Pickleballers

Chapter Thirty-Three

Thirty-Three

Elated with the ecstasy of victory, she and Ethan fell together. “We did it!” she said. “I can’t believe it—”

Ethan jerked from her grip as the throng of spectators jostled them apart. Hands reached out to pat her on the back, to squeeze her arm. From out of nowhere, Boring Dave, Knee-Brace Joe, and 26 Cent appeared and swept Ethan forward. He was swallowed by a mass of well-wishers. It was a crazy, noisy moment, but Meg held completely still. Eyes taking it all in, she captured a mental picture of the scene. The sun pushed through the last of the gray and washed across the courts. Already the damp spots were disappearing, while the smell of recent rain freshened the air. Players and spectators alike pressed down onto the courts to join in the excitement.

“Pardon me. Excuse me, folks.” Carl edged his way toward the platform beside the courts. “Let me get through here so I can see you all.” Meg noticed the flash of a white envelope clutched in his fingers. The results!

Ethan was no longer anywhere in sight, but she could make out the back of Annie’s head near the podium. She began to inch her way through the crowd, trying to take advantage of Carl’s wake.

“It’s her,” a voice whispered, and some of the folks near her turned to see.

“Hey! It’s you.” A sporty teenager in blue braids touched Meg’s elbow. “Congrats.”

At that, several heads swiveled. “Wow. That was something.” “I’ve never seen anything like it.” “Where’d you pick up a shot like that?” A guy with a Dinking Problem T-shirt tapped his paddle to Meg’s, saying, “Maybe some of that picklemagic will rub off on me.”

Jeannie appeared beside her, flanked by her girl goons. The school counselor’s expression twisted with conflict. “Hey.” Jeannie shook Meg’s hand with awkward formality. “Good playin’ out there.”

Meg’s “Thanks” was heartfelt. Jeannie’s congratulations meant all the more to her—knowing how hard they must have been to offer.

The buzz rippled through the group. People parted to let her pass. As she marched, more onlookers tapped paddles with her or gave her a thumbs-up. Meg absorbed her sudden celebrity with happy embarrassment. By the time she made it to the front of the throng, Ethan was still nowhere to be found, nor Annie nor any of the Bainbridge crew. Instead, she stood crunched beside a group from Vancouver, the Washington One.

Carl raised a hand for attention. “What a sport! Looks like so much fun I think I’ll give pickleball a try myself.”

A chant rose from the back of the crowd. “Pick-le-ball. Pick-le-ball.”

“Pick-le-ball. Pick-le-ball,” Meg joined in, carried away with the energy of the throng.

Carl lifted a hand for silence. “That being said,” he drawled, “a tournament is a tournament. There are winners and there are…well, there’re no losers here. You’re all winners today.”

The group roared their approval.

He lifted the envelope to the sky. “But there are people who actually won this thing. So let’s get ’er done.” With a theatrical flourish, he raised the flap and extracted a slip of paper.

An expectant hush blanketed the crowd in anticipation of the announcement. By Marilyn’s calculations, Bainbridge needed three points for the win. Meg’s match delivered, but only by two. And despite the thrill she felt in beating Vance, she fervently wished her efforts were enough to pull in a win for the sports charities.

Meg sensed the heat of someone’s gaze and turned her head. Across the crowd, she spotted Ethan: his kind, golden brown eyes framed by impossibly thick lashes. His smile captured her and erased the crowd around them. It was the sort of stare that went in deep, a smile meant for only her. She felt their connection in several parts of her body at once.

“The winner of the Picklesmash Tournament and the recipient of this here generous check is”—Carl squinted at the small card between his fingers—“the Lakeview Pickleball Club of Washington.”

While cheers rang in her ears, Ethan smiled at her and shrugged. She returned his sweet gaze, lifting her shoulders in a matching gesture. Never mind the title. Meg was a winner.

“Hold up. Hold up,” Carl called. A slender woman in red-framed glasses was pushing her way toward the microphone. She hopped onto the small stage and shared her phone’s screen with Carl.

“Will you look at that?” He took the phone from her hand. “Our anonymous patron says that we had a very close contest, and that they would like to…” Carl paused to read the passage to himself before announcing to the crowd, “The sponsor would like to award a commensurate amount to youth sports charities in honor of the runner-up team from Bainbridge Island.”

A whoop exploded around them. Meg, connected by an invisible thread to Ethan, felt her spirit soar with the pride of accomplishment and the satisfaction of knowing she had given it her all. Everything escaped her mind except their victory and the elation it brought her. She came, she pickled, she conquered.

Players congratulated one another and joined in the happy spirit of pickleball camaraderie, all rivalries forgotten. Cheers and hugs erupted around her until, little by little, the crowd began to break up. Her head swiveled, trying to catch sight of her Bainbridge crew, but instead, Meg heard a familiar brash voice.

“édith! Please. Wait!” Vance pled.

Meg turned to find her ex at the edge of the throng, stomping after his rain-drenched girlfriend. As she absconded toward the parking lot, her electrified hair gave her the appearance of a woman possessed with supernatural rage. Vance chased after her. “édith! I said stop.”

At the sound of his booming voice, the departing fans turned toward the spectacle.

“You”—édith spun on him, lit with fury—“are not a nice person,” she seethed. “You only care about winning your silly pickleball. I will not play pickleball with you again. Jamais. We are finis ! When I get home, I am crushing your balls.” She stood nose to nose with him and raged, “From now on, you can pay your own rent. You can buy your own car. And I am certainement not paying for your Scrotox.”

A laugh escaped through Meg’s nose. It felt as satisfying as permitting herself a sneeze she had been holding inside for months.

While the remaining picklers and spectators pressed toward the exits, Meg scanned the area again for Annie and Ethan, hoping to share her excitement. But there were too many tall people around her. So, she wandered toward the parking lot guessing she might bump into them. Her brain felt so overfull she couldn’t even remember where she’d parked her car.

Clicking the key remote, Meg listened for the answering chirp of the blue hatchback. She was completing her second circuit when she heard “Meg!”

Instantly, she recognized the good-looking player in white from the pro showcase. “You’re Tyler Demming!” she said, flattered that he had called her by name. She grinned and could think of nothing more to add until an idea came to her. “I played with you once. At Lakeview. We won.”

“Is that so?” he said, nodding.

“And we had a lot of fun.”

He grinned. “Now, that’s what I’m talkin’ about. Fun is the point, right? Hang on. I wanna grab something from my car. Do you have a minute?”

She followed a few steps behind to his coupe and she fidgeted while he rummaged in his trunk. At last, he came up with a plastic bag and a slim black marker. He reached into the bag.

“Ta-da!” With a showman’s fanfare, he pulled out a plywood pickleball paddle, the kind that came in pairs in a beginner’s kit. Except this one was spray-painted gold.

“Meg…What’s your last name, Meg?”

“Bloomberg?”

“Meg Bloomberg. Executer of the elusive Pickledrop, I bequeath to you the Golden Picklepaddle.” He passed it to her with the gravity of bestowing knighthood. “Congratulations.”

She marveled at the paddle. A smattering of scribbled signatures, including Tyler Demming’s, covered the surface. “So, I sign it?”

“Of course. You earned it.”

“And when I see someone else make the Golden Pickledrop, I give this to them?”

“ If you see someone make the Golden Pickledrop. Ever again.”

“Do you think I should play with it? Once in a while?”

Tyler shrugged, his long hair loose now and skimming his shoulders. “It’s yours, Meg Bloomberg. Use it as a cutting board if you want,” he said, and ducked into his car.

She would never desecrate the Golden Picklepaddle. It was like receiving Excalibur. Like King Arthur would ever have considered using his famous sword as a cutting board! It was not only illogical, but also impractical. She clutched the paddle to her chest, swelling with pride, and returned to scanning the lot for her car.

In the next row over, Rooster leaned against her blue hatchback.

“Been waiting for you. Did you lose your car?”

“No comment.”

He squinted at the plywood paddle. “What’s that you’re haulin’ around?”

Meg held out the paddle for Rooster to see. Despite her attempt at modesty, her huge grin gave her away. She tried to sound casual. “It’s the Golden Picklepaddle. Tyler Demming gave it to me.”

“Tyler Demming,” he said with reverence. Rooster touched a finger to the edge of the paddle and jumped like he’d received an electric shock. “Yowch. Good for you. I knew you could do it.”

Bathed in Rooster’s praise, Meg stood there beaming.

“Hey. Give me your phone. Go stand over there and let me get a selfie of you with that thing.”

Her lips parted to repeat that a selfie could be taken only by oneself, but Rooster cut her off. “I’m just joshing with you. Come on. Hold that thing up.”

He snapped it, and the two of them peered at the screen to see the result. “Now, that’s true beauty.”

“Aw, Rooster.”

“I didn’t even notice that rainbow in the background till I saw it in the photo.”

She turned to see a hazy prism in the distance and punched him gently. “Thanks a lot.”

“Now, don’t you dare delete that, darlin’.” He pulled her into a bear hug. “That one’s a keeper.”