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“T ake a walk with me,” Joel said, striding into the pro shop from his office. He approached Endy, a serious look on his face, and they walked out of the pro shop and down the path toward the courts. Joel sat down on the wooden bench overlooking the recently constructed pickleball courts.

A heated match played in front of them, with the typical thwak, thwak, thwak, dink, dinka, thwak as the players hit and dropped the plastic ball. Three dogs were leashed up under a nearby tree, a bowl of water nearby. The tiny white Chihuahua growled and yapped sharply as they went past.

“What’s up?” Endy asked, lowering herself to the bench beside Joel. She couldn’t see his eyes behind his mirrored sunglasses, but his lips were pulled in a frown.

“I just got out of a meeting with Daniel,” said Joel. He placed his arms on his knees and leaned forward. “He told me that the board received a formal complaint that went to the chairman. It’s important enough that they are discussing taking action.”

“Action for what?”

“For closing down pickleball,” he said, drawing a finger across his throat. “Here at Whisper Hills.”

“Joel, that is ridiculous!”

“Is it?” They surveyed the grounds around them.

Golf carts parked haphazardly on the neatly clipped lawn, one with its stereo blasting.

They’d had to raise their voices over the dogs tied nearby when the Chihuahua began yapping again, setting off the others.

Someone had even brought out a portable insulated keg cooler, which sat dripping under the awning.

“We just have to try harder with these guys.” Endy waved her hands toward the pickleball players. “You know, get them to tone it down, clean things up.”

“We’ve already tried that, Endy. It’s gone nowhere. Our efforts fall on deaf ears.”

“But to close it down completely? What will they do with the courts?” But Endy knew the answer to that.

They’d revert them to tennis courts. Because tennis was where the money and prestige were.

The tennis lessons that Joel taught could bring in over $145 per hour, and he was often booked solid throughout the day.

Tennis racquets cost well over $200 each, and a single tennis dress could fetch more than $150.

Even Sloane Stewart’s junior tennis academy already had full funding.

“Check this out,” continued Joel. “Guess who put in the formal complaint.”

Endy’s eyebrows came together, and she shook her head. “I couldn’t begin to guess.”

“I’ll give you a hint,” replied Joel. “We’re sitting on their bench.” He patted the seat next to them.

Endy leaned forward and then turned around to read the plaque mounted on the back.

In Memory of

CLIVE TENNYSON

Husband. Friend. Tennis Champion.

She gasped. “Barbara Tennyson?” She thought back to the time she’d run into Barbara and been dismissed so completely by her, when she’d dubbed Endy the pickleball girl.

Joel slowly blinked and nodded. “She’s the sole complainant. The board is meeting in a month to finalize their decision. And I have to be honest with you, Endy,” said Joel, his face serious. “I don’t actually know what they’ll do about your job at the pro shop if pickleball goes away.”

Endy closed her eyes and hung her head. How could Barbara Tennyson be so angry that she’d want to shut down a whole pickleball program?

And did she really have that much say, that much pull?

Probably. There were other Whisper Hills club members who felt the same way she did and would support her, if needed.

What had Steven Markowitz called them? The tennis purists.

Endy drew a deep breath and bit her lower lip. If the pickleball program at Whisper Hills got shut down and her job got eliminated, Barbara Tennyson would be more than satisfied. She’d get her tennis courts back and be rid of anything having to do with pickleball altogether … including Endy.