Page 20

Friday, May 12

THIS LAST WEEK has felt too easy, too comfortable, and the second Angela walks into the club for her follow-up interview with both of us, photographer in tow, I’m immediately reminded of what’s at stake here. It doesn’t help that I’d been up since four in the morning, dealing with a plumbing issue that started in my kitchen upstairs and has now impacted the entire club. I got the water turned off an hour ago, but the plumber can’t come back until tomorrow morning, and there’s a chance I’ll have to close down the club for the weekend if it’s not an easy fix. Numbers race through my head as I try to pay attention to what Niko is saying, quick hurried calculations of the money I’d lose without a couple of days of pickleball lessons and court rentals.

He’s pontificating about finding his footing on the court and off, as a partner. I smile and nod along, reminding myself that I need to be on throughout this whole conversation and the practice game we are about to play, to give Angela something to write about. I’ve pigtailed my hair today, inspired by the 1980s tennis skirt that called to me this morning, and secretly, I was hoping Niko might be into it. Pairing the skirt with a dusty pink polo shirt and knee-high socks was definitely a choice; I look like a cross between a country club maven and a scrappy Little League pinch hitter.

Normally, I love playing up a style choice. Something about it makes me feel more confident, mentally sharp, even. But today, I don’t feel put together. I’ve been dashing around for hours, splitting my time between hounding the plumber to get over here and teaching my morning pickleball lessons. Switching between the two roles—owner and coach—makes my brain ache. I’m pretty sure that if I could take a picture of my mind today, it would look like the aftermath of someone trying to juggle a dozen eggs.

“Should we go play?” I hear Niko say, and even though it registers that I am supposed to reply, it takes me a second.

“Yes!” I say, once my instinct clicks on. Everything else will have to wait. It is late afternoon, and I want to get this done so I can maybe find time to eat something other than the bag of stale pretzel rods I devoured around breakfast time.

“I’m so excited to show you the club,” I tell Angela and her photographer, Dennis, as I wave them out toward the courts. As we walk, Angela peppers us with questions.

“What happened first, pickleball or romance?”

“Romance,” I blurt out with confidence just as Niko says, “pickleball.”

I wince in horror. We are total amateurs when it comes to executing this scheme. How have we been at this for several weeks and never actually discussed the logistics for lying about our relationship?

“I’ll let Niko tell it,” I say, rushing to play defense as I lead our group.

“Well, I guess it is a mix of both,” he says, never missing a beat. “I met Bex the first day I arrived in Sunset Springs. She came to the hospital because my aunt Loretta fell and broke her wrist, and Bex is her pickleball coach.”

“This is all true,” I say, relaxing a bit as we round the corner.

“I was worried about Loretta, and I might have come across as a bit of a jerk to Bex.”

That is also true! I almost reply but censor myself, dropping a cool “Water under the bridge” instead.

“But she charmed me with her passion for pickleball,” he continues, “and I immediately had a little bit of a crush. So I guess you could say it was both.”

He’s looking at Angela as he speaks, which is a good thing because I feel unnerved by his words, stripped raw in a way that feels brand-new. Even though we’re supposed to be pretending, this feels genuine.

The photographer hovers off to the side, quietly observing our back-and-forth. Every now and then, he brings the camera up to his face, lens extended, and then stares down at the screen intently to study his work. I try not to let it rattle me, but every time his lens is trained on the court, I feel a shot of anticipation run through me.

I want this to work. It has to work.

I start the game off with the first serve. This is essentially just like our practice games because we’re showing off for the journalist and her camera, not truly playing to win. But I know it’s practically impossible for Niko to turn off his competitive side, and this makes me want to have a little fun with him, pushing his buttons just a bit. And so I add a little extra oomph to my serve and return the ball to him with more force than he’s used to from me.

He lets out a little grunt as he knocks the ball back onto my side, attempting to force me up to the net. It’s one of his many noises that send my heart racing, and I try not to get distracted by it. Instead I channel all my focus into scoring the next point. When I finally break through his wall of defense and he misses a low shot down the middle, I let out a yell of excitement just as my stomach grumbles, reminding me that I did, indeed, forget to eat lunch today.

Soon I’m leading three-zero. He finally gets a chance to serve and digs into my lead, tying it up before losing the point. We keep going like this, one person pulling ahead, then the other, the game stretching on longer than normal. He may be a tennis pro, but I have years of pickleball on him, and if there’s one thing my mom taught me as my coach, it was how to sniff out my opponent’s go-to moves and then break them out of their habit. And today I’m determined to break Niko, point by point.

Thirty minutes pass, according to my watch, though it feels like hours. Finally, I’m up ten to eight and readying my serve, angling to shut this down with the winning point at eleven. “Ten, eight, one!” I holler, calling out the score. I give the ball one small bounce, like I always do, and then focus my eyes directly on it, left arm pulling back to hit what I trust will be the winning serve of the game.

And then everything goes dark.

Not pitch-black, exactly; it’s more like the world comes in and out, and I’m straddling the line somewhere between awake and asleep. My head feels like it’s floating away from the rest of my body, and my arms move like they know they need to do something, reaching out in front of me as my knees buckle. There’s stinging pain in my shins as they hit the court, but then everything in me relaxes, and finally, I can rest.

Except I don’t sleep, not for long. It’s a breath of quiet, and then I crack open my eyes and find Niko above me. He’s fanning my face with one hand and gently cupping the back of my neck with the other.

“Hey,” he says hovering directly over me. I flit my eyes, trying to catch up with what’s going on, but all they can focus on is the depth of his chocolate-brown irises. Staring into them feels like meditating; they calm me with their steady resolve. “You fainted, but you’re okay.”

Fainted? I immediately try to scramble up to sit, palms pushing against the hard court below me. But Niko’s hand shoots to my chest, giving me the gentlest press, holding me in place. “Bex, seriously, do not try to sit up right now.”

“But the game,” I mumble, as someone hands Niko an ice-cold washcloth that he then brings directly to my forehead. I wonder for a brief second how they got it this wet with the water shut off at the club, but then a dull ache in my head pushes the thought away.

“Thank you,” he says to the owner of the hand—it’s the photographer, I realize—as he holds it in place while also softly stroking the pad of his thumb along my eyebrow, smoothing out the fine hair there.

“You won the game,” he assures me, a small, sweet smile cracking across his face. “You competitive monster.”

“Takes one to know one,” I croak, my voice hoarse, as a wave of nausea ripples through me. “Oh man,” I moan, trying to shift over on my side in the fetal position. “I feel like I’m going to barf.”

Angela’s face appears behind Niko, and she hunches next to him, obviously concerned. “It was all I could find,” she says, as she passes him a handful of what looks like oyster crackers in a plastic bag, the kind of thing you get with a cup of soup at a restaurant. He shifts onto the ground next to me, crossing his legs, and then removes his hand from my forehead and tears open the packet of crackers, pulling one out and tucking it into my fingertips.

“I want you to sit up slowly,” he says, and then wraps both hands around my shoulders, guiding me upward. One slides down my back and holds me in place like a steady, solid plank of wood.

“Have a sip of this.” He passes me a cup of lemon-lime Gatorade. Raising it to my lips, I take a small sip, pause, and then slurp the rest down. My stomach settles immediately, and when I’ve polished off the drink, I bring a cracker to my mouth, taking a tiny, tentative nibble.

“Oh god, I’m starving,” I realize as the delicious hit of salt zings on my tongue. My body feels leaden, empty, like I haven’t eaten in days.

“What have you eaten today?” he asks, and even though I’m confident he knows the answer, nothing about his face is judgmental. He gives me another once-over and, when he appears satisfied that I’m not going to tip over, hands me the packet of crackers so I can feed myself.

“Cold brew,” I admit, popping more into my mouth.

“And?” he asks, hand still firm and comforting against my back.

“More cold brew,” I say. “And some pretzels.” I crunch the rest of the crackers and watch him, expecting to see some sort of stern reaction on his face, but instead there is a glimmer of pure affection. It’s like someone looking at a puppy who’s just chewed up an entire living room but can’t help but be adorable. This is happening more and more when I’m around him, and it’s an unfamiliar and off-putting sensation that feels both terrifying and addictive.

“Well, let’s stay here as long as you need,” he says. “And then we’ll go get you something to eat.”

“But the interview,” I protest, still not understanding how we can just stop everything to sit here.

“Oh, I think we got everything we need today,” Angela says kindly, though I see that her phone is clutched in her hand, a voice recorder running.

“Oh good,” I say, greedily taking another cracker pack out of Niko’s hand and tearing into it. “I feel fine now.”

“Nope,” he says, somehow even more ornery as a caregiver than he is in everyday life. “You need to wait a little bit longer before trying to stand.”

“Are you just mad because I beat you in front of a reporter?” I say. “Angela, I hope you got that the owner of the Sunset Springs Racquet Club beat Mr. Famous Tennis Pro here.”

Angela attempts a serious nod but the way she presses her lips into a line tells me she’s trying not to laugh.

“Jesus, you’re relentless.” Niko chuckles.

“No, I’m just really good at pickleball,” I say matter-of-factly, the food and Gatorade finally kicking in. “Isn’t that why you asked me to be your partner?”

“I asked you to be my partner just so I could keep you around and bug you,” he jokes back. “And boss you around.” He looks down at his watch. “You need to stay here for at least ten more minutes.”

I roll my eyes at this, but secretly, I like that he cares.

“I’m setting a timer,” he says, tapping his watch. “And… go.”

When he finally helps me up, we’re the only two people left at the club. Angela and her photographer said rushed, awkward goodbyes as soon as it became clear I was fine. Niko insists on walking me upstairs to my apartment, and once I’m settled on the couch, he rushes back downstairs for a couple of minutes, returning with a giant bag of takeout food in hand.

“Dinner,” he says, unpacking two giant turkey subs onto the coffee table alongside bags of salt-and-vinegar potato chips and two glass bottles of Coke.

“Plates?” he asks, and I point him to the cabinet above the sink before turning to admire the spread in front of me.

“Oh,” I moan with pleasure as I eye the soda. “You got real Cokes. You’re my hero.”

“It’s Mexican Coke or nothing,” he agrees, twisting off the top of a frosty-cold bottle and passing it over to me.

“Amen,” I say, and clink the lip of my Coke to his before taking a long, slow sip. I swear I can feel my body come alive as the caffeine and sugar hit my bloodstream. I don’t know if I’ve ever tasted anything so refreshing in my entire life.

We eat in silence, and I chew my sandwich slowly, enjoying every bite, the tangy mustard, the sharp bite of cheddar, the crunch of iceberg lettuce. Once we’re finished, he walks our plates back over to the kitchen sink, twisting the handle of the faucet to give them a rinse.

“No water,” I remind him. “The whole club is shut off until the plumber can get here tomorrow.”

“Right, shit,” he says, stacking them on the counter. “Then you can’t stay here.”

“I’m fine,” I insist. “I have a Brita that’s full in the fridge and plenty of back-up water because I’m a well-stocked earthquake prepper who will be very hydrated during the end of the world.”

“Bex,” he says, now looking over at me with his hands on his hips, “just come stay at my place.”

“It’s just water, Niko,” I reply. “And I need to meet the plumber tomorrow morning before the club opens.”

“And you fainted out there today,” he replies. “So it makes even more sense for you to not be alone tonight. I can drive you back in the morning.”

I flutter out a sigh. He’s not wrong. And washing my face with warm water sounds very nice right now.

“How do we explain it to Loretta if I show up to stay at your house?” I ask.

He laughs, as if the answer is obvious. “Bex, we’re supposed to be dating. Frankly, it would be weird if you didn’t.”