Page 29 of Sealing the Deal

GRAYSON

The thwack of plastic on paddle ricochets off the walls of the indoor court. I draw in a breath that smells of rubber and industrial cleaning products, glad I let Donny drag my ass out of the hotel on a Sunday morning to play pickleball. My thoughts are still stuck on yesterday’s Stormhawks win, and on my screw-up, but I’m happy to throw myself into the game. No protests. No placards. No angry Flic or memes of my untimely demise.

The ball sails toward me, and I reposition my feet for an easy return, angling it just out of Donny’s reach. He lunges and sends it spinning toward my backhand. But I misjudge the bounce and nearly overstep the line.

“You need to call your chauffeur in to sub for you?” Donny goads from across the net. “Maybe have him hold your paddle while you supervise?”

I laugh, adjusting my grip. “I was going easy on you.”

He raises a brow. “Since when do you go easy on anything?”

Instead of answering, I drive the next shot straight at his midsection. The ball smacks against Donny’s paddle with a sharp crack as he leaps sideways to avoid taking it to the ribs.

He cries out, stumbling back a step then laughs. “OK, OK, I was wrong. Go easy on me, please. I forgot to pack my body armor.”

“It’s not armor you need, it’s reflexes,” I shoot back.

He snorts. “Careful. I’m still up two points.”

The rally resets. My serve. I roll my shoulders before stepping back toward the serving line, bouncing the ball lightly against my paddle as I plant my feet. Donny moves to the center of the court, paddle gripped in his hands. The fluorescent lights hum overhead. My eyes drag to my bag on the benches. Is that my phone?

I make the serve, tilting my head to listen for the familiar hum of an incoming call, my mind on Helena and if she’s spoken to her contact in the planning commissioner’s office. You’d think the city would welcome more green spaces.

Before I know what’s happening, Donny returns the ball, sending it flying low past my legs before I’ve had a chance to move.

“My serve,” Donny calls out.

I hide a groan. If I don’t win this game, I’ll never hear the end of it.

Donny’s serve skims low over the net. I lunge forward and we trade shots in a fast volley, the only sound the squeak of sneakers on polished floor and our own hard breathing.

Then I fake left and drive the ball down the center. Donny dives, barely clipping it back. It pops high, and I step in and smash it into the corner, putting me one point behind.

“Break, man,” Donny gasps, bending over with his hands on his knees. “I need water.”

We stride to the bench, grabbing our bottles. I tip mine back and gulp, cool water sliding down my throat. Donny is red-faced, chest rising and falling fast.

“How come I feel like I’m about to collapse and you’ve barely broken a sweat?” he pants.

I chuckle. “You should join me for an early morning gym session.”

“Hard pass.” Donny drops down beside me, wiping his face on a towel. “Did you see this morning’s meme?” he asks.

I make a face. “No.”

He chuckles. “It’s you on the phone while a comet-sized football flies through the air and squashes you into the ground.”

“Accurate.”

Donny doesn’t laugh this time.

“I fucked up,” I admit.

“You’re allowed to take a call,” Donny says evenly.

I think I preferred Flic’s anger to understanding I don’t deserve. “Not in the last few minutes of a game,” I reply. “The optics were bad. Instead of calming things down, I made them worse.” I shake my head. “I’m sorry.”

He nudges my shoulder with his own. “Yeah. Not great, man. But you’re not the villain people want you to be. They’re just looking for proof. Don’t hand it to them on a silver platter.”