Page 25 of Pickled
For once, I was on Owens’ side. “Yeah, we’re all at least thirty years too young for pickleball.”
Laughter filled the air, along with the incessantpocksound of the ball. “Do yourselves a favor and try something before knocking it.” Riley tapped his ball into the hole for a three.
We all stopped and looked at the quietest member of our foursome. He was finally dishing it out. “What? You actually play pickleball?” Owens missed his putt. “Dammit.” He dropped his putter on the ground.
“Looks like that’s another hundo for Bailey.” Jameson grinned.
“Fucking pickleball.” Owens tapped his ball in for a four.
“I play every week. I dare you assholes to come out and try it. I’ll bet even Mabel and Roger would kick your ass,” Riley said.
“No, thanks.” Owens bent to retrieve his ball and replaced the flag. “I’ll wait until I’ve got my first gray hair before I pick up a pickleball racket.”
Riley crossed his arms. “It’s a paddle. And suit yourself. You’re the one missing out on a fun time and lots of hot chicks.”
Owens pulled a hundred out of his wallet and slapped it into my waiting palm. “You’re full of it, Riles.”
“I’m not. There’s lots of good-looking women who play.”
“Good-looking women named Mabel.” Owens elbowed me. “I’ll tell you what, the day that Bailey picks up a pickleball racket, I will too.”
“That day will never come.” I folded the stack of hundred-dollar bills and put them in my money clip.
“It’s a paaaaddle,” Riley groaned.
The annoying pock sound echoed over the rolling green hills of the course. I was a tennis player at heart, and growing up had to choose between it and hockey. I would never, ever pick up a pickleball… paddle. A real tennis player would never blaspheme with a sport that uses a plastic ball with holes in it, one that’s named after a condiment.
10
PIPER
The morning sunblared through the windshield of my car. Every muscle in my body, including my tired eyes, ached, but in a good way. I fumbled in my purse for my sunglasses, thankful that sleeping with the hockey player next door was a onetime thing.
Could I handle a few more days of orgasm-induced exhaustion? I shook the idea from my head. Being Gideon Bailey’s girlfriend would be every girl’s fantasy. But, as the g-word lodged in my throat, I reminded myself of the devastation that ripped my life apart, thanks to another professional athlete, Olive’s biological father. I couldn’t go through that again, not with my daughter depending on me.
My phone rang as I was in the drive-thru for my second coffee of the day. The Honda was far too old to connect to my phone, so I put the call on speaker. “How was she? I hope the girls didn’t get too feral,” I asked as soon as I accepted the call.
“Nope, I made sure to not feed them after midnight,” Lisa laughed. “The two of them set up a camp in the living roomuntil they got scared and snuck into Ariana’s room. She wasn’t impressed but understands that the girls are little.”
I juggled the hot paper cup from hand to hand while balancing the phone on my thigh and steering the car. “Olive keeps asking when Ariana can babysit her.” Ariana was Lisa’s older, very smart, and mature-beyond-her-years daughter. She was the perfect role model for Olive, so I looked forward to the day they could spend more time together.
Lisa’s laugh filtered through the phone. “She’s finishing her babysitter’s course this fall, but her sports schedule is going to be insane. I’m exhausted thinking about the logistics of it all. I hope you’re ready to become a chauffeur when Olive gets into every sport on the planet.”
So far, the only activity I’d been able to afford was swimming lessons. Living in Florida, it was a nonnegotiable for me. “Now that you mention it, the other day, she did mention figure skating.” I navigated the car back onto the road.
“They all go through the figure skating phase.” She paused. “Hey, Piper. Do you play tennis?”
Silence hung in the air for a few seconds. Lisa and I were close, but I’d never told her about my tennis years. Not because it was a secret but because it felt like a completely different life, one that I had left behind long ago.
She must have sensed my hesitation and continued. “Olive said that she wants to play tennis like her mom. I didn’t know that you played.”
I blew on the coffee and winced as I took a sip. How did Olive know I used to play tennis? I made a mental note to ask her. “I don’t play. At least, I haven’t played in years. I had no ideaOlive was interested in it.” I hoped the chagrin in my voice was undetectable. A mixture of pride and sadness swept through me. Picturing Olive with a racket in her hand and hair in pigtails brought back memories of my own experience at tennis camp as a kid.
“Ariana started with private badminton lessons, which she liked, but I’ve managed to get her into the ABC racket camp. They play everything, and shelovesit.”
“How did you swing that?” It was an excellent program, but I’d heard it had a five-year waiting list.
“Swing it?” Lisa groaned. “It’s too early for cheesy metaphors, Pipes. She was on the waitlist, but the Buckley twins are in Switzerland for the summer, so two spots opened up.”
