Page 94 of Pickled
“Gideon—” she interrupted.
“Just listen. My buddy Liam plays for the New York Thunder, and his stepsister, Everleigh, runs a charity that gives grants to kids from low-income families for sports, mostly hockey, but they make exceptions.” I paused, letting that sink in. “Olive’s getting ten thousand dollars.”
Her head snapped up. “What?”
“Equipment, coaching, tournament fees, whatever she needs, the foundation will cover it for one year. You’ll have to reapply every year if you want to continue. And your medical bills? The club’s insurance covers tournament injuries. You won’t owe a penny.”
She blinked. “You did this.”
“I didn’t do anything. I just made some calls.”
“Why?” The question came out barely above a whisper.
“Because I care about you. Both of you. More than I should after just a month.” I moved closer. “Because watching you hurt makes me hurt, and I couldn’t do nothing. Piper, if you’ll have me, I want to be in your life. We can be so much more than pickleball partners, and you know it.”
Tears filled her eyes. Not the bitter kind that she’d shed at the hospital; these seemed like a mixture of relief and disbelief. “Gideon, I don’t know what I’d do without you. Of course I want you in my life, in our life.” She kissed me and wasn’t the only one with tears in their eyes.
When she pulled back, I wiped hers away with my thumb and cupped her face. “The foundation thing. It’s real?”
“Real as it gets. Everleigh King’s husband, Gunnar Lockwood, actually received the grants when he was growing up. That family is a walking soap opera.”
Piper smiled. “It sounds like it.” She sat on her sofa.
I took a seat next to her and reached for her hand. I wasn’t done with the good news.“David Harrison called me too. He wants to talk to you about the job at the club when you’re feeling better.”
She was quiet for a long moment, then nodded slowly. “Seriously? Even with this?” She held up her cast.
“He’s seen broken bones before. Yours was a clean break and should heal better than new.” I pulled her to her feet, careful of her cast.
She melted against me, her good hand fisting in my shirt. My body didn’t respect the injury; the moment her body pressed against mine, I was instantly hard.
“Gideon.” She looked into my eyes. “My wrist might be broken, but the rest of me works just fine.” Her fingertips traced the waistband of my shorts. “We had a deal. Business until the tournament.”
“Right. That deal.” I groaned as the fingers of her good hand wrapped around my cock. “What about it?”
She grinned. “Tournament’s over.”
“Lady, I need a bit more clarification than that.” She was backing toward her bedroom. I couldn’t help but follow—she did have me completely in her grip—and we shuffled to the foot of her bed. “Gideon. Bailey. Take off those shorts and fuck me. Deal’s off.”
I lifted her hand and kissed her cast. I found something that mattered more than any goal or contract. Deep down, I knew this thing with Piper was going to be a long game. And now, I had the skills to win it, one perfect play at a time. Starting now.
EPILOGUE
Epilogue– Piper
One Year Later
The sharp pock of pickleballs hitting paddles that annoyed so many had become my favorite Saturday morning sound. We waited on the clubhouse patio, watching as Gideon finished his weekly game with half the Barracudas roster, sweat glistening on his forearms as he executed a perfect cross-court winner.
Being team captain suited him. He’d convinced his players that the hand-eye coordination developed from pickleball would translate to better puck handling, and now their Saturday morning “optional” training had become the hottest ticket at the club.
“Ten-zero-one!” Owens called out, serving to Jameson, who was partnered with Morgan. Even the rookie had finally caved to peer pressure.
“I still can’t believe professional hockey players voluntarily play pickleball.” Goldie slid into the wicker chair beside me, her ringcatching the Florida sun and casting prisms across our white tablecloth.
A waitress, a cute girl with a french braid, appeared with fresh mimosas and a Shirley Temple for Olive. The crystal glasses sweated with the humidity. Around us, the usual Saturday crowd of country club members nursed their drinks and picked at eggs Benedict while pretending not to stare at the hockey players.
“They all secretly love it.” I took a sip of my lemon water, watching Gideon high-five Owens after their victory. “How’s the dissertation coming?” Goldie was working on her PhD.
