Page 4

“YOU’RE LOOKING AT four thousand, maybe more, depending.”

Travis, the first contractor to come survey the damaged ancient courts, crouches on his knees, studying the faded asphalt with a toothpick dangling from his mouth. He got here just as Ed and Loretta left, and he’s spent the last hour nailing down an estimate for repairing the courts. I try desperately to ignore the dreaded tightening across my shoulders as he walks me through the cost of everything.

“Total?” I ask, leaning over his shoulder. For a split second, I feel na?vely optimistic. Four thousand dollars is shockingly low, and while it would hurt financially, it wouldn’t totally torpedo our already depleted budget.

He lets out a low chuckle and then tilts his straw sun hat up to get a better look at me through his mirrored, knock-off Ray-Bans. When he slides them down his nose, his eyes—both kind and matter-of-fact—tell me everything I need to know: I sound inexperienced at best and delusional at worst. “Per court, I hate to tell you. And that’s if we don’t need to do extra patching on the crack repair. Four thousand is on the low end, really.”

Four thousand dollars, multiplied by eight courts. The number sinks to the bottom of my stomach like a coin dropped into a well, but there’s no luck to be found here. If only I had something I could wish on right now, some magical, moneymaking genie in a bottle that could swoop in and save the day.

“Oh shit,” I mutter, the panic evident in my voice. Just a few weeks ago, I finally finished paying off Mom’s medical and funeral bills, and that took two years. The club’s membership is down, and we are barely breaking even. I’ve struggled with the learning curve that comes with taking over a small business, on top of doing it while grieving my mom.

There is no way in hell I can scrape up enough money to cover thirty-two thousand dollars’ worth of repairs.

A memory that has played over in my head for the last couple of years resurfaces. Mom, tucked into the hospital bed we installed in her tiny living room, turning to me and saying, “You could always sell the club. Wilson Hood is interested.”

“Absolutely not,” I said with a teary shudder.

I feel the same today as I did then. Letting go of the club wouldn’t be just letting go of a business; it would be like losing my mom all over again. Not to mention the countless members and players who have come to see the club as a second home. This place is so intrinsically a part of her, of me, of them, that it feels unnatural to even consider it, especially handing it over to Wilson, who owns Starlight Tennis Center, our main competitor.

But now I get why she suggested selling the place. The courts aren’t the only things in need of repair; the bathrooms are outdated, the plumbing finicky, the building structure in need of a serious paint job and earthquake-proofing. The club is close to veering into money pit territory.

Still, there is no way I can let it go. It isn’t fancy, or perfect, but it had been my parents’, and then my mom’s. And now, it’s mine.

Thirty-two thousand dollars.

I’m overcome by a very strong urge to vomit all over Travis’s head.

Somehow I manage to grit my teeth and hold it together. “I still need to get some estimates from a few other companies. And then I’ll let you know!”

This facade of confidence has carried me through the last two years of managing the club on my own. Most of the time, I’d successfully faked it until I made it, but something about this current situation felt different. Scarier.

That evening, alone in front of the computer at the front desk, I feel anything but self-assured. I chew on the tail end of my braid as the sky settles toward sunset and scan the detailed budgets from past years that my mom had meticulously kept in QuickBooks. Coaching clients and keeping members happy comes naturally to me, but juggling the numbers is something I’m still trying—and most often failing—to master.

Even though I was raised in this business, it still seems like I have no clue what I’m doing, and I loathe the feeling. It triggers pangs of shame and inadequacy that first bloomed in me as a little kid. I spent all of my childhood thinking I was simply super disorganized and scatterbrained, until one of my college professors wisely suggested that I be tested for ADHD during my freshman year. Ding-ding-ding!

My diagnosis was clarifying and freeing, and with proper medication and the right tools and systems, I learned to work with my ADHD, not against it. Executive function has always been hard for me, and so now I handle it by being extra on top of things. While most people have one personal calendar, I have two (digital and paper), plus a to-do list on my bedside table and at the front desk, just in case I miss something. I’ve always joked that I am Type A(DHD), but the tag does kind of sum me up perfectly. I pay extra attention to details because it’s so hard for my brain to hold on to them. Not that my ADHD is a hindrance, or something I feel bad about. It’s my superpower, really. I may miss some stuff or have a hard time processing directions, but I’m exhaustingly creative and wildly passionate about the things I love.

All of these traits went into overdrive when Mom got sick, which is a thing I’ve learned happens when you become a caregiver for someone. The skills you once channeled into other parts of your life are redirected and beamed like a spotlight onto the person you’re caring for. This leaves all your other responsibilities lingering in the shadows, collecting dust, until the caregiving is, well, done.

And with Mom gone, I jumped right into running the club just like I did tending to her. I was all action, funneling all my churning, heavy sorrow into taking care of this place. The racquet club wasn’t just where I’d grown up; it was the beating heart of my family. The few memories I have of my dad all involve this place, and the unconditional love of our family is woven tightly into the very soul of the club, just like the strings of a tennis racquet.

I love it here because it’s a part of me that I can’t live without, as vital to my existence as my organs.

But lately, work is all I do.

Take today, for example. I spent the day coaching lessons, which I’ve been doing since two days after my college graduation. In between sessions, I restocked the towels, filled up the water coolers, and checked in with members playing out on the courts, making sure everyone was happy. This had been my routine for years, but taking over Mom’s side of things meant that I spent my nighttime hours handling all the emails, the marketing, and the drafting of our next club newsletter.

And the finances. God, the finances. I desperately need to hire a bookkeeper. “Add it to the list!” I say out loud, to no one. And then, “With what money?”

A swell of despair bubbles up through my chest, engulfing me. It feels like I’ve been playing a constant game of catch-up ever since assuming responsibility for the club, and no matter what I do, I never get ahead. There’s no way the courts are getting repaired anytime soon. We have no money to spare, and the revenue we’d lose during construction would only put us deeper in the hole.

I was so certain that I’d have no problem taking over the reins that I am only now realizing just how in over my head I am.

A tap on the front door startles me out of my panicked daze. “What the hell?” I mutter, blood racing.

Wilson Hood’s face peers at me through the glass, and I press my lips together, trying to hide my annoyance. Being the owner of the ostentatious Starlight Tennis Center, just twenty minutes away, made him our competition, and so I’d always viewed him as a thorn in our club’s side. He’d come to pickleball years after my mom, once he realized what a cash cow it could be. Of course, Wilson didn’t half-ass it; the guy doesn’t half-ass anything. Instead he’d gone full-hog—installing brand-new, cutting-edge courts with a special bouncy surface that supposedly makes game play better. His latest gamble—a members-only spa and café—earned him way more press than I’d expected, and I’m terrible at hiding my irritation and envy when it comes to this man.

Wilson has been expanding his pickleball empire in the last few years and picked up another center closer to San Diego a few months ago. He’s stopped by a bunch since Mom died, to pay his respects, sure, and to “check in” on me. But I’m positive he’s sniffing around this place, trying to see what’s happening now that I’m in charge. If he catches on that we’re in financial trouble, there’s no doubt he’ll try to swoop in and snag the club. My club.

I warm with a heated, carnal urge to protect this place; fierce mama bear energy, like I’m the only person who can save it.

“Well, this is unexpected,” I say, after unlatching the lock on the door.

“Hey there, Bex,” he says, with a scratch of the gray stubble on his face, a wide gold band with diamonds glinting on his middle finger. “Just popping by on my way home after dinner downtown with some friends. I was hoping you’d hang this up for me.”

I hadn’t noticed the flyer in his hands, but now he’s dangling it in my face, close enough that I have to shuffle back a step to read the bright-green lettering.

T HE S TARLIGHT T ENNIS C ENTER P ADDLE B ATTLE— M AY 20

“Starlight’s stepping in as the host of this new tournament next month,” he explains. “Amateurs only, so I thought some of your members might want to enter. We’re sponsored, so the prize money is…” His hands fly up to his head as he flutters his lips to make a sound like an explosion, like he can’t believe the number. “And we’re auctioning off a chance to double up with a big celebrity player for an exhibition match, with a hundred percent of that going to the food bank downtown. Lots of press coming, too. Should be the biggest pickleball tournament in the desert, so far.”

“That’s nice,” I say, scanning the paper. “Mom used to volunteer there. She’d like that.” My voice is forced but polite. Mom would expect me to be respectful of Wilson, someone our family’s known for years. But she’s not here anymore, and the independent streak that runs through me pounds like thunder. I waffle between wanting to honor her wishes and make my own decisions.

“You know, maybe you might want to get in on the tournament, give those old folks a run for their money?” he asks. I prickle as he playfully punches me on the shoulder like I’m still the little kid he knew years ago. “You and your mom used to kick some butt.”

“Oh god, I don’t know. I haven’t played competitively in so long,” I say, as I fiddle with the edge of the flyer. “Not since college, anyway. And I don’t have a partner. Or time.”

“Well, if you want to sign up, do it soon,” he cautions, but it comes across like boasting. “I’ve never had this much interest in a tournament before. People are clamoring for chances to play pickleball competitively. Especially amateurs. It’s going to be huge.”

“I’ll spread the word,” I say, and then slip back around the desk to my spot in front of the computer.

Wilson studies me for a moment, his face switching into something a bit more condescending or, if I’m being generous, parental. “How’s the dink life treating you these days, kid?”

“I mean, I work eighteen-hour days, but otherwise, pretty great,” I say with a laugh, and Wilson chuckles. His skin seems smoother than I remember, and I wonder if he’s gotten some secret cosmetic procedure to help him age backward. He appears shiny and freshly polished, just like all his clubs.

“You know, Bex, your mom and I talked about me stepping in and taking over the club a few years back, before she even got sick. I’m looking to expand, and I’ve been around this block a few times. I know how hard it is to handle a place like this on your own, especially at your age. I could make a good offer, take this all off your hands so you could go live your life.”

“I really appreciate that,” I say with a nod, giving him my most professional face. “But I’m doing great.”

“And the club?” His face is light, but I can see his brows twitch just a little, revealing his skepticism.

“Oh, fantastic,” I lie, my tone so convincing that I almost believe it myself, despite what a bunch of spreadsheets say.

There’s no way I’d ever consider selling, much less to Wilson, whose clubs resemble bloated, ornate McMansions. Just the thought of him putting an organic juice bar in the lobby here makes me shudder. I wouldn’t even be able to afford a cold-pressed beet juice if Wilson ran the club, much less a membership.

Determination settles in my chest, pushing all the worry and anxiety out for now. I’m going to figure this out on my own to prove to myself that I can, truly, handle this. Wilson gives me a dubious look, and I grind my teeth together and flash him the brightest, most assertive smile I’ve ever forced onto my face. “Trust me,” I say, crossing my arms. “I’ve got everything under control here.”

Now I just have to figure out exactly how the hell to do that.