Page 76 of Pickled
“Piper—”
“No, listen to me.” I stepped back again, needing distance. “I’m a twenty-three-year-old single mom who cleans houses for a living. You’re a professional athlete who drives cars that cost more than I make in two years. We don’t live in the same world.”
“We could.”
We could?
“You heard me.” He stepped closer, but this time, I didn’t edge away. “Your daughter just taught me more about teamwork and character than thirty years of competitive sports. You raised her right.”
“Gideon—”
“I’ve been thinking about what she said, about doubles partners needing to work together like one person.” He paused, his eyes intense on mine. “Maybe I’m the weak player here. Maybe I need to figure out how to be better.”
He was saying all the right things. I wanted to throw myself at him, but I glanced across the court. Olive and Gabby had clambered to the stands and were taking turns hopping up the bleachers. Even if I wanted to say yes to Gideon, I had to think of one more person.
“If you decide that this is too complicated or too messy or too much work? What happens to Olive then? She already likes you, Gideon. If this goes south, she’s the one who gets hurt.”
“It won’t go south.”
“You can’t promise that.”
“You’re right. I can’t.” He moved even closer, close enough that I had to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. “But I can promise that I’ll try. That I’ll prove you can trust me with both of your hearts.”
The sincerity in his voice almost got me. Almost.
“I need time to think,” I said.
“How much time?”
“I don’t know.”
He nodded slowly, like he’d expected that nonanswer. “For what it’s worth, I understand why you didn’t tell me about Olive right away. Being a parent is the most important thing about you, and you were protecting that.”
“It is the most important thing about me.”
“I know. And I’m not asking you to change that or put it second to anything else.” He reached out like he wanted to touch my face, then let his hand drop. “I’m asking you to let me be part of it.”
“I should go,” I said.
“Piper, wait.”
I turned back, against my better judgment.
“The tournament,” he said. “We’re good together. You know we are.”
“At pickleball.”
“At pickleball,” he agreed. “Maybe we could start there. See how it goes.”
The suggestion was reasonable. A way to spend time together that didn’t involve skinny-dipping and late nights exploring each other’s naked bodies. He was right—we were good together on the court, but how would we stop that synergy from spilling into other areas, like his thousand-thread-count cotton sheets?
“I’ll think about it,” I said.
“That’s all I can ask.”
As I walked away to collect Olive, I could feel his eyes on me. Despite the hurt and the fear, I found myself wondering if it could actually work.
But first, I had to decide if I was brave enough to try.
