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“AGAPI MOU,” LORETTA says as she reaches out and taps his arm. The words are in Greek, but I can tell just by her voice that it means something affectionate. “This is Bex. She owns the racquet club.”

“Hey,” I say quickly. There’s no way to miss the glowering look the guy’s giving me, like he could laser beam me into space with just the force of his eyes, but I do my best to avoid his death stare and focus all my attention on my friend. “Loretta, I’m so sorry. When Deb called me, I thought she was playing an April Fool’s joke on me.”

“You should be sorry,” he says flatly, and I am irritated to find out that his low, gruff voice is as attractive as his face. “It happened because of your cracked courts.”

“Bex,” Loretta says, and the patience she exudes with just that one word tells me she’s had to take this tone with him before. “This is Nikolaus, my nephew. Can you believe my luck that he just happened to be in Los Angeles this week?”

She focuses her attention back on him, with a sour, exaggerated glare. “And to think you said your trip was too short for you to come visit, and now here you are.”

“It’s almost like you planned this,” he teases, and his face softens up just enough to allow an affectionate smile to appear for a split second.

“I always tell you that family is the most important thing,” Loretta replies before turning to me. “I always tell him that. But does he listen?”

“Theia, you’re extremely important to me,” he assures her, his eyes still gentle. “I just have a tight turnaround this week with training.”

“Niko’s going back out on tour,” Loretta says. “You’ve seen him play before.”

“Wait,” I say, as the pieces fall into place instantly. “This is Niko the tennis player?”

Of course, I should have made the connection, but the chaos and emotion of today has clearly impacted my ability to put two and two together. I’ve watched him play tennis on the TV in Loretta’s living room a few times, and I gasped in horror when he stumbled on the court after losing a point in the first round of the French Open two years ago, shattering his knee.

“Yes, her nephew,” he interjects. Clearly he’s the kind of man who thinks he can speak for a woman, and his elder at that. What an insufferable jerk.

Of course, this behavior totally tracks with what little I know of the guy. He’d been a world-ranked tennis player, somewhere in the top 100 at one point, if I remember Loretta’s past gushing correctly. But one fact has stuck in my brain: The man earned the nickname Karras-hole, not because of how hard he hits the ball—which, from what I’ve seen, is very hard—but how often he tosses his racquet in a toddler-like fit of anger. As far as I can tell, the moniker fits him perfectly.

“And Theia,” he says to Loretta. “I’m not back on tour. Yet. I’m just going to play in a qualifier in Miami Memorial Day weekend. I have to make it through that to even get a draw in the tournament.”

She brushes him off with a frown and a shake of her head. “They should just let you back on the circuit.”

“That would be nice, but that’s not exactly how it works,” he says.

“Nice to meet you.” I stick out one hand, and he shoots me a peeved look, like he’d forgotten I was in the room and then was annoyed that I’d spoken up and reminded him. After a beat, he begrudgingly shakes it with a solid, firm grip.

“Is that…” His eyes narrow for a moment, and his face creases with confusion as he lets go. “An urn?”

I hug it against my chest protectively. “Yes.” He deserves only a one-word answer, so that’s all I give him.

“Huh,” he says, brow furrowing as he scours my face for more information. I change the subject instead.

“Your aunt is one of my best students.”

“And friends!” Loretta chirps from the bed.

“And friends,” I repeat. Over the last couple of years, we’d become close, thanks to her daily devotion to pickleball and our book club, of which I am the youngest member by roughly forty-five years.

“You didn’t have to drive all the way back from Santa Barbara for me,” she says, as she tries to adjust her blanket with her one working hand. Loretta and I had delved into grief intensely throughout our friendship, and she knew what my trip was for.

“I know,” I reply. I bend to help her, tugging the thin cotton up to her waist, and folding the edge over neatly like my mom taught me to do as a kid. “I wanted to.”

Niko interjects, oblivious to the unspoken conversation I’m having with his aunt.

“Well, I would hope any friend of my aunt would care about the courts she’s playing on,” he grumbles, the muscles in his neck flexing as he speaks. It’s a true shame he’s this attractive, because his attitude completely spoils his ridiculously good looks.

“Settle down, Nikolaus,” she scolds. “Bex is the only reason I’m not cooped up at an old folks’ home somewhere. Pickleball is why I get out of the house. You should be thanking her, not yelling at her.”

She clucks under her breath and pats my hand apologetically. “He’s very protective of me,” she explains, as if he wasn’t standing inches away from both of us.

“Because you’re hurt,” he says defensively, running a hand across his furrowed brow with a sigh. “You shouldn’t even be playing pickleball at your age.”

“Why?” I shift to stand a little straighter, puffing up my chest. It isn’t easy to make five-foot-two seem tall, but damn it, I try my best. “Pickleball is actually very accessible for people of all ages and abilities.”

“So accessible that she’s broken her wrist in two places and is going to have to get surgery tomorrow?” he huffs. “Cracked courts are dangerous.”

“And I’ve already called a couple of contractors to come review all of them, so I can get an estimate for repairs. They just can’t get here for a couple of weeks.”

Repairs that hopefully won’t cost too much, because I’m not sure I can afford them. But I’ll figure it out. The club is my family’s legacy, my beating heart. Keeping it open will always be my top priority, no matter the cost.

“Or you could tear the whole place down,” he grumbles, a cocky smirk unspooling across his face.

“Excuse me?” I take a step forward and feel the weight of his eyes grazing my body, taking in the cropped pink tank that I’d fashioned out of a thrift store find. His insult might as well be directed at me, my character, my very being, and it stings like it’s personal, because it is.

“Oh, come off it, Niko,” Loretta snaps, ending our standoff. She may be injured, but that doesn’t diminish her air of authority, and we both turn to face her, standing at attention. “You sound like a snob. Maybe I don’t want you staying in my guesthouse after all.”

She says this like a threat, and I watch as Niko pauses and processes her words for a moment before leaning in and planting a kiss on the top of her head.

“Theia, I can’t stay. I just told you I’m flying back to Miami tomorrow.”

“But you could train at the racquet club,” she insists. “Couldn’t he, Bex?”

“Um.” It’s my turn to now be taken aback by the stuff coming out of Loretta’s mouth. Surely this is the pain medication talking. “I don’t think he’d like our courts, based on what he just said.”

Niko nods, relief passing across his face. “Exactly,” he agrees. “The qualifier is in eight weeks. Everyone I train with is in Miami.”

“Is your family there?” she asks, both pointed and polite all at once. I have to give Loretta some credit; I’ve never seen this side of her before, and it turns out she is an expert guilt-tripper. “And you just told me you fired your coach.”

“I did,” he says, and I can hear the patience in his voice waning. “And no, I don’t have any family there anymore, as you know.”

He’s interrupted by Loretta’s phone buzzing on the side table pushed up next to her bed. She gives it a quick glance and then looks back up at Niko. “It’s your father.”

“I’ll get it,” he says, grabbing the phone and pressing the screen to pick up the call. “Ya, Baba.”

He cradles the phone to his ear and wanders off toward the window, muttering quietly in a mix of Greek and English. Loretta relaxes back into the mound of pillows behind her, grimacing as she adjusts her injured arm, which is bound up in a sling.

“He’s not normally this cranky,” she says apologetically. “I think he’s worried about me.”

“Isn’t he the guy who got famous for smashing his racquet in, like, every match?” I ask. “It seems like cranky would be his default, from what little I know.”

“Ah, I hate that that’s his reputation,” she grumbles, like only a doting aunt can. “I’ve wiped his tush more times than I can count. He’ll always be that sweet little boy to me.”

The thought of this prickly, irritable man as a goofy, smiling toddler, being chased around by Loretta, diaper in hand, seems almost impossible to imagine.

Niko finishes up on the phone and comes to stand at the foot of Loretta’s bed.

“How’s my little brother?” she asks.

“Worried,” Niko says, in a tone that tells me this is a common emotion for his dad. “He’s going to call you before he goes to bed.”

She nods.

“He wants me to stay here, with you, for a little bit,” he adds, and Loretta lights up at this. “Until the qualifier, anyway.”

“That’s my boy.” She reaches up and pats his cheek affectionately. “The bed is all made and ready for you in the back house. Now, go ask the nurses if I’m allowed to eat yet. I’m starving.”

“Yes, Theia,” he agrees and then glances up at me, giving me a stern look that obviously signifies that I’m to follow him outside.

“I’ll go call Ed and fill him in,” I offer, and she nods. He’s another one of my students, the club’s oldest member at eighty-one, and Loretta’s other best friend. The two of them lost their spouses in the last ten years and have formed an alliance with Deb and her wife, Maureen. They are their own sort of found family and have welcomed me into the fold with open arms.

Niko moves from the room with purpose and shockingly doesn’t let the door slam in my face this time. Instead he holds it open and then ushers me out into the hallway. I trail behind him and notice how each step he takes down the hall and away from Loretta’s room feels deliberate, like he thinks through every single movement his body makes.

Once we’re out of her hearing distance, he spins around to face me. The yellow overhead lights cast him in a strange, unnatural glow, like he’s some sort of beautiful, melancholy ghost.

“I could sue you, you know.” I shouldn’t be taken aback because he certainly isn’t the first person to threaten litigation against the club in its nearly thirty years of existence. But this isn’t just any man; it’s Loretta’s nephew. She’s one of the warmest people I know, and if they didn’t have the exact same eyebrows and dark fringe of lashes, I’d be shocked that they’re related.

“No, you couldn’t.” I say this brightly, with a chomp of my gum, which has lost all its flavor since I popped it in an hour ago. I’ve met my share of men who think they can push me around, and pushing them right back is one of life’s greatest pleasures. “Every client has signed a very detailed waiver. And the club is insured up the ass.”

He scoffs at this, but it shuts him up.

“Look, I love Loretta—” I start, and he cuts me off.

“I love her, too. She’s literally the only relative I have left here in the States now that my parents are back in Greece. She’s practically my entire family.”

Niko crosses his arms and paces away from me, grumbling under his breath. “I can’t believe she hurt herself so badly playing such an idiotic sport.”

He’s loud enough so that I can hear every single word.

“Excuse me.” I grab his arm, forcing him to look directly at me. “Aren’t you the person who cracked his entire knee open a few years ago while literally having a tantrum on a tennis court?”

The look of disbelief he gives me makes me chuckle.

“What, you don’t think I know your whole story? Even if Loretta wasn’t constantly talking about her ‘amazing nephew Nikolaus’”—I make sure he can hear the sarcasm in my voice and make quotation marks with my fingers just to really drive home the point—“it would be pretty hard not to know who you are. She just didn’t mention you were a jerk off the court, too.”

Niko used to be everywhere in the tennis world. He surprised everyone when he qualified for the US Open as a lower-tier player on UCLA’s varsity team. This underdog story rocketed him to micro-stardom, and even though he never made it very far in a Grand Slam tournament, he remained a favorite in the game and moved in and out of the top 100 ranking players in the world. That was until two years ago, when he blew out his knee and his whole career.

“She’s probably the only person who doesn’t think that,” he cracks with a slight twist of his lips, cocking one of those pitch-black brows at me.

I decide there’s no point in bickering with this man, and I say a silent vow to myself that I will avoid him at all costs after today.

“Well, good luck finding a place to train while you’re here.” I give him a polite smile. “It was nice meeting you.”

He quiets for a moment, staring down the hall toward Loretta’s room, and then back at me. “You’re the only private club close to Loretta’s house,” he says finally. “I googled. The next closest one is Starlight.”

“Yeah, I’m well aware,” I snap. Starlight’s remodeled club lounge and state-of-the-art pickleball courts are a big reason membership is down for us. It seems like the perfect place for Niko, who clearly thinks the club and our cracked courts are beneath him. “It’s very fancy. You’ll love it there.”

“I need something close if I’m also taking Loretta to doctor’s appointments,” he says, and a knot materializes in the center of my stomach as it dawns on me what he’s saying and not saying.

“I thought you wouldn’t dare set a foot on my crappy courts,” I counter.

“Yeah, well, it’s not like I have a choice,” he says, and he sounds just as annoyed by this as I am.

“I’ll need my own court every day, from about eight to five.” He says this as if it’s nothing, like he’s ordering a Crunchwrap Supreme at Taco Bell.

“Wait, you’re serious?” I narrow my eyes at him, making sure I’m following what he’s saying. “Oh god, you are serious.”

Niko ignores my groan and glares off over my shoulder.

“I’ll need a ball machine too,” he says finally.

“It’ll cost you,” I reply, and he just nods.

“I have the money. I just need some space to practice for a few weeks while I’m here.”

“Whatever you wish, Tennis Prince.” Today I’m wearing one of the first athletic skirts I’ve ever upcycled—a white Wilson number from the eighties I’ve added patchwork to, and I lift it slightly, giving him a mocking curtsey. “I’ll tell my staff at the club to have your throne installed tomorrow.”

Joke’s on him, I think to myself. I am the staff.

And with that, I spin on my heel and march back down the hallway, away from the most arrogant man I’ve ever met.

I’m almost back at reception when I remember that my car’s dead, stuck on the second floor of the hospital parking garage, and I stopped paying for AAA last year. Deb’s covering the desk at the club, so I can’t call her for a ride, and I’d rather not pay for a taxi if I can help it. I freeze, debating for a moment what the best course of action is, and then realize I have no other choice. I turn around, shoulders sunk in defeat, and walk back toward Loretta’s room to find Niko still lurking, now angrily tapping out a text message on his phone.

Before he can see me, I sneak back around the corner and start mapping a path home on my phone. Two miles walking in the desert sun, clutching the remains of my mother? It will suck, but it is better than groveling at the feet of that jerk.

There’s nothing I hate more than asking for help, though Niko Karras and his perma-frown are now a very close second.