Chapter 4 James

James watched Liana throughout the pickleball class, her jaw set determinedly even as she clearly struggled with some of the exercises, especially anything that involved jogging or jumping. He made sure to give her mild but honest praise throughout the class as she did something well, as he did for all of his students. He certainly wasn't focusing on her because of how beautiful she looked. Oh no.

He was known around Pine Heights Country Club for his jokes and positive reinforcement throughout his classes. His own tennis coaches had always used tough love, which James thought might be necessary when you were trying to train the next Rafael Nadal, but not when people were playing pickleball as a hobby for fun or to stay in shape.

He also knew he had gained a measure of notoriety around the club for his looks. The older women often flirted with him during classes, and while he'd never cross any lines of professionalism, he didn't mind some lighthearted banter. He carefully avoided any such banter with Liana, though he wasn't entirely sure why.

While he was mildly curious why she'd had surgery, James knew better than to ask. She'd tell him if she wanted to — probably never, James thought, as there was no reason for them to become close. They'd be seeing each other for one hour per week; that was all. If she even decided to come back after the first class.

Unless… unless pickleball ended up having the same significance for Liana that it had for him. James remembered how, after his career ended and he'd spent months feeling sorry for himself, his uncle had dragged him to the local park in South Miami. James had assumed his uncle was trying to get him to play tennis, and he was going to remind Uncle Jack politely that he could probably never play tennis again. But then, James saw that the tennis courts had recently been converted into what looked like smaller courts, where people were playing with what appeared to be wiffle balls and ping pong paddles.

"You told me you couldn't play tennis anymore because you couldn't serve," Uncle Jack said. Jack was something of a fitness guru, even in his fifties, and always kept up on the latest fitness trends. He'd previously brought James to a hot yoga class and a spin class. James had always enjoyed exercising with Jack, even though he hadn't yet been convinced to stick with any of the workouts. He never found any workout that gave him close to the feelings that tennis did.

"You said you can't do a tennis serve," Jack continued, referencing James' shoulder that just wouldn't work right, even after the surgery he'd undergone five months earlier. "But you also said you can still hit a normal forehand and backhand. So… voila! A sport where you hit every ball underhanded, even the serves."

"Is this padel?" James knew vaguely of the newest tennis variations that were becoming all the craze.

"Pickleball," Jack responded.

"Even better: a sport named after a hot dog condiment. A penis-shaped food. A word to make people giggle."

For once, Jack didn't respond to James' attempt at a joke. "Humor me," Jack said. "Two hours. That's all I ask. One hour today, and one in three days. I think you'll like it. And if you don't?" he shrugged. "There's always that Pilates class I've been dying to take you to."

As it turned out, James had had more fun in the pickleball class than he could remember having in a long time. So much fun, in fact, that he began playing three times a week, then four. So much fun that he joined a pro pickleball circuit. And when the Pine Heights Country Club had submitted to the pandemic craze and converted two of its tennis courts into pickleball courts, James immediately applied to be the new instructor.

James knew he'd probably only gotten the job because his father was on the board of the PHCC — a fancy title for a public nine-hole golf course, pool, and tennis court area that aspired to be as elite as its name, despite allowing the public to use its facilities. James' father, Peter, an architect and the epitome of old Miami money, oversaw the renovations of the club in 2018 and the construction of an events venue to add to the PHCC's offerings.

The events venue usually also hosted Peter Alonso's annual charity gala — until this year, when the main event was to take place outdoors, in the PHCC pickleball area, which was James' idea. Rich people loved to play rich-people sports at charity events, but golf had a somewhat exclusionary history, and James wanted women and people of color to feel welcome (as long as they could afford the entry price tag of $250, as his father constantly reminded him. "We're raising money to give to charity, not taking in charity cases," Peter had said, to James' disgust).

While not anyone could play golf well enough to join a charity golf event, James reasoned, it didn't require lessons for most people to pick up a pickleball paddle. James hoped that the change from a black-tie event to a casual round-robin pickleball tournament would increase the gala's popularity and raise more money for the event's beneficiary, a local homeless shelter. There would also be a wheelchair version of the game to allow an even wider swath of people to participate.

Pickleball was an accessible sport, he thought, as evidenced by the people who attended his classes, mostly seniors during the week, and then on the weekends, a variety of people of all ages and all walks of life.

James hoped that pickleball would be accessible to Liana, too, and that it would help her find the same kind of solace post-surgery that the sport had offered James. He might be a nepo baby, but James put his all into his classes at the PHCC, and he liked to think he'd made an impact on those he taught.

Maybe he could do for Liana what his uncle had done for him. Maybe all she needed was for someone to show her that moving her body was possible again, and even fun.

I can think of a lot more fun ways for Liana to move her body, James' traitorous mind commented. James tried his best to quash thoughts of Liana's beauty for the rest of the class.

"What's up?" Liana asked as they were cleaning up post-class. "You looked like you were deep in thought for the last half of class."

His cheeks reddened, hoping he hadn't made a fool of himself. He had high standards for himself and couldn't stand the thought that he'd been less than his best while teaching. "I, um," he started, scratching his neck uncomfortably. "Do you think you'll come back next week?"

Liana stared at him for a moment, as if sensing that there was more he wanted to ask. "Yes," she said finally. "I think I will. You're a good teacher, James. I saw how you motivated everyone in the class, and how you made each participant feel special. I think Ana and Milena are half in love with you."

His heart beat faster at the praise. And then he blurted out, before he could stop himself, "Do you want to grab a bite to eat with me? I mean, I'm done with my classes for the day, and I was going to grab an early dinner. We could walk into downtown Heights. There are a bunch of good places there… casual places… if you want to join." Stupid, stupid. If you want to join? Really, James?

Something indecipherable flashed in Liana's eyes, and he thought he saw a tinge of sadness. "I'm really sorry, but I can't."

No explanation, no addition of, "I can't today, but maybe another day." Did she have a boyfriend? Of course she does, James thought. Or she, like all of the other alumni of their stupid fucking elite high school, probably thought a local public park pickleball instructor was beneath her. Hell, he couldn't blame her. He thought he was beneath her, too.

"No worries," James said. "Well, I hope this won't keep you from coming back to class. You were really good, especially for your first time playing. I hope you come back. I promise, I won't ask you out again. No hard feelings."

Why did Liana suddenly look so sad? "James," she said softly, brushing his fingertips with her own, mirroring his action from before class when she'd told him about her surgery. "I had a great time in class. See you next week." And then she walked away.