Page 63 of Pickled
“Janice Winter? The retired tennis pro?” I asked.
“Well, Chelsea and I played doubles against her and Lindsay Nichols at a charity event. We got pickled, but still.” She laughed. “What are you doing mopping floors? You should be teaching or even playing on the circuit.”
The comment stung, but I forced a smile. “Pickleball doesn’t pay the bills.”
After Izzy left, Lisa pulled me aside. “I take everything back about you being rusty. That was incredible.”
“Thanks.” I grabbed my water bottle, suddenly exhausted.
“How good were you back in the day? Really?”
A new foursome had taken their spots on the court. “Good enough I thought I had a future in it.”
We walked into the clubhouse to grab some water, and that’s when I noticed the bright yellow flyer on the bulletin board. “Annual Azalea Bay Doubles Pickleball Tournament,” it announced in bold letters. “Grand Prize: $25,000.”
I stopped walking. Twenty-five thousand dollars. Half of that was enough for camp.
“Lisa.” My voice came out strangled. “Look at this.”
She followed my gaze to the flyer. “Oh, that. It’s a big deal. They bring in teams from all over Florida. Very competitive.”
“Twenty-five thousand dollars.”
“For first place, yeah. But Piper, these are serious players. People who’ve been playing for years, some of them former tennis pros.”
Former tennis pros. Like me, except I’d quit before I’d had a chance to go pro. I stared at the flyer, my mind racing. I was rusty, sure. I hadn’t touched a racket in years. But muscle memory was a hell of a thing, and pickleball was just tennis with different rules.
“When is it?”
“Three weeks from Saturday. But you’d need a partner, and—”
“I’ll find a partner.”
Lisa looked at me like I’d announced I was taking up the playing the bagpipes. “Piper, I know you’re desperate for the money, but this isn’t some casual club tournament. These people are serious.”
“So am I.” I pulled out my phone and took a picture of the flyer. “I was good at tennis, Lisa. Really good.”
“I know you played in college—”
“I had a full ride. I was ranked in the top fifty junior players in the country.” The words felt strange coming out of my mouth. It sounded like I was bragging, and I was. “I would’ve gone pro if…”
“If what?”
“If I hadn’t gotten pregnant with Olive.” I touched my stomach reflexively, remembering how I’d hidden the pregnancy for months, playing through morning sickness and exhaustion until I couldn’t hide it anymore. “I lost the scholarship, and my parents disowned me.”
Lisa’s expression softened. “Zeesh, Pipes. Why have you never told me this? That’s super traumatic. What a sacrifice.”
“It wasn’t a sacrifice. Olive is the best thing that ever happened to me. But until Olive came along, tennis was my identity, my escape from…” I gestured vaguely to the opulent clubhouse. “From being poor.”
“Look, even if you enter the tournament, you still need a partner. And finding someone good enough to actually win…” Lisa shook her head. “I mean, I’m decent, but we’d totally get pickled in the first round.”
Before I could respond, the sound of male laughter erupted from the bar on the patio. A group of men in golf clothes were ordering drinks, and one of them was huge, with shoulders like a linebacker. I froze but softened when I realized the broad back didn’t belong to Gideon. “Hockey players.” I rolled my eyes.
“Yeah, some of the Barracuda players come here to golf. A few of them play pickleball too.”
My stomach clenched at the mention of Gideon’s team. “Do you work with any of them? As patients, I mean?”
Lisa’s gaze dropped, and then she looked at me with a neutral expression. “You know I can’t discuss my patients, Piper. Confidentiality and all that.”
