“Everyone’s cheesy when they’re in love,” he whispers, mouth dipping into that trademark lazy grin.
He’s so close I can smell the woodsy scent of him, and my insides tingle at his nearness.
“All players have been given a number,” Daniel says. “Attach the number to your chest. You’ve been divided into brackets based on your age, and my lovely wife is handing out those brackets now. You’ll rotate through playing doubles with other singles. At the end of the event, you’ll fill out a card with the numbers of any other players you’d like to stay in touch with. We’ll go through the cards, and if there’s a match, we’ll make sure to get you connected.”
I groan. “This is my worst nightmare. It’s like a public, real-life version of swiping left.”
“Wow,” Miles says. “Is your glass always half empty?”
“Only when my dignity is on the line,” I say as Lennon hands us cards with what looks like a tournament bracket breakdown, complete with court assignments and pairings.
“Just find your number and the number of your partner and get to playing! After the first round, we’ll rotate on through.” Lennon squeezes my arm, clearly oblivious to the fact that this is my actual worst nightmare.
“Number forty-three?” A perky redhead walks up to Miles.
“That’s me,” he says.
“I think you’re my partner.” She giggles. She’s wearing an actual pickleball outfit, like Lennon, and I imagine she’s done this before.
He glances down at the card Lennon gave him. “I think you’re right.” He smiles at her, and the woman smiles back.
Ugh. He’s probably going to have eighteen phone numbers after this.
I look at my own card as the two of them leave and a very large, very muscular guy with dark hair and a beard walks up to me. “Number forty-two.” He nods at my chest. “Are you ready to crush the competition?” He lets out a sound that’s somewhere between a grunt and a yell, then starts off in the direction of court number five.
I glare over at Lennon, who responds with an enthusiastic thumbs-up.
“Forty-two!” the Hulk shouts from court number five. “You coming?”
I raise a hand in a wave and start walking toward him. “Yep!”
The Hulk frowns. “Where’s your paddle?”
“Oh, right.” I jog over to Lennon as my doubles partner lets out a loud groan.
“They put me with a newbie again,” he says—and not quietly.
My skin is on fire. What am I doing here?
When she sees me, Lennon’s eyes brighten. “Oh! You need a paddle!”
“Or you could take my place,” I say weakly. “I’m not going to be good at this.”
“You’ll be fine,” she says, handing me a bright green paddle. “Just hit the ball over the net! Everyone is just here to have fun, so go have fun!”
Pickleball is not fun.
And do not let Mr. Popular, Miles Westbrook, tell you differently.
Over the course of a couple of hours and not nearly enough water breaks, I played five matches of pickleball. Matches? Rounds? Sets? Whatever they’re called.
My partners were as follows:
Partner one: The Hulk. Judging by his wildly competitive streak, this man has never lost a game in his life. He missed the whole point that this was a singles event and not an actual pickleball tournament. He covered the entire court and threw a tantrum if the ball came my way and I didn’t return it. At one point, he yelled,“Do NOT hit that ball!” Zero out of ten do not recommend. I did not ask for his number.
Partner two: Fred. At least twenty years older than me at the very top end of our age bracket. You might be thinking “sweet old man,” but Fred is a pervert. He smacked my butt with his paddle three different times (and once without) and refused to call me anything but Sweet Cheeks. At the end of the match, he told me he could “rock my world.” Hard pass.
Partner three: Randy. A bit on the younger side. Wore earrings. Invited me to hear his Journey cover band play at a bar in the suburbs. Every time we got a point, he played the air guitar and let out a death-metal-inspired screech that would make dogs cock their heads from side to side. Nope.
