Pickleballers

Chapter One

One

Plink.

“Not enjoying this.”

Plink. “This does not feel cathartic.” Plink. “At all.”

Plink…Plink…Plink.

“I was fine at home, you know,” Meg said, swiping at a blonde flyaway that had escaped her hair tie.

“You were absolutely not fine. You were feeding a necktie into the garbage disposal,” Annie countered, even as she kept her eyes pegged on the bounce. “Come on. Give this a chance. You’ve been playing pickleball for all of thirty minutes.”

Plink. Meg knocked it over the net. Plink. Annie tapped. Plink. Meg popped it up. Annie leapt, fielding the shot from three feet over her head. She flicked the ball back into range.

“Ooh! Good try,” Annie cheered in her cartoon-bunny voice. Also known as her regular voice. “Just…try to keep it a little lower. And watch that you don’t step into the kitchen.”

“The kitchen?” Meg Bloomberg eyed the court, half expecting a microwave to jump out in front of her. Nothing made sense anymore. Not her husband Vance’s unexplained departure. And not her best friend’s insistence on dragging her here to play pickleball.

“The kitchen. That’s the line you’re stepping on.” Annie pointed to the ground. “But you’re doing great.” As if calculating how much was too much information, she hesitated before adding, “But you might want to relax your arm a little. And loosen up your wrist. Scoop. Yeah. Like that. But…not quite. Don’t forget to reset every…”

“Argh!” Meg groaned, throwing her hands up in despair. “Why are you torturing me with this stupid game? The only thing I want to do is crawl into a cave and hibernate until summer.”

“You’re upset. Understandably. Also, bears only hibernate until springtime. Just…FYI,” Annie hastened to clarify, blinking beneath the bangs of her short hair. She adjusted the seam of her fitted tennis skirt. “Maybe we should start slower. Some short drops. How ’bout that?”

“Or maybe,” Meg suggested, “I need to hit it harder. Just whack the fucker. Really, really hard. Pretend it’s Vance’s head…”

“All right. Take it easy. Deep breaths.” Annie mimed. “Pickleball is about control. Let’s keep practicing our close shots at the net. Okay?”

Growling low in her throat, Meg stonewalled. She narrowed her lids and pouted, a manipulation she had been successfully practicing on Annie Yoon for the better part of twelve years—since their houseshare days back at the University of Washington.

Annie gave it a good five seconds before caving. “Fine. Go to the baseline. I’ll serve it to you, and you can hit some long, hard shots. Will that make Meg happy?”

“Yippee,” Meg deadpanned.

Annie laughed. “I promise you. You are gonna fall in love with pickleball.” But even as she was saying it, her voice dropped off when Meg’s expression crumpled at the word “love.” Despite Annie’s efforts to distract Meg, this morning’s shock was still too raw.

It was hard to believe that only a few hours ago, her life had been completely upended. If Annie hadn’t shown up…She shuddered. But of course, when Annie had heard about Vance’s note, she had rushed to Meg’s apartment, still in her sensible shoes and scrubs. She’d snatched the note from Meg’s shaky fingers and read it to herself. Disbelieving, she’d read it again. Out loud.

Sorry, babe. I just can’t do this anymore. V.

“Can’t do this anymore?” Annie had spat, her friend-protecting hackles rising. She smoothed the wrinkled scrap of paper, then flipped it over. “A Home Depot receipt!” Annie’s nostrils flared, and she brandished the receipt as if holding up evidence for a jury. “For a caulking gun? Are you shitting me?” This last part of her tirade was lost in a mumble when Annie’s inner swear-censor from her job at Seattle Children’s Hospital kicked in.

Nevertheless, the intensity of Annie’s indignation felt validating. So, although she was loath to leave her apartment with eyes puffy and red from crying, when Meg’s bestie suggested they go to the courts to hit out her frustrations with a game that she had never played before, Meg agreed.

It had seemed like a reasonable idea, at the time.

But now, standing on a frigid Seattle pickleball court in January, Meg shivered, gobsmacked by this unexpected twist of fortune. She took a steadying breath. How had this happened? Her husband of two years had up and walked out. And for the life of her, she hadn’t a clue what he’d needed to caulk.

The injustice! A seething fury built in her, from the soles of her neon high-tops to the tips of her wavy golden ponytail. Tugging a pickleball from her pocket, Meg rolled it between her fingers.

She reared back with her paddle arm. Letting out a guttural grunt, she whacked the plastic ball. It soared through the air, trailing the smoke of a thousand fires, and slammed into the net.

When she yanked another ball from her pocket, she paused to consider the fluorescent green surface, the Wiffle holes dotting the plastic—before letting it feel the full force of her fury. With a war cry, she punched the ball with the paddle and admired the trajectory as it flew over the net and hit the chain-link fence with a satisfying ring.

Wrenching the last ball from her shorts pocket, Meg grimaced. This one was stuck, trapped by her fingers inside the tight pocket. “Rrrg,” she groaned, twisting it free. She held the ball to the sky and a fresh flash of anger filled her when she noticed her wedding ring glinting on her finger. With every ounce of strength in her petite frame, she shouted with such force that her throat hurt as she thwacked the ball hard, sending it rocketing over the fence and into the parking lot, where it rolled lazily under somebody’s car.

With the balls gone, Meg crossed her arms over her chest and panted from the exertion.

Annie blinked. She tilted her head. “Feeling better?”

“A little.” Meg opened her mouth. Closed it again. Sighed. It was the truth. She now had several ideas of where Vance could stuff his caulking gun.

Annie Yoon pressed her lips into an encouraging smile. “Meg?”

“Yep.”

“I told you pickleball would be cathartic.”

Meg sniffled, blinked a tear from the corner of her eye, and mustered up a weak smile. Resigned, she stood on the baseline, paddle in hand. “Fine,” Meg said. “Let’s play your damn game.”