Page 41 of Beg Me

“When you serve, the paddle must swing in an upward arc like this,” she says, demonstrating the move. “Well, there are two ways to serve, but let’s cross that river when we get there.”

“Good thing we have paddles,” I say, holding mine in the air.

She glares at me.

“Oh, come on. That was funny,” I say, laughing.

She shakes her head. “Let’s rally for a few minutes so I can see what I’m working with here.”

We get into position, and she sends the ball over the net. I’m not sure what level we’re supposed to be playing at, so I tap it back. She returns it a bit harder, so I drive a shot deep toward the sideline. She reaches for it and sends a screaming forehand down the line.

The speed of the shot catches me off guard, and I hesitate a moment too long. It whizzes by me, bouncing off the ground inches away from the baseline.

She beams. “Not bad. But we need to work on your court awareness.”

“My court awareness? Please,” I say, giving her a look. “I thought we were rallying so you could see my skills, not that we were trying to score a point. I could’ve gotten a point in on you on my first return.”

“You wish.”

I know better than to laugh because that would really piss her off. But for fuck’s sake, this woman is adorable. I’ve never seen someone take something like pickleball so seriously.

“Your biggest flaw is that you don’t think,” she says. “You react. Maybe that works in rugby, but it doesn’t work in pickleball.”

“I beg to differ,” I say, meeting her at the net. “The only reason you scored just now is because I didn’t react. I hesitated.”

She drops her shoulders. “Jory, I get that you’re a pro athlete and you think you can walk onto the court and know what you’re doing. And I appreciate that. I love the confidence. But I need you to listen to me. Let me help you.”

“Do you know what you can’t rely on in rugby?” I ask, letting my wrists dangle across the net. “Playing your own game. It’s a team sport for a reason. You have to trust your teammate and give them space to do what they do best, or you don’t have a team. You have a bunch of guys running around trying to outdo each other.”

She walks backward without responding. “Let’s take it from the top.”

I drop serve the ball, sending it careening her way with about half of my power. She drives the return, forcing me to respond faster than I anticipate. Instead of trying to match her pace, I feather a soft third-shot drop into the kitchen. Markie races forward, getting her paddle beneath the ball at the last minute, grunting as she sends it behind me on my left.

Fuck.

I chase it down, hitting a crossbody shot that surprises even me. She’s waiting for it, dropping a perfect dink into the opposite corner and winning the rally.

“Nice one,” I say, jogging toward her.

She watches me closely. “You’ve played before.” It’s an accusation more than a statement. “Be honest.”

“Yeah, I’ve played. I never said that I hadn’t.” I pick up the ball. “Some of the guys had a very unprofessional pickleball league for a couple of summers. Why? Do my skills impress you?”

“What is it with men always assuming their skills impress?”

I toss her the ball. “Because most men have delusions of grandeur.”

“Yourself included?” she asks, lifting a brow.

“It would be pretty egotistical to assume I’m impressive. I’m more than happy to give you a demonstration and let you be the judge.”

She pivots on her heel, hiding a grin, and walks back to the baseline.

“This time let’s just keep the ball in play,” she says. “No showboating. We’re working on consistency, not speed.”

“You got it.”

We spend the next half an hour rallying until one of us loses the ball. Then we start again. Over and over, we trade shots with the aim of keeping it in bounds. She pauses the game every now and then, giving me a pointer or a not-so-subtle suggestion on paddle control or shot selection. I have to say, her commentary is spot-on.