All's Fair in Love and Pickleball

by Kate Spencer

Genres: Romantic Comedy; Sports Romance

Synopsis

This witty and effervescent romantic comedy from the author of In a New York Minute serves up a charming grumpy/sunshine love story where a young woman must win a pickleball competition alongside her longtime rival. 

Release date: June 3, 2025

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 368

Sample

Saturday, April 1

I KNOW INSTANTLY that the man rushing into the hospital emergency room ahead of me is an asshole.

Even though he clearly sees me just steps behind him, he does not pause to hold the door. Instead he shoves it open with a grunt, letting it swing shut just as we make direct eye contact. It’s a fraction of a second but long enough to register two swirling dark storm clouds below eyebrows that arch skeptically against his olive skin. He glances down at the bubble I’ve blown between my lips, grimaces for a split second, and then hustles inside as the smudged glass door closes in my face.

I’m not hung up on chivalry or antiquated, sexist gender rules. I’m fully capable of taking care of myself. Hell, I’ve been running the Sunset Springs Racquet Club completely on my own for the last two years, since my mom passed away. I have no problem opening a door for myself.

It’s just the principle of it all. When you’re born with a mom whose life mantra is “How you treat strangers is a direct reflection of who you are as a person,” you learn to pay attention to this stuff. You become acutely aware of who speaks kindly to servers in restaurants and who presses the Open Door button on elevators as people rush toward them, and who does not.

So far, this guy’s scoring a zero on Mom’s scale of “How Not to Be a Jerk,” and he’s only making an already hard day worse. It’s like he somehow knows my car battery just died minutes ago after barely making it to the hospital, and he’s decided to really rub it in.

“Thanks a lot,” I mutter sarcastically under my breath, which is minty-fresh, courtesy of Trident, but short-winded from jogging the entire way from the parking garage. I’ve sped here from Santa Barbara, where I was attempting to do the last thing my mom had written on her “What to Do After I Die” wish list: Sprinkle my ashes somewhere that means a lot to both of us.

Now is not the time to complain about my mom’s lack of specific details when it came to her posthumous requests. The last month of her life had been a dark, miserable blur, and I will be forever honored to carry out these requests. But if I’m being honest—and really, when am I not?—I would have appreciated some details. The last thing I wanted was to get her wishes wrong.

I’d agonized and hyper-fixated on this one and finally landed on Santa Barbara, her home during college and the place she’d met my dad. I was literally about to twist the lid open when a phone call from Deb, the club’s part-time receptionist, interrupted the moment.

“Bex, it’s Deb, calling from the club,” she’d hollered in her thick Long Island accent.

“Deb, I have caller ID. I know it’s you,” I’d replied, trying not to chuckle. Deb is super savvy about social media, but her boomer vibes really come out every time she calls me on the phone.

“Loretta fell on the court playing pickleball,” she said, and my smile dropped. “With one of those snowbirds from Michigan. You know, the guy with the terrible hair plugs?”

“Michael?” I asked, trying to nail down exactly who she was talking about. Sunset Springs is a retirement town; there are a lot of questionable hair plugs.

“I don’t know. Michael, Steve, they’re all the same.” She sounded panicked. “The X-ray shows her wrist is broken in two different places.”

Even as an eternal optimist, it’s hard for me to spin this injury. Deb is Loretta’s best friend, and she said it’s bad, a complicated break. Surgery will be required, followed by months of physical therapy. There is no bright side to be found—except when I hustled off the beach and bumped directly into a police officer cruising along on a Segway, who eyed the plain wooden urn suspiciously.

“You know it’s against the law to scatter ashes on California beaches?” It was a half question, half accusation, and I nodded convincingly.

“Of course,” I lied. Satisfied, he gave me one more skeptical, stern look and then rolled on his merry way.

Once I was inside my car, I hurriedly checked Google on my phone and discovered that Loretta’s injury—and Deb’s phone call—had saved me from incurring a five-hundred-dollar fine and possible jail time. It was the smallest of silver linings, but I’d take it.

The racquet club and its members are my entire world. I’ve always felt this way to some degree; growing up in a family business will do that to you, I think. I worked the front desk long before it was legally permitted, handing out fresh towels and charming members with tales of elementary school shenanigans. I learned to ride my bike on the empty courts and snuck my high school boyfriend in after hours to make out in the upstairs office that is now my apartment.

Still, it feels different today, as the sole owner. The members are the closest thing I have to family, and I always try to be there for them during an injury. But Loretta, who I’ve been teaching for the last four years, has been like a wise, nurturing grandmother figure, especially in the months right after my mom passed away.

I don’t make a habit of playing favorites, but Loretta is undeniably the one I adore the most—not that I’d tell any of my other students that. Anyone who thinks older folks don’t get pissed about trivial stuff has never seen four seventy-year-olds go up against each other in a pickleball match. In my world, the older you are, the fiercer you are—even if your bones and bodies don’t always cooperate.

Just about everyone who frequents the club is sixty or older; hell, the entire town of Sunset Springs is qualified to be in the AARP except for me. I’ve spent just about my entire life there, so I am well versed in the kind of injuries that befall seniors. A broken wrist in your seventies is a massive pain in the ass. And, you know, the arm.

Back inside my beat-up old Prius, I buckled my mom’s urn into the passenger seat and patted the lid affectionately. Grief sure as hell makes you do weird things, and for me, that includes talking to her like she’s still right here, alive and next to me.

“I promise I’ll find somewhere really good to sprinkle you,” I said to that small box. “But I know you’d want me to try to go help Loretta out.”

Mom devoted decades to the club and its members and left it all to me in her will. I’m not just honoring her legacy in this moment, but trying to walk in her footprints all the darn time. She was pure goodness, and she would have immediately loathed this handsome asshole, who was still steps ahead of me inside the hospital.

I watch as his very attractive backside storms the reception desk with a demanding energy, leaning his elbows on the counter without greeting the older man behind it.

“My aunt,” I hear him say, but I miss the rest. I study him as he impatiently taps his long, tanned fingers along the lip of the counter. Deciphering what people are like based on their clothes is one of my innate skills, and this guy is an easy read. He’s giving casual vibes in loose-fitting joggers, a crisp white T-shirt, and spotless sneakers. But each item clings to his body just so, like every thread had been told exactly where to land. The simplicity of it all highlights how impeccably in shape he is. The lines of his body are entirely lean, tight muscle. Even his tousled dark hair seems perfectly in place. The only thing that is even the slightest bit imperfect about him is the very faint hint of a five o’clock shadow on his face.

He rushes off down a corridor to my left, and then it’s my turn to check in with the front desk of the hospital. Every time I come here, my body clenches like a fist about to land a punch. I know this place well because it’s where I got stitches at eight years old after slipping and slicing my forehead open in the dry riverbed behind my house. When I was twelve, I walked out of here with a fractured arm decked out in a neon-pink cast after I hit a curb on Annie Paige’s skateboard and went flying.

But these childhood memories have all been overshadowed by Mom’s cancer.

Now, every time I’m here, I feel the weight of her illness like a boulder against my back. She’s been gone for two years now, but time isn’t the healer we all make it out to be. Even now, the grief—already raw and reignited from this morning’s activities—eats away at me, grating at my skin like a scratchy wool sweater.

“I’m here to see a patient,” I say with a smile, ignoring his confused look as I place Mom’s urn on the counter. “Loretta Karras.”

The silver fox behind the desk checks me in and waves me down the same nondescript hallway as the guy before. I take a quick detour to use the restroom. The drive from Santa Barbara to Sunset Springs is a good five hours with traffic, and I hadn’t stopped once. Lucky for me the vending machine is directly next to the bathroom, and I grab a Diet Coke and some extra-spicy Takis and set off to find Loretta’s hospital room.

After navigating my way through endless hallways, I finally pass the nurses’ station and come to her room. The door’s cracked just so, and I pause, listening to an angry voice inside rant on about something. I make out only a couple of words, like unacceptable and lawsuit.

Something about the low rumble of the person on the other side of the door is familiar, but I can’t place it, and when I hear Loretta’s sharp laugh cut through the air, it makes me grin. She’s the epitome of no-nonsense, and I take that as my cue that it is safe to go inside.

“Knock-knock,” I say in a singsong voice. Just inside the door is Loretta, propped up in her hospital bed, and she shifts her face toward me with a broad smile as I walk in.

“Bex!” she exclaims in that raspy voice I’ve grown to treasure. Her eyes are the color of black coffee, and they sparkle like gemstones. Even though her hair’s a shocking grayish white, her brows are dark and thick, and they match those of the tall man hovering just by her bedside, contorting his handsome face into a scowl. The same one who had so unceremoniously barged into the hospital just before me.

Of all the people in the world who could claim Loretta as their aunt, did it really have to be this guy?

“AGAPI MOU,” LORETTA says as she reaches out and taps his arm. The words are in Greek, but I can tell just by her voice that it means something affectionate. “This is Bex. She owns the racquet club.”

“Hey,” I say quickly. There’s no way to miss the glowering look the guy’s giving me, like he could laser beam me into space with just the force of his eyes, but I do my best to avoid his death stare and focus all my attention on my friend. “Loretta, I’m so sorry. When Deb called me, I thought she was playing an April Fool’s joke on me.”

“You should be sorry,” he says flatly, and I am irritated to find out that his low, gruff voice is as attractive as his face. “It happened because of your cracked courts.”

“Bex,” Loretta says, and the patience she exudes with just that one word tells me she’s had to take this tone with him before. “This is Nikolaus, my nephew. Can you believe my luck that he just happened to be in Los Angeles this week?”

She focuses her attention back on him, with a sour, exaggerated glare. “And to think you said your trip was too short for you to come visit, and now here you are.”

“It’s almost like you planned this,” he teases, and his face softens up just enough to allow an affectionate smile to appear for a split second.

“I always tell you that family is the most important thing,” Loretta replies before turning to me. “I always tell him that. But does he listen?”

“Theia, you’re extremely important to me,” he assures her, his eyes still gentle. “I just have a tight turnaround this week with training.”

“Niko’s going back out on tour,” Loretta says. “You’ve seen him play before.”

“Wait,” I say, as the pieces fall into place instantly. “This is Niko the tennis player?”

Of course, I should have made the connection, but the chaos and emotion of today has clearly impacted my ability to put two and two together. I’ve watched him play tennis on the TV in Loretta’s living room a few times, and I gasped in horror when he stumbled on the court after losing a point in the first round of the French Open two years ago, shattering his knee.

“Yes, her nephew,” he interjects. Clearly he’s the kind of man who thinks he can speak for a woman, and his elder at that. What an insufferable jerk.

Of course, this behavior totally tracks with what little I know of the guy. He’d been a world-ranked tennis player, somewhere in the top 100 at one point, if I remember Loretta’s past gushing correctly. But one fact has stuck in my brain: The man earned the nickname Karras-hole, not because of how hard he hits the ball—which, from what I’ve seen, is very hard—but how often he tosses his racquet in a toddler-like fit of anger. As far as I can tell, the moniker fits him perfectly.

“And Theia,” he says to Loretta. “I’m not back on tour. Yet. I’m just going to play in a qualifier in Miami Memorial Day weekend. I have to make it through that to even get a draw in the tournament.”

She brushes him off with a frown and a shake of her head. “They should just let you back on the circuit.”

“That would be nice, but that’s not exactly how it works,” he says.

“Nice to meet you.” I stick out one hand, and he shoots me a peeved look, like he’d forgotten I was in the room and then was annoyed that I’d spoken up and reminded him. After a beat, he begrudgingly shakes it with a solid, firm grip.

“Is that…” His eyes narrow for a moment, and his face creases with confusion as he lets go. “An urn?”

I hug it against my chest protectively. “Yes.” He deserves only a one-word answer, so that’s all I give him.

“Huh,” he says, brow furrowing as he scours my face for more information. I change the subject instead.

“Your aunt is one of my best students.”

“And friends!” Loretta chirps from the bed.

“And friends,” I repeat. Over the last couple of years, we’d become close, thanks to her daily devotion to pickleball and our book club, of which I am the youngest member by roughly forty-five years.

“You didn’t have to drive all the way back from Santa Barbara for me,” she says, as she tries to adjust her blanket with her one working hand. Loretta and I had delved into grief intensely throughout our friendship, and she knew what my trip was for.

“I know,” I reply. I bend to help her, tugging the thin cotton up to her waist, and folding the edge over neatly like my mom taught me to do as a kid. “I wanted to.”

Niko interjects, oblivious to the unspoken conversation I’m having with his aunt.

“Well, I would hope any friend of my aunt would care about the courts she’s playing on,” he grumbles, the muscles in his neck flexing as he speaks. It’s a true shame he’s this attractive, because his attitude completely spoils his ridiculously good looks.

“Settle down, Nikolaus,” she scolds. “Bex is the only reason I’m not cooped up at an old folks’ home somewhere. Pickleball is why I get out of the house. You should be thanking her, not yelling at her.”

She clucks under her breath and pats my hand apologetically. “He’s very protective of me,” she explains, as if he wasn’t standing inches away from both of us.

“Because you’re hurt,” he says defensively, running a hand across his furrowed brow with a sigh. “You shouldn’t even be playing pickleball at your age.”

“Why?” I shift to stand a little straighter, puffing up my chest. It isn’t easy to make five-foot-two seem tall, but damn it, I try my best. “Pickleball is actually very accessible for people of all ages and abilities.”

“So accessible that she’s broken her wrist in two places and is going to have to get surgery tomorrow?” he huffs. “Cracked courts are dangerous.”

“And I’ve already called a couple of contractors to come review all of them, so I can get an estimate for repairs. They just can’t get here for a couple of weeks.”

Repairs that hopefully won’t cost too much, because I’m not sure I can afford them. But I’ll figure it out. The club is my family’s legacy, my beating heart. Keeping it open will always be my top priority, no matter the cost.

“Or you could tear the whole place down,” he grumbles, a cocky smirk unspooling across his face.

“Excuse me?” I take a step forward and feel the weight of his eyes grazing my body, taking in the cropped pink tank that I’d fashioned out of a thrift store find. His insult might as well be directed at me, my character, my very being, and it stings like it’s personal, because it is.

“Oh, come off it, Niko,” Loretta snaps, ending our standoff. She may be injured, but that doesn’t diminish her air of authority, and we both turn to face her, standing at attention. “You sound like a snob. Maybe I don’t want you staying in my guesthouse after all.”

She says this like a threat, and I watch as Niko pauses and processes her words for a moment before leaning in and planting a kiss on the top of her head.

“Theia, I can’t stay. I just told you I’m flying back to Miami tomorrow.”

“But you could train at the racquet club,” she insists. “Couldn’t he, Bex?”

“Um.” It’s my turn to now be taken aback by the stuff coming out of Loretta’s mouth. Surely this is the pain medication talking. “I don’t think he’d like our courts, based on what he just said.”

Niko nods, relief passing across his face. “Exactly,” he agrees. “The qualifier is in eight weeks. Everyone I train with is in Miami.”

“Is your family there?” she asks, both pointed and polite all at once. I have to give Loretta some credit; I’ve never seen this side of her before, and it turns out she is an expert guilt-tripper. “And you just told me you fired your coach.”

“I did,” he says, and I can hear the patience in his voice waning. “And no, I don’t have any family there anymore, as you know.”

He’s interrupted by Loretta’s phone buzzing on the side table pushed up next to her bed. She gives it a quick glance and then looks back up at Niko. “It’s your father.”

“I’ll get it,” he says, grabbing the phone and pressing the screen to pick up the call. “Ya, Baba.”

He cradles the phone to his ear and wanders off toward the window, muttering quietly in a mix of Greek and English. Loretta relaxes back into the mound of pillows behind her, grimacing as she adjusts her injured arm, which is bound up in a sling.

“He’s not normally this cranky,” she says apologetically. “I think he’s worried about me.”

“Isn’t he the guy who got famous for smashing his racquet in, like, every match?” I ask. “It seems like cranky would be his default, from what little I know.”

“Ah, I hate that that’s his reputation,” she grumbles, like only a doting aunt can. “I’ve wiped his tush more times than I can count. He’ll always be that sweet little boy to me.”

The thought of this prickly, irritable man as a goofy, smiling toddler, being chased around by Loretta, diaper in hand, seems almost impossible to imagine.

Niko finishes up on the phone and comes to stand at the foot of Loretta’s bed.

“How’s my little brother?” she asks.

“Worried,” Niko says, in a tone that tells me this is a common emotion for his dad. “He’s going to call you before he goes to bed.”

She nods.

“He wants me to stay here, with you, for a little bit,” he adds, and Loretta lights up at this. “Until the qualifier, anyway.”

“That’s my boy.” She reaches up and pats his cheek affectionately. “The bed is all made and ready for you in the back house. Now, go ask the nurses if I’m allowed to eat yet. I’m starving.”

“Yes, Theia,” he agrees and then glances up at me, giving me a stern look that obviously signifies that I’m to follow him outside.

“I’ll go call Ed and fill him in,” I offer, and she nods. He’s another one of my students, the club’s oldest member at eighty-one, and Loretta’s other best friend. The two of them lost their spouses in the last ten years and have formed an alliance with Deb and her wife, Maureen. They are their own sort of found family and have welcomed me into the fold with open arms.

Niko moves from the room with purpose and shockingly doesn’t let the door slam in my face this time. Instead he holds it open and then ushers me out into the hallway. I trail behind him and notice how each step he takes down the hall and away from Loretta’s room feels deliberate, like he thinks through every single movement his body makes.

Once we’re out of her hearing distance, he spins around to face me. The yellow overhead lights cast him in a strange, unnatural glow, like he’s some sort of beautiful, melancholy ghost.

“I could sue you, you know.” I shouldn’t be taken aback because he certainly isn’t the first person to threaten litigation against the club in its nearly thirty years of existence. But this isn’t just any man; it’s Loretta’s nephew. She’s one of the warmest people I know, and if they didn’t have the exact same eyebrows and dark fringe of lashes, I’d be shocked that they’re related.

“No, you couldn’t.” I say this brightly, with a chomp of my gum, which has lost all its flavor since I popped it in an hour ago. I’ve met my share of men who think they can push me around, and pushing them right back is one of life’s greatest pleasures. “Every client has signed a very detailed waiver. And the club is insured up the ass.”

He scoffs at this, but it shuts him up.

“Look, I love Loretta—” I start, and he cuts me off.

“I love her, too. She’s literally the only relative I have left here in the States now that my parents are back in Greece. She’s practically my entire family.”

Niko crosses his arms and paces away from me, grumbling under his breath. “I can’t believe she hurt herself so badly playing such an idiotic sport.”

He’s loud enough so that I can hear every single word.

“Excuse me.” I grab his arm, forcing him to look directly at me. “Aren’t you the person who cracked his entire knee open a few years ago while literally having a tantr. . .