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I GIVE MYSELF twenty-four hours to think it through. Texts and calls pop up all day on my phone—Loretta, Deb, even Ed gives me a call—but I don’t answer. The only person I do reply to is Angela.

Twice.

My first email, sent immediately after Niko left, read, I have no comment.

But then, a few minutes later, I sent another.

Actually, I do have a comment. I hope people can forgive me for acting foolishly and understand that everything I did was out of love for the Sunset Springs Racquet Club, my family’s business and livelihood. And for the record: Niko Karras is an excellent pickleball partner and fake boyfriend.

She responded with a simple Noted, thank you, and that’s all I hear from her before the piece publishes. When the clock on my phone switches from 9:59 to 10:00, I feel a sick, miserable relief. At least now everyone knows the truth.

Niko’s name never appears in my texts, and I try to tell myself I have no right to be disappointed. I asked him to leave, told him to go back to Miami and chase that final dream of his.

But I can’t help it. I’m annoyed that he’s respecting my wishes because his is the name I want to see the most.

I don’t read any of the texts or listen to the voicemails that accumulate. I want to make sure I am going into this decision with a clear head, without any other influences around. And so I spend hours cleaning with care, power-washing the courts, wiping down the bathrooms like they’re made of precious stones, scrubbing every counter and shelf. This place may never sparkle on the surface, but to me, it shines.

When I’m done, I pour a bowl of cereal for dinner and then crawl into bed, telling myself I’ll sleep on the decision for one more night. But the hours pass with hardly any rest, and by 7:00 the following morning, I know it is now or never.

I drag myself out of bed and slowly lumber into the kitchen, craving coffee. When I go to grab the milk out of the fridge, I come face-to-face with my calendar, the same one I’d marked up with Niko that night after our kiss. That giant X I scrawled across May 20 stares back at me, a reminder of what today is.

Twenty minutes down the freeway, hordes of people are about to descend on Starlight for the Paddle Battle. Freddie will flaunt his skills for the crowd, money will flow, and Wilson’s stupid juice bar will crank out a thousand protein smoothies. And any mention of the Sunset Springs Racquet Club and Bex Martin will be made with horrified pity or as part of a punchline.

Wilson will know how to run this place. Sure, he’ll do away with mom’s ancient potted plants, some of which are older than me, and the tacky glass block wall the previous owners installed in the eighties. The towels will be fluffier, the daily rates inflated. But he’ll keep the place going, in some form. It is the best I can hope for.

My coffee tastes like nothing. It’s as if my taste buds have gone numb along with the rest of my body. I make my way downstairs, and from my place behind the front desk, I see the Paddle Battle flyer still hanging on the wall, taunting me like a mean kid on the playground. I do my best to ignore it and fire up the computer. A lump immediately blooms in my throat as I open up my inbox, and I wait for the predictable deluge as I scroll back to find Wilson’s old email that I’ve left sitting there, unanswered, for weeks. But my eyes stay dry. Maybe I really have run out of tears.

I scan the old message and find the PDF attached at the bottom. I expect some sort of lengthy document, hundreds of pages of tiny print, and I’m surprised to discover it’s short. I guess I’ve never seen a contract to sell a business before outside of the movies, and Wilson, I realize, is no big-screen villain. He’s just a businessman trying to make a deal.

I scan the numbered stipulations—I’d need to go over these again later with more focus on detail with my lawyer—and seek the one thing I’m looking for, the number that could change my life. There it is, seven digits long, and it’s such an absurd amount of money that I let out a high-pitched laugh. It is an astronomical sum and more than what I assumed the property would be worth after an assessment. He’d gone high to prove a point but to also make it worth my while and to not make the negotiations difficult, I realize. With an offer this massive, there was no need to push back or to go through the formality of inspections. It was an easy way out, for both of us. I’d be an idiot not to sign it.

At the bottom, I see the line for my signature, my name printed above it. Next to it are two spots for the buyers, which at first strikes me as odd until I remember the message that had accompanied the offer. I have a new investor on board who’s hungry to start a pickleball empire, he’d written in his email, and brings cash equity and experience to the table.

That person’s name stares back at me on the document, directly below Wilson’s.

Frederick James Alwin.

“That fuck!” I yell out loud, slamming my hands onto the desk. He isn’t just Wilson’s star client; he’s his business partner. The last month replayed in my head in an entirely new light, like I was a detective who had finally stumbled upon the motive for a crime. Wilson and Freddie had been teaming up to try to push me into a corner from all sides. The friendly surprise visits, the eagerness to tour the club, the exhibition match, the vague, chipper banter over drinks the other night. This whole time the two of them had been playing to win while I’d never even realized I was in a game against them—until now. And there’s no way in hell I’m going to lose.