Chapter Nineteen

Logan strides through the parking lot after school Monday and comes around to the passenger side of my car. It’s quite the reversal to be driving someone else around, but my parents were so thrilled when they heard we were playing with Grandma that they readily agreed to carpool and let me take the second car.

“Are you ready for this?” I ask, and try to ignore how heat floods my veins as he sits down.

Logan grins. “You mean, am I ready to have my life changed forever?”

“You betcha.” I put the car in reverse. I’m not sure how this afternoon is going to go, but if the way my body is jangling from his mere presence is any indication, I’ll be tripping over my own feet and crashing into the net.

“Did you Google this weird game to figure out what we’re in for?”

I shake my head. “I didn’t have time. I figure it can’t be too intense if Grandma does it. I’m sure we can pick it up.”

“I have pretty good hand-eye coordination, so I’m giving her a run for her money.” He winks. “I can’t let her off tooeasy.”

A short while later, we pull into the parking lot of the sports complex where the indoor pickleball courts are located. Grandma is standing by the entrance next to a man who must be ten years her senior. He’s wearing a Marines Veteran baseball cap and a tight white shirt with a gold chain. Logan and I quickly glance at each other in concern. This really does not seem like a good idea, but they certainly look serious. Grandma is even wearing workout clothes—lavender joggers, a long-sleeved black shirt, and tennis shoes—which is wild when I’m used to seeing her in vibrant dress clothes and pearls. I traded out my usual sweaters and skirts for a pair of embroidered jeans and a long-sleeved shirt covered with constellations, but that’s as close as I’ve gotten to workout clothes. Logan’s wearing the same things he always does. That’s a relief because he’s distracting enough when he’s wearing jeans and a long-sleeve shirt. I couldn’t keep my eyes to myself if he was wearing tight athletic gear.

“You made it!” she calls. “See, I knew you kids wouldn’t blow us off. You’re too good to do that.” She turns to the man. “You shouldn’t have second-guessed them, Jim.”

“I was just worried we wouldn’t be able to play today. It’s the highlight of my week.”

I inwardly groan. I have to play a weird game and watch an old man flirt with my grandma? No thank you.

They sign us in and walk us back to the courts. I was nervous about hanging out with Logan after yesterday, but this is the opposite of awkward—it’s easy and laid-back. This is exactly the kind of thing I should be doing with him, where there’s no tension and we can just have fun. Plus, I like seeing this playful side of him.

“Do you need to get changed?” she asks.

“We’ll be fine.”

“Suit yourself.” She hands us two large paddles that look like oversized Ping-Pong paddles. At first glance, our court appears to be a shrunken tennis court with lines drawn a little differently. The realization makes me even less worried about the whole thing. I’m not a tennis pro by any means, but I’ve played before, so I feel pretty comfortable. Logan also looks unbothered.

“Are you kids ready to get your butts handed to you?” Grandma asks.

Logan hoots with laughter. “I see the trash talk starts immediately. I wouldn’t be too confident, though. We’ve got this.” Logan and I high-five in early celebration. Grandma serves and my first impression is that you need to be fast with pickleball. In tennis, the court is big enough that you can often get a moment of lag time to assess where the ball is going to land and then ready your swing for it, but with this small court, there’s hardly time to think. Logan manages to return the serve, but then Jim’s volleying it at me and I completely miss it. I groan and run to get the ball.

“That’s okay, we’re just warming up,” Logan calls behindme.

Ugh, I don’t want to make a fool of myself. Logan serves this time and Grandma easily returns it. I hit it back, but then Jim returns it hard enough that Logan has to lunge to get it. He misses and Grandma and Jim high-five in delight.

“This is already more fun than playing Elaine and Harvey,” Grandma tells him. “Those two were hard.”

I put a hand on my hip. “You haven’t seen anything yet.”

“We haven’t seen anything at all so far,” Jim replies.

“Elderly people are vicious,” Logan whispers.

I smirk and train my eyes across the net before I get distracted by him and miss another point. We do a bit better with the next few serves, even managing to score a few points, but Grandma and Jim are way better at this than I was imagining. Grandma doesn’t even need to move much and she’s still able to hit most of the balls that come her way. Jim is quick to get the others. This time, when Jim serves, Logan lunges forward immediately and hits the ball into Grandma’s court. She’s not ready and lets the ball bounce twice.

“Woot!” Logan yells, and does a butt-shaking victory dance. Of course he has to be adorable even when he’s being a dork. “That’s what I’m talking about!”

“No way, that doesn’t count!” Grandma yells. “You were in the kitchen.”

“In the what?” Logan says.

“You can’t be in the kitchen like that. You have to wait for the ball to bounce.”

My eyebrows furrow in confusion. Why is she talking about kitchens in the middle of our game?

“Grandma? We’re playing pickleball. There’s no kitchen here.”

Grandma and Jim burst out laughing. They’re so loud that the basketball game happening a few courts over pauses to see what’s so funny. What the hell is going on?

“Oh, that’s a good one!” Jim wipes at his eyes. “Have you kids looked up nothing about this game?”

I slowly shake my head, fighting annoyance that they’re laughing so hard at me.

“You’re standing in the kitchen right now.” He points to the section of the court closest to the net and painted a different color. “Now back up so I can get another point.”

I do as he says, having no idea what’s going on.

Fifteen minutes later, Logan is at my side with a wild expression. The score is nine to eight, and we’re still losing to them. We only play to eleven points, so it’s now or never.

“Quinn, we’ve got to beat them. No more Miss Nice Granddaughter. You need to smash that ball at your grandma as hard as you can.”

“Logan! She’s seventy-five—I’m not going to do that!”

Although…I’m tempted.

“We have to! It’s not like they’re taking it easy on us. They’re clearly pickleball prodigies or something!”

“I’m pretty sure prodigies are supposed to be young.” I bite my lip. His hair is tousled from running his hands through it and his cheeks are flushed. He leans farther forward until our faces are only inches apart and my heart speeds at his nearness.

“Call it out when you’re going for the ball so there’s no confusion,” he whispers. “And try to hit toward Jim’s left side. He seems weaker there. I bet he’s got a trick hip or something.”

A giggle escapes my lips. “What have we gotten ourselvesinto?”

“War, Quinn. This is pickleball war. And I’m not losing.”

I salute him. “Yes, sir.”

We actually get a point on the next round—tying us for the first time at nine points each—but we’re fighting for our lives out here on this tiny court. The volleying back and forth is insane. It’s amazing how Grandma and Jim can keep the ball from hitting the ground without having to move much at all.

“Next point.” Jim returns the ball in an arcing downward motion, and I completely miss it. Why is this game deceptively hard? Or am I just too distracted by my partner to playwell?

“Ten to nine. Nice dink, Jim!” Grandma yells, and gives him a thumbs-up.

He bows.

“What’d you say?” I ask, readying my serve.

“A dink! Jim is great with dinks.”

I turn to Logan. He mouths, What the hell? and we burst out laughing.

“Stop flirting and start serving,” Jim calls.

That sobers me right up. Logan puts up a hand to stop me and comes to my side. “If they get one more point, then they win,” he tells me, like I’m not already fully aware. He takes two fingers and points back and forth between my eyes and his. “We’ve got like sixty-five years on these two. We will win this game. Team Dink!”

“I still don’t know what that is!” I reply as he returns to his side.

“No one does,” he cries, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “It’s gibberish to confuse us!”

I serve the pickleball and Grandma returns the serve easily. Logan lunges for it.

“Dink it!” I cry out randomly, and Logan laughs as the ball connects with his paddle. This may be the weirdest game in the world, but it’s pretty good exercise. My legs are getting sore, I’m sweating in my jeans (which I’m highly regretting wearing), and my heart is working double time—although there’s likely a secondary cause for that.

Grandma returns the ball right down the midline that separates my side of the court from Logan’s. I don’t think; I only lunge for the ball. Unfortunately, Logan does the same thing. We both realize and try to slow our momentum, but it’s too late. The ball goes flying past us and we knock into each other—a tangle of arms and legs and pickleball paddles—and drop like a heavy sack of trash. The air is knocked out of my lungs and Logan lands half on top of me.

We both groan and suck in a breath. “I think I broke a hip,” he whispers, and rolls onto his back.

Grandma calls out to us in concern, and I give her a thumbs-up to show I’m not dead. We’ve officially gotten schooled by elderly pickleball ringers on social security.

“This is humbling,” I whisper back. I turn my head to look over at him and he does the same. Fire races through me. I’d happily be embarrassed by my grandma every day if I could lie like this with Logan.

He leans up on an elbow and his eyes trail up and down my body. “Are you actually hurt?” A wrinkle shows in his forehead.

“Physically, I’m fine. Emotionally…”

“Same.” He gets to his feet and reaches his hand out to me. I take it, loving the way his warm fingers wrap around my palm, and stand up. I land just a little too close to him, but I don’t step away immediately and neither does he.

“You two okay?” Grandma calls, mischief in her voice. “Looks like you’re swaying a bit there, Quinn.”

My cheeks heat even more. I step back from Logan. “Just catching my breath.”

“No need,” Jim says with a hoot. “That was game point. You’re welcome to play with us as often as you’d like, though. I love winning.”

“We might have scared them away,” Grandma says. “We should have taken it easier on them.”

I’m out of breath, I’m sore, and I still don’t know how this game works. But that does nothing to dim the grin on my face. I point at Grandma.

“Don’t speak so fast, old lady. We’re taking you down next time.”

“What your granddaughter said,” Logan replies, and we high-five again. “Happy to be your partner anytime.”

I could get used to this.