly proud Niko, before turning to me. “And you, kiddo. Damn. You played that one like you had something to prove.”

“I did,” I reply, and I can’t contain the grin on my face. It’s not the win that’s sending me; it’s how damn good it feels to just have fun doing it.

“I like watching you win,” Niko says as he pops open the lid on his water bottle, and the look on his face is both victorious and smug. Suddenly I’m overheating just from the sight of him, remembering how it felt to entangle his body with mine.

“Don’t get too cocky,” I say, steadying my resolve as I poke him in the shoulder with the edge of my paddle. “Maybe we just got lucky that round.”

But we win our next game, and the one after that, and by the time we’re walking back to the lobby, we’re both beaming, triumphant.

I slide onto the stool behind the front desk, and he leans his elbows on the edge, like he always does, bending to get a little bit closer.

“Aren’t you going to congratulate me on winning?” he teases, one dark brow raised suggestively. “I was really good out there.”

I make a big show of ignoring him as I fire up my computer, drumming my fingers on the desk. I hear him release an exasperated sigh, and instead of glancing up at him, I pull open the desk drawer and dig through the messy array of dried-up Sharpies and dull scissors until I pull out a ballpoint pen, holding it up with awe like I’ve just discovered gold in a pile of dirt.

Finally, I tilt my head a half an inch to see if he’s watching my performance. A wave of pleasure washes over me when I discover him focused on my face, a smile lurking just beneath the surface of my lips.

I toss the pen at him, expecting him to duck from my attack. Instead he catches it effortlessly and leans across the counter, tucking it behind my ear. My throat practically collapses in on itself, but I recover quickly. “You’re a pain in the ass, you know that?”

Niko nods. “Of course I do. I learned it from my coach.”

We’re both grinning now. “She must give good advice,” I say, as I tug the pen from its resting place and bring it to my lips, puffing on it like a cigar.

“She does,” he agrees, eyes still following my every move. “I might even trust her, a little bit.”

“She’ll keep that in mind.”

And I do, for the rest of the day.