Pickleballers

Chapter Six

Six

Slowing her blue hatchback, Meg peered through the pinhead dots of rain on the windshield and wound her way to the courts at the back of the school building. Her eyes searched the construction area at the other end of the cordoned-off soccer fields, looking-not-looking for the figure of the man causing so much strife to the Lakeview players. A shadow passed overhead and, looking up, she spotted a hawk swooping away from the commotion. Her heart twinged. Seattle was blessed with public parks and walking paths, thick with emerald pines. Creeks jumped with salmon, and deer and bobcats made their way through backyard trails. While one version of Meg wanted to confront Ethan and let him know where he and his crew could shove their wetland restoration project, another Meg hoped to see the plan come to fruition. And a third Meg wished she could rip his shirt off and pinch him to make sure he was real. But today, she capitulated to version number four, Passive Avoidance Meg, and parked her car beside the courts, as far from the construction zone as possible.

When she opened the car door, a light mist sprinkled onto her skin and she looked to the sky. Like most Seattleites, she read rain clouds as easily as billboards. These were no threat: a high, thin layer of grayish white enveloped the sky. Small potatoes.

Now that June had tipped into July, Seattle’s summer was firmly established. Nothing, certainly not a weak mist, could keep these players from their passion, especially now that the league was prepping for a tournament. Through the chain link, Meg spotted four courts already going. On the remaining two courts, Jeannie and her groupies attacked the wet surface with industrial brooms and squeegees. The uneven slope of the land made them susceptible to heavy puddling.

When she sloshed through the gate, most of the players shouted out friendly hellos and encouragement—except for Jeannie, who lived by a different set of civilized norms. Now that Meg and Rooster were Lakeview’s hope for a tournament win, the community was invested in Meg’s improvement. She would feel insulted by the circumstantial shift in her picklestatus, but she was too busy feeling flattered.

“Oh! Good,” Annie said to Meg and Rooster. “Let’s see if we can find a fourth. We can play together while I wait for Michael Edmonds.”

Annie’s cheery attitude surrounding all things pickleball had intensified lately, and with reason. By popular consensus, Lakeview’s players had decided that Annie would partner with none other than her crush, Michael Edmonds. For the upcoming tournament, their advanced partnership would require countless hours of practice time. If Annie’s enthusiasm for the tournament had percolated before, now it exploded in seismic geysers.

Rooster’s gaze swept the courts, seeking the lanky player known for shouting his own name in victory. “Where is Michael Edmonds?”

“I don’t see him,” Meg said.

Annie frowned. Her head swiveled to and fro as she hoped Michael might emerge from beneath the back stairwell to the school. “He mentioned we would practice together.”

“Now?”

“We didn’t set a time,” she hedged. “I just figured…” Shrugging off her disappointment, Annie added, “He’s so private, you know.”

Rooster and Meg shared an empathetic glance. Michael Edmonds was a man of mystery. The only tidbit people knew about him was that he used to play over on Bainbridge Island, Lakeview’s rival league, and he took a lot of ribbing for it. The other thing most everyone knew was that Annie was smitten with him. Everyone except Michael Edmonds, apparently.

“Such a private person,” Annie repeated. “Michael. Edmonds,” she said reverently, and let her focus wander to the parking lot, still searching. Meg’s heart tightened for her friend. She knew Annie had switched around her work schedule to make way for more weekday practices.

Jeannie, who was stuck waiting for a court behind Meg’s and Rooster’s paddles, rolled her eyes as two more players sporting identical fluorescent T-shirts strode through the chain-link gate at the already crowded courts. “Great,” she complained. “Now we got Team Peter and Portia.” Leave it to Jeannie to find fault in two of the nicest people ever to play pickleball.

But then Meg’s pulse tripped. Behind the neon-dressed figures of Peter and Portia, Ethan Fine, sporting his hard hat and hard body, marched toward the parking lot. For exactly a week since the portable toilet fiasco, surreptitiously, she had watched him direct the crew at the worksite. And more than once, she’d spotted him loitering near the pickleball fence. Even now as he passed, Ethan slowed long enough that she was sure he was scanning the courts for her. From beneath her lashes, she studied him. On his shoulder, he hauled a metal pipe. The image added a page to Meg’s long-nurtured Men in Hard Hats calendar fantasy. In fact, that might be the centerfold.

She pirouetted back toward the nets before he could spot her.

Near the gate, in all their hot pink and green glory, Team Peter and Portia smiled their matching smiles. “A beautiful day for pickleball,” Portia said.

“Always a good day when it’s a pickleball day. Especially with an upcoming tournament!” Peter concurred.

Meg risked a glance back toward the construction site. Alas, Ethan had disappeared among the construction crew, indiscernible from the candidates for February, March, and April.

Jeannie squinted accusatorily between Peter and Portia. “Wait just a second. How did you two get spots to play at Picklesmash?”

“We’re refereeing!” Peter clarified. “And we need some practice. Is it okay if we ref your game?”

Meg shrugged. “Sure. If I can get four people together. We only have three players so far.”

Portia pointed to a stray paddle that lay on the asphalt behind Annie’s, Rooster’s, and Meg’s. “Well, how about that person? Whose paddle is that?”

“That’s Dave’s,” Annie said.

“Buff Dave or Regular Dave? Or Finance Guy Dave. Oh. Or Reflux Dave.”

“No,” Annie hedged. “The other one.”

“Dress Shirt Dave?”

“Nope.” Annie shook her head. “Dave,” she emphasized, with portent.

Ah. Boring Dave. There was nothing distinctive about him, and all the other Dave names had been taken. Nobody actually called him Boring Dave, but everybody thought it. He stood on the sidelines, spreading cream cheese on a plain bagel.

“Dave,” Annie called. “Wanna partner with me? Michael’s not here yet, so it’s you and me against Rooster and Meg.”

Dave assessed the situation. Partnering with Annie was a sure win, especially against a pair of beginners like Rooster and Meg, but it meant he would have to play nice against the newbies. Pickling beginners 11–0 was a sportsmanship no-no. He would have to allow them a couple of points, at least. Dave shrugged. “I guess.”

It wasn’t a whopping vote of confidence, but it was a match.

A gust blew a whorl of leaves across the courts as the players moved into position. At Laverne’s snack table, paper cups fell like bowling pins.

“Zero–zero,” Meg called, and hit a deep, powerful serve. A great serve. One of her best ever.

“Wait.” Peter held a hand up. “I’m sorry to have to stop you, Meg, but your foot crossed the baseline before your paddle connected with the ball. That’s an automatic foul. Side out. Right, honey?” he asked.

Portia nodded sympathetically, but the point was lost. As play resumed, the referees continued to interrupt for rule clarifications, including but not limited to illegal serves, volleying while inside the kitchen without letting the ball bounce first, inappropriate language, and delay of game, and once to call a time out because Boring Dave’s shoe was untied.

Meg practiced patience. Generally, only the bigger tournaments used certified referees. But local tournaments often had volunteer refs for the final matchups, and there were plenty of pickleballers, like Peter and Portia, who just loved to referee. Not only did they get to attend the tournaments for free, but they scored prime viewing spots for the exciting higher-level games.

However, for Meg, here on their community court, the referee calls added an element of distraction. Between all the stopping and starting, the unpredictable gusts of wind, and Annie’s killer backhand, Meg and Rooster found themselves facing game point and looking down the barrel of a bleak eight-point gap. 10–2.

Just then, the growl of a muffler drew Meg’s attention. Beyond the tall fencing, a yellow sports car sped into the parking lot and screeched to a stop. The noise was loud enough that play ceased, and necks strained to see who had disrupted the calm rhythm of the pickleballing.

The car door opened. A pair of long, toned legs exited the car first, translucent white socks up to the thighs. A gap of bronzed skin remained tantalizingly visible below the plaid schoolgirl skirt. Meg glanced across the net at Boring Dave, who stared unabashedly.

“2–10. Second serve,” Rooster called, and served to Annie’s mesmerized partner. The ball bounced and whizzed past Dave. He did not move a muscle. Like every man on the courts and two of the women, he was transfixed by the voluptuous vision moseying through the gate.

Wiggling her paddle in greeting, Jeannie sported an uncharacteristic smile. “You made it!” With a downright chipper bounce to her step, Jeannie linked arms with the newcomer and ushered her onto the courts. “Hey, everybody. I want you to meet the newest member of our league. édith LeBeouf.”

“ Bonjour , pickleball people. I am very glad to be here!”

Jeannie handed édith a paddle. “Here. Try this one. It’s mine, but you can borrow it. It’s got great action.” Meg narrowed her eyes, highly suspicious of Jeannie’s generosity. With a lift of her chin, Jeannie explained, “I poached édith from the Shoreline league. Wait’ll you see her play.”

“Oh, non ,” édith said, brushing away the compliment. “I am learning every day. It is all for fun.” Meg could not begin to imagine what Jeannie was up to, but it couldn’t be good.

By now, a crowd had gathered to investigate the newcomer. The predators of the pickleball savanna began circling the buxom brunette as if she were a weak antelope with a leg injury.

“Put your paddle down, édith. Come play,” one of the hyenas offered.

“Oh. I must not cut the line…” she said, placing her paddle at the end.

The three alphas of the pack moved fastest, snatching up their paddles from their spots and launching them onto édith’s pile. Following the food chain pecking order, the players yanked their paddles from waiting piles and shifted them into the vacated matches.

édith’s lips parted with surprise. “Actually, I am waiting. For my boyfriend.”

And on cue, all heads swiveled to the sound of the silver Mercedes convertible that zoomed around the construction site and swerved into the parking spot beside édith’s car. The driver tucked his artfully stubbled chin and emerged from his seat, paddle in hand.

No. No. Not possible.

Meg squinted. That swagger! That casual carelessness that said, I think I’ll write my farewell on the back of this Home Depot receipt .

The player strutted toward the courts, paddle in hand. There was no mistaking that air of confident machismo.

Vance!