Page 69 of Pickled
“Girls, be nice.” The other blonde shook her head. “We all know what it’s like.” She turned to me and was the only one in the group who looked me in the eye. “Don’t let a man get you down.”
She was the only one who seemed genuine. Suddenly, smiles spread across all the women’s faces, and approaching footsteps put an end to the mean girls scene.
The steps belonged to Gideon. He stopped beside me. “Ladies, I apologize for the dramatic practice session. It’s pickleball. Sometimes things get heated.”
The fit of giggles that broke out amongst the Desperate Housewives of Azalea Bay made my blood boil.
“Oh, don’t worry about it. We’re playing tomorrow morning. You should join us. It will be much more… civilized,” mean blonde said.
Gideon glanced at me, then back at the four women of the pickle-apolypse. “You know what?” he said. “I could use some partners who don’t qualify for old age pension. social security.”
Giggles. Lots of them. I was done. I walked away as they made their plans.
I stood in the parking lot for a long time after they left, my hands still shaking with anger and something that felt a little bit like heartbreak. For forty-five minutes on that court, despite everything between us, Gideon and I had been magic. Now, he was going to play with those vapid women.
And now, because neither of us could swallow our pride long enough to have an actual conversation, I was back to square one. No partner, no tournament, no camp for Olive.
“I hate you, Gideon,” I whispered.
23
GIDEON
The Azalea Bayclubhouse smelled like fresh coffee and bacon. Classical piano drifted from the lobby speakers, mixing with the distant sound of pickleballs and early morning chatter. The azaleas lining the walkway rustled in the humid breeze, their pink blooms already wilting in the Florida heat.
All night, I tossed and turned as Piper’s words ran through my mind. As I walked to the pickleball courts, the thoughts started looping again.
Another entitled hockey player who thinks the world revolves around him.
The worst part? She was right.
“Morning, Mr. Bailey!” The cart kid, Tyler (check name), waved as he loaded up bags for the early golfers. “You playing pickleball again today?”
“You betcha,” I called back.
My phone buzzed.
Owens: Team meeting at your place. 10 AM. Bringing food.
Before I could respond, another text: Not optional, Grumpster. See you at 10.
I glanced at my watch. Just enough time to get my ass kicked by some country club women before my teammates showed up.
The courts buzzed with activity. The sun was climbing higher, and the humidity was building. I could already feel my shirt sticking to my back.
The four women from yesterday were waiting for me like they’d just hopped off a jet from a Paris fashion show. Expensive perfume mixed with sunscreen hung in the air around them.
“Gideon!” the blonde one purred as I approached. “We’re absolutely thrilled you could join us.”
“Thanks for including me. My apologies, ladies, I’m recovering from a concussion. You’ll have to remind me of your names.” They had told me their names when I agreed to the match, but I’d forgotten them the second I walked away.
The blonde’s smile faltered, but she recovered quickly. “I’m Chelsea.” She pressed her hand to her cleavage, then pointed to the brunette. “That’s Izzy, the ginger is Kensie, and little miss long legs is Sloane.”
Izzy positioned herself next to me during warm-up stretches, close enough that I caught a whiff of her floral perfume. “We’re so excited to get to play with you.”
The redhead, Kensie, flanked my other side. “These courts get so crowded with beginners. It’s refreshing to play with someone who knows the rules.”
The fourth woman, Sloane, hung back slightly. “Nice to meet you, Gideon. I’ve heard great things about how quickly you’ve picked up the game.”
