Page 22

Saturday, May 13

NIKO DOESN’T SLEEP on the couch after all. He wakes me up with coffee and scrambled eggs, and the sincerity of the gesture made every bite taste utterly delicious. I keep waiting for some sort of awkwardness to kick in between us, like we’ll both realize we took things too far last night and immediately clam up or start acting weird. But if anything, our interactions feel even more relaxed, instinctive, like second nature.

Now, back at the club, my “boyfriend” leans in and gives me a kiss on the cheek as he drops me off at the front desk to wait for the plumber, before heading out to the court to meet Randall for their first lesson together.

After last night, I’m bubbling over with a sensation that feels foreign and familiar all at once. It’s an uncontainable excitement with nerves that fizz up through my body like a freshly poured soda. I am the human version of last night’s bottle of Coke, and I can’t focus on anything in front of me, no matter how hard I stare at the computer screen.

A few hours later, I’ve just bid the plumber farewell with a hug—she’s an old friend of my mom’s and knocked twenty percent off her invoice, thank goodness—when Freddie Alwin struts in through the glass door. It’s like someone flipped on the high beams on a backcountry road. He has an undeniable je ne sais quoi. Maybe this just comes with being absurdly attractive or well-known and worshipped. Whatever it is, it’s working for him.

It’s obvious just from the way he moves that he’s long been used to the way people react to him, almost like he is anticipating it.

It’s funny to compare him to Niko, who is just as handsome, if not more so, but carries himself defensively, like he’s ready to challenge anyone at any time. Freddie, on the other hand, bounds through the world like a golden retriever puppy who knows you won’t be able to resist petting him.

I’m not immune to his charm, obviously. He is universally desirable; a wooden log would jolt alive in this guy’s presence. But the sight of him doesn’t send my pulse skyrocketing like it does when Niko storms into the room. Instead it’s more of an intellectual understanding that I’m supposed to find this man irresistible, and so I guess I do.

Still, I try to feign nonchalance and lean back casually, as if gorgeous pickleball pros waltz in here on the regular and I’m not plotting a way to use his celebrity to help save the club.

“Hey, Freddie,” I say, trying to find the right balance of friendly greeting and playing it cool. “This is unexpected.”

“I figured why text about grabbing a T-shirt when I could just swing by and check the club out for myself?” His voice is just like his looks—ice-cold martini smooth. Everything about Freddie Alwin goes down easy, except when I remember the way Niko seethed as he told me about their past.

“Well, welcome to Sunset Springs Racquet Club,” I say with a broad sweep of my hand. As I do, I notice that his eyes trace down my body—to my old Van Halen T-shirt that’s been cut into a tank top and Lululemon black leggings that were an amazing thrift store score.

“Wow, is this the official club tour?” he says with a chuckle. It’s warm and inviting—the kind of laugh that nudges at the corners of your mouth to join in. “I was hoping you’d show me around.”

“Yeah, of course!” I’m supposed to be handling the front desk, but it isn’t every day that Freddie Alwin just strolls in off the street. I’d scanned his social media after the party at Starlight, and having him see how special this place is—and sharing that with his gajillions of followers—could be a massive help. And besides, he isn’t the only one who can crank the charm up to a ten. I give him a wide grin and bound around the desk. “You’re going to love this place. It’s special.”

“I can’t imagine why,” he says suggestively, studying me through hooded eyes. Then he has the audacity to wink at me, the gesture so outrageously forward that my cheeks feel like someone’s lit a match directly on them.

“Well,” I reply, fighting to keep my voice steady as I sidestep him. “Shall we?”

Freddie moves through the club like he’s walking onto Centre Court at Wimbledon. No wonder he’s been under Niko’s skin for years. They both exude unbridled confidence, but they carry themselves completely differently. Niko broods, whereas Freddie seems to float above it all.

I usher him out to where Deb and Maureen are finishing up a game with some friends and wave them over.

“Freddie Alwin!” Deb calls out, her voice slicing through the air. They met briefly at the cocktail party, and I assume there’s no way he remembers her. But Freddie shocks me by firing up that power plant of a grin and strolling right over to her, planting a kiss on her cheek. It’s a move that would seem over-the-top from anyone else, but this guy pulls it off easily.

“Deb, darling,” Freddie purrs in that British accent of his as he clasps her hand, a move so smooth you’d think they were old dance partners. The whole thing is borderline cartoonish—like he’s imitating what he thinks Americans want British men to be. But at the same time, he’s so attractive that it feels impossible not to swoon. “I take it you’re the fiercest competitor here?”

“Flattery will get you everywhere,” she chuckles, but judging from her beaming face, it’s working. “This is my wife, Maureen.”

“Lovely to meet you,” Freddie says, grabbing Maureen’s hand with a flourish.

Maureen’s silver hair bobs as she nods appreciatively at Freddie. “I read about your championship win earlier this year,” she says, her tone suggesting she knows every statistic since the inception of the sport.

“Ah well, it was a tough match. I was lucky to pull it off.” Freddie’s aw-shucks smile is disarming, like he’s just a guy who happens to be good at pickleball and not one of the top-seeded players in the country.

Just as I think Freddie’s charm offensive has reached its peak, Niko strides through the reception area doors and out toward court 1, his mirrored sunglasses catching a glint of sunlight so that he almost appears to have actual stars in his eyes. His head turns and fixates directly on Freddie, and there’s an electric crackle in the air—a storm brewing on the horizon even though the sky above us is perfectly clear, a robin’s-egg blue.

“Alwin,” Niko greets him with a thin line of a smile, tennis racquet in hand.

“Karras,” Freddie responds, glancing down with an amused look on his face. “Leaving us so soon? I thought we’d convinced you to join our cult.”

“Just for the tournament and exhibition,” Niko replies, his tone light but edged with steel. His eyes dart over to me briefly before landing right back on Freddie. “Besides, I’m not sure there’s room for both of us on the pickleball circuit. If I played, I might just have to beat you all the time.”

“Well,” Freddie says, his smile never breaking, “that depends on if your pickleball game is anything like your tennis game was when you quit.”

I analyze the corners of Niko’s eyes, trying to pick up any hints of meaning behind this odd back-and-forth, but there’s nothing there but his usual steady gaze.

“So, Bex.” Freddie turns to me, face still totally at ease. “Sounds like you might need a new partner sometime soon. You should give me a call. I’d love to apply for the job.”

“Thanks for the offer,” I say, suddenly feeling a deep sense of irritation at the idiotic, straight-male peacocking taking place in front of me. “Should we continue the tour?”

But Niko’s eyes are locked on Freddie, unflinching, and there’s a flicker of amusement dancing there. “You could probably beat him, Bex.”

“Well, that would make one of you,” Freddie shoots back, matching Niko’s cool composure with the ease of someone who’s faced down worse banter.

“I could beat both of you, easily,” I snap at them, and Deb lets out a slow whistle next to me.

“Isn’t that the truth,” Niko says, flashing me a grin that’s all mischief and no malice.

“I believe it,” Freddie agrees, drawing out the word as he claps a hand on Niko’s shoulder, a subtle reminder that he’s not backing down. “Lucky for us, you’ll have a chance to do just that soon.”

“See you at the Paddle Battle.” Niko dismisses both of us with a sneer as I steer Freddie away from our circle.

“The two of you have some history, huh,” I say once we’re out of earshot.

“Ah, it’s all water under the bridge, really,” Freddie says, giving me that easy smile. “Eventually he’ll get over it.”

I don’t pry more about what happened between the two of them, but if there’s one thing I suspect about Niko, it’s that he never gets over anything, especially when it has to do with his tennis career.

Thirty minutes later, I’m back in the reception area, sending Freddie off with one of my newly printed BIG DINK ENERGY shirts, when Niko walks in, throwing me a look that’s part You okay? and part Is this guy for real?

I brush him off with a roll of my eyes. Whatever beef he has with Freddie has nothing to do with me.

“I love it,” Freddie says, holding the lime-green shirt up to his chest. “It’s going all over my social media.”

“I appreciate that,” I say. “I need all the help I can get raising awareness about this place.”

“Consider it done,” he says kindly.

“Maybe we could also chat sometime?” I ask. “I’d love to pick your brain about how I could fix the club up, enhance it for members.”

“Of course,” he replies. “Anytime. Or maybe even next week? I’m traveling after the Paddle Battle.”

“Great!” I can’t hide it—I’m thrilled. “I’ll shoot you a message.”

Freddie throws up a hand to Niko. “Karras,” he says, before heading out through the front door.

Niko waves back and then turns to me with a sour look on his face the second it swings closed behind him.

“Please don’t fall for his bullshit,” Niko says brusquely, and it feels vaguely like a critique of sorts.

“I get that he’s a lot, but he seems utterly harmless.” I narrow my eyes into a sharp glare, conveying my annoyance at his words. That bubbly feeling I’d had earlier has gone flat. “And he has a huge following online. He’s going to post about the club across his social media. That could be huge for me.”

“Yeah, I’m sure he just came over here out of the goodness of his heart.” Niko crosses his arms in front of his chest, a gesture that only irks me more.

I ignore him and make my way around to the computer, flicking it on with a sigh.

“Okay, fine,” I say, not letting it go. “Let’s say he did come over here for some devious reason. What would that be?”

Niko pauses, running his hands up his biceps as he thinks. Then he shrugs. “I don’t know.”

“You know what?” I stack my elbows on the counter and lean toward him. “I think you’re jealous. You can’t stand that your former rival is now an actual pickleball star who wants to help me out.”

Niko scoffs at this. “Bex, I seriously do not care about that.”

“Then what is it?” I press. I can tell there’s more to it, but I can’t figure out what.

Niko’s normally confident face flickers with something that looks vaguely like self-doubt. “He knows we’re dating, and he still came here and flirted with you, in front of me,” he says finally.

“We aren’t actually dating, though,” I retort, accentuating every syllable. Except that ever since last night, I’ve been wondering if maybe we are. The once-clear boundaries of our plan have blurred, and I’m not sure I want to go back to what they were before.

Niko flinches, shooting me a look that I assume is meant to remind me that someone outside might hear us.

“He doesn’t know that, though,” he says finally, his voice low. “Doesn’t that prove what kind of person he is?”

“So you’re jealous that a hot pickleball star might be interested in me, your fake girlfriend,” I say, drumming my fingers on the counter.

“I don’t know, Bex. Maybe I am!” Niko sounds more agitated than I’ve ever heard him, and he throws up his hands, pacing back and forth in the small space.

“Well, this isn’t all about you, remember?” I say this calmly, trying to act like everything between us is business as usual. But my thoughts are still back in Niko’s bedroom, remembering the feel of his cheek, warm against my inner thigh, his lips all over me. “I agreed to do this to help the club, not be in the middle of some pissing contest with you and some old rival.”

“Well, we’re in this mess because you told Angela we were dating,” he says, and the words crush me. He sounds so peeved that it’s enough to make me think last night was a fluke, a brief moment of delusion.

“No, we’re in this mess because you lied and said I was your partner,” I clarify with a tight smile, trying not to let any of the hurt I’m feeling inside become visible.

“Well, I didn’t want the girlfriend part,” he snaps, and then regret washes over his face. “I’m sorry. That wasn’t…” Niko trails off, a pained look on his face.

“I guess this is the first real fight of our fake relationship,” I say, my voice clipped and cool even as his words sting me all over. “You should probably go.”

He winces. “Yeah, okay. You’re right.”

“I really am sorry,” he says, and then walks out without another look back. I sink back into the chair, exhausted by whatever the hell that just was.

Twenty minutes later, my phone pings with a new text message.

I’d like to take my fake girlfriend on a real date it says, and I can’t help it—I instantly smile. The buzz is back.

I wait a couple of minutes, making him sweat a little, and then type back: She’d be into that.

Tomorrow night? he replies after a moment, and I send him a thumbs-up, trying to keep it casual. But I spend the rest of my shift tidying up the office and humming to myself, that sparkling, thrilling feeling reemerging, whirring inside me for the rest of the night.