Page 47 of Betting on the Best Friend
“Oh, Afton. Got it.”
“Alton. Anyway, he wants to go out again, and I asked him how he felt about a double date with one of my coworkers.” She frowns. “He seemed like he thought it was weird, but he’s going along with it.”
“How did this end up with pickleball?” Neither of us plays. I don’t have time, and Ruby isn’t that kind of athlete.
“He suggested it. Said it’s fun for pairs. Do you think Sydney would be okay with it? Or I can see if one of the other girls can come. But not Ava.”
Not Ava because that would mean Ava plus Joey. Competitiveness among the Ramos siblings sometimes involves urgent care trips. “Don’t want Alton getting the right impression of you, huh?”
“I would definitely at some point try to beat Joey with my pickleball hitter,” Ruby says.
“Paddle,” I offer.
“More like smack him upside the head a few times.”
I laugh. “No, I mean a pickleball hitter is a paddle.”
“Alton doesn’t need to watch me take my brother out with a paddle, a pickleball, or my bare hands,” she says. “That’s third date territory.”
“I’ll ask Sydney,” I say.
“Thank youuuuu,” she croons. “Break’s over. Gotta go.”
If you ever need to share an intense sensory experience with someone, may I recommend pickleball?
Heat. Grunting. Groaning. Loud profanity. Whoops. Hollers. Sweat. Jumping. Profanity. Diving. Heavy breathing. Emotional intensity. Elevated heartrate. Profanity.
And that’s the golden oldie couples playing on the court next to ours. The tiny silver-haired woman, even shorter than Ruby, has the mouth of a sailor.
“Ahab would love her,” Ruby murmurs to me.
We exchange an amused glance before Alton draws everyone’s attention by bouncing a whiffle ball against his paddle a few times. He’s a good-looking man, and he’s been super pleasant so far, unfortunately. I can’t stand this dude.
He catches the ball and holds it up. “Okay, none of you have played pickleball before?” When we all shake our heads, his forehead wrinkles. “Know anything about it?”
“Invented on Bainbridge Island by some dads in the 1960s,” Ruby says.
“Because one of them had a dog named Pickle that was obsessed with the ball,” I add.
Sydney and Alton look at us. Ruby and I look at each other and laugh. Of course the librarians did the research.
“I meant know anything that will help you play it,” Alton says. “Any of you ever play tennis?” Sydney raises her hand. “Or table tennis?” Ruby and I raise our hands too.
“Not a bad place to start,” Alton says. “As far as rules and keeping score, think about pickleball like you’re standing on a giant ping-pong table. As far as actually scoring, you don’t need to hit as hard as you think, be ready to move around, and . . . good luck?”
“That tone does not inspire confidence, my dude,” Ruby says.
Alton smiles at her. “We won’t need luck because we have me.”
It bugs me. It’s bro-y.
Ruby catches my eyes and widens hers, and I realize I’m frowning. I smooth that out, then she flicks a glance at Sydney, a reminder that I’m supposed to be Captain PDA. I’ve warned Sydney about Ruby’s opinion, and she was amused but agreed I should step it up.
I drape an arm over her shoulders and flip my paddle, catching it and smiling at Alton. “Game on, friends.”
“Let’s do some practice points first, and when everyone is comfortable, we’ll start keeping score,” he says.
Alton is right; Ruby doesn’t need luck because Alton has them covered. He gives us easy serves and returns shots so Sydney and I can get the hang of things. We keep misjudging force and speed, but we’re starting to catch on as we do more practice points.
