Pickleballers

by Ilana Long

Genres: General Fiction; Romance; Contemporary Romance; Romantic Comedy; Sports Romance

Synopsis

A pickleball newbie looking to recover from life’s swings and misses crosses paddles with love in this debut romantic comedy.

Meg Bloomberg is in a pickle. When Meg’s ex turns out to be a total player, she and her bestie take off for a mood-lifting pickleball excursion to Bainbridge Island. It’s supposed to be an easy lob, a way to heal, not the opening serve to a new courtside romance that’s doomed to spin out.
 
No matter how Meg tries, she can’t shake her feelings for Ethan Fine. A charismatic environmental consultant and Bainbridge local, Ethan seems like the real dill. But when Meg discovers that Ethan is sabotaging her home court, she decides the match is over.
 
It’s time for Meg to take control of her own game. And maybe, just maybe…love will bounce back.

Release date: November 12, 2024

Publisher: Berkley

Print pages: 368

Sample

One

Plink.

"Not enjoying this."

Plink. "This does not feel cathartic." Plink. "At all."

Plink . . . Plink . . . Plink.

"I was fine at home, you know," Meg said, swiping at a blonde flyaway that had escaped her hair tie.

"You were absolutely not fine. You were feeding a necktie into the garbage disposal," Annie countered, even as she kept her eyes pegged on the bounce. "Come on. Give this a chance. You've been playing pickleball for all of thirty minutes."

Plink. Meg knocked it over the net. Plink. Annie tapped. Plink. Meg popped it up. Annie leapt, fielding the shot from three feet over her head. She flicked the ball back into range.

"Ooh! Good try," Annie cheered in her cartoon-bunny voice. Also known as her regular voice. "Just . . . try to keep it a little lower. And watch that you don't step into the kitchen."

"The kitchen?" Meg Bloomberg eyed the court, half expecting a microwave to jump out in front of her. Nothing made sense anymore. Not her husband Vance's unexplained departure. And not her best friend's insistence on dragging her here to play pickleball.

"The kitchen. That's the line you're stepping on." Annie pointed to the ground. "But you're doing great." As if calculating how much was too much information, she hesitated before adding, "But you might want to relax your arm a little. And loosen up your wrist. Scoop. Yeah. Like that. But . . . not quite. Don't forget to reset every . . ."

"Argh!" Meg groaned, throwing her hands up in despair. "Why are you torturing me with this stupid game? The only thing I want to do is crawl into a cave and hibernate until summer."

"You're upset. Understandably. Also, bears only hibernate until springtime. Just . . . FYI," Annie hastened to clarify, blinking beneath the bangs of her short hair. She adjusted the seam of her fitted tennis skirt. "Maybe we should start slower. Some short drops. How 'bout that?"

"Or maybe," Meg suggested, "I need to hit it harder. Just whack the fucker. Really, really hard. Pretend it's Vance's head . . ."

"All right. Take it easy. Deep breaths." Annie mimed. "Pickleball is about control. Let's keep practicing our close shots at the net. Okay?"

Growling low in her throat, Meg stonewalled. She narrowed her lids and pouted, a manipulation she had been successfully practicing on Annie Yoon for the better part of twelve years-since their houseshare days back at the University of Washington.

Annie gave it a good five seconds before caving. "Fine. Go to the baseline. I'll serve it to you, and you can hit some long, hard shots. Will that make Meg happy?"

"Yippee," Meg deadpanned.

Annie laughed. "I promise you. You are gonna fall in love with pickleball." But even as she was saying it, her voice dropped off when Meg's expression crumpled at the word "love." Despite Annie's efforts to distract Meg, this morning's shock was still too raw.

It was hard to believe that only a few hours ago, her life had been completely upended. If Annie hadn't shown up . . . She shuddered. But of course, when Annie had heard about Vance's note, she had rushed to Meg's apartment, still in her sensible shoes and scrubs. She'd snatched the note from Meg's shaky fingers and read it to herself. Disbelieving, she'd read it again. Out loud.

Sorry, babe. I just can't do this anymore. V.

"Can't do this anymore?" Annie had spat, her friend-protecting hackles rising. She smoothed the wrinkled scrap of paper, then flipped it over. "A Home Depot receipt!" Annie's nostrils flared, and she brandished the receipt as if holding up evidence for a jury. "For a caulking gun? Are you shitting me?" This last part of her tirade was lost in a mumble when Annie's inner swear-censor from her job at Seattle Children's Hospital kicked in.

Nevertheless, the intensity of Annie's indignation felt validating. So, although she was loath to leave her apartment with eyes puffy and red from crying, when Meg's bestie suggested they go to the courts to hit out her frustrations with a game that she had never played before, Meg agreed.

It had seemed like a reasonable idea, at the time.

But now, standing on a frigid Seattle pickleball court in January, Meg shivered, gobsmacked by this unexpected twist of fortune. She took a steadying breath. How had this happened? Her husband of two years had up and walked out. And for the life of her, she hadn't a clue what he'd needed to caulk.

The injustice! A seething fury built in her, from the soles of her neon high-tops to the tips of her wavy golden ponytail. Tugging a pickleball from her pocket, Meg rolled it between her fingers.

She reared back with her paddle arm. Letting out a guttural grunt, she whacked the plastic ball. It soared through the air, trailing the smoke of a thousand fires, and slammed into the net.

When she yanked another ball from her pocket, she paused to consider the fluorescent green surface, the Wiffle holes dotting the plastic-before letting it feel the full force of her fury. With a war cry, she punched the ball with the paddle and admired the trajectory as it flew over the net and hit the chain-link fence with a satisfying ring.

Wrenching the last ball from her shorts pocket, Meg grimaced. This one was stuck, trapped by her fingers inside the tight pocket. "Rrrg," she groaned, twisting it free. She held the ball to the sky and a fresh flash of anger filled her when she noticed her wedding ring glinting on her finger. With every ounce of strength in her petite frame, she shouted with such force that her throat hurt as she thwacked the ball hard, sending it rocketing over the fence and into the parking lot, where it rolled lazily under somebody's car.

With the balls gone, Meg crossed her arms over her chest and panted from the exertion.

Annie blinked. She tilted her head. "Feeling better?"

"A little." Meg opened her mouth. Closed it again. Sighed. It was the truth. She now had several ideas of where Vance could stuff his caulking gun.

Annie Yoon pressed her lips into an encouraging smile. "Meg?"

"Yep."

"I told you pickleball would be cathartic."

Meg sniffled, blinked a tear from the corner of her eye, and mustered up a weak smile. Resigned, she stood on the baseline, paddle in hand. "Fine," Meg said. "Let's play your damn game."

Two

The walkway leading to the passenger drop-off lot was a trudge from the pebbly beach. Meg picked up the pace, enjoying the stretch in her legs and breathing in the familiar tar-and-sea scent of the Bainbridge Island ferry docks. Even as she marveled at the evergreen-blanketed landscape, she hoped this would be the last-the very last, she promised-Crafty Cat Collar transaction.

Squinting into the thin June sunshine, Meg waited at the appointed spot and watched for the green station wagon. The box of six custom-designed cat collars wasn't heavy per se, but to her, they may as well have been a box of bricks. Or albatrosses. Leaden albatrosses the size of semitrucks. With this last commission, she would reach her goal in filling the backlog of orders. Meg clung to the hope that maybe soon, with the cushion of the small inheritance she had received from her dad's trust, she could find more satisfying, or at least more lucrative, ways to waste her college degree.

For the whole of her brief marriage, she had ached to give up the kitschy crafts-a side gig she developed to help bring in some cash while Vance got his dental practice up and going-and return to her artistic calling. And while Vance had wasted no time in filing for divorce, dismantling their marriage as easily as upending a board game, she knew that getting back to painting would take time and patience. Her heart yearned for the smell of oils squeezed onto a palette. How freeing it would feel to unload this final box.

She waited for her customer, alternately watching sailboats bob and rock in the Sound, and peering down the road toward Winslow, where she had ventured earlier this morning for her soy mocha and to take advantage of the island's peaceful vibe. Cradled by mountains, the seaside island was the opposite of Seattle's bustle and crowds, although the thirty-five-minute crossing meant the city was only a stone's throw away. Well . . . if the thrower had a bionic arm. Or a hydraulic catapult.

Meg glanced at her phone. The buyer was late, but Meg didn't mind. The ferry waiting area, like the boat ride, was rife with little pleasures-like taking in the vistas over the water and breathing in the cool tang of the salt air. With her painter's eye, Meg framed her surroundings. In the distance, the green pines formed arrows pointing toward the white sky. In the foreground, the choppy gray water lapped against the ferry pylons. She could shake something creative out of that view, couldn't she? A throb of doubt answered her and sent her mind sailing back to her latest artistic attempt.

This morning, she had left the canvas, still tacky with fresh paint, leaning against the wall like a discarded flat tire. Gloomy clouds gathering, rain blurring into an undefined splash against the horizon. Uninspired, basic stuff. As soon as it dried, the painting would join its abandoned brethren in the closet. Of course, hiding the canvas would not put an end to Meg's unspoken fear, the one that had been nagging at her for some time now. What if she couldn't paint anymore? After such a long break from producing anything meaningful, would she be forever relegated to the land of tacky glue and stud guns? Sure, Annie's pickleball initiative was a great body-and-mind distractor, but at her core she still craved the sense of accomplishment that came with imagining something bold and authentic: real art.

Beside her, a mammoth station wagon slowed to a stop. Meg straightened and put on her Crafty Cats face. After all, this was a special commission and the buyer had paid extra for personal delivery. But Meg's view of the driver was impaired by the commotion brewing inside the car.

The glass lowered an inch. Startled, Meg took a reflexive step back. Six piglet snouts poked through the window crack.

So . . . not cats.

The doors clicked and a woman's voice rose above the squeals. "It's open, dear. C'mon in."

She weighed her options. Skip this, hang on to her dignity, and go home and eat some ramen. Or . . . just do this.

Bracing herself, she inhaled and slid into the backseat, yanking the door shut before any porky friends could make their escape. Instantly, she was beset.

Yes. This would be it for the pet collars.

"Here you go," Meg offered, trying to squeeze the box between the headrests. "You can adjust the sizes pretty easily-"

"Oh, no, dear. You go ahead. They've been so excited all day!" the driver exclaimed. One piggy's excitement was so great it stabbed its hoof into Meg's forearm. "You do the honors," the woman added, "and decide which one suits which."

One last time, Meg reminded herself as she made a mental note to stop for wine on her way home. Grabbing a handful of rubbery pinkness, Meg tried to fit a cat collar on a piglet, but, using Meg's thighs as a springboard, the piggy bolted away. Next, Meg attempted flailing toward a skinny, spotted squeaker, but it, too, ejected from her grasp. By her fourth essay, Meg got the picture.

"So exciting," her round-faced patron whispered, and clapped her hands in glee.

Enough, Meg decided. There were limits. Even for Meg. Stretching for the door, she tossed the box onto the backseat and flung herself from the vehicle, shivering with the heebie-jeebies.

The woman's enthusiasm remained undeterred. "Terrific!" she cried. "Look at them! We're all so excited." Her head turned toward the writhing mass of piglets at the window. They squealed and grunted and surged at Meg as if she were a fresh bucket of slop. "I'll Venmo you," the woman called as the car rolled away.

Meg blinked, shell-shocked. With a brisk shake of her head, she cleared her thoughts and checked the time. Forty minutes until the next ferry departure back to Seattle. She could wait out the two hours until the next one and relax in one of the quaint cafés, but waiting often entailed a wandering mind. And when her mind meandered, it trundled around Lonely Land and Self-Pitytown, visiting famous tourist spots like the Pit of Forever Single and the Valley of the Creatively Mediocre. She had to stay busy to keep her mind off Vance. But the dreadful paintings and attempts at pickleball were like sticking duct tape over the holes in an old garden hose-temporary patches before new leaks sprang up elsewhere.

Pickleball! That was what she'd meant to remember. Meg picked up her pace toward the walkway. She needed to leave Bainbridge on that next ferry, or she'd be late for her pickleball meetup with Annie. When Annie got mad, she turned into an enraged pixie armed with toxic fairy dust. Best to stay on her good side.

But in truth, Meg did not want to miss this afternoon's games. Each time she stepped on the courts, the adrenaline bump lifted her mood, and the unexpected camaraderie of the sport warmed her spirit. As Annie had promised, pickleball was rapidly becoming an addiction, and she had zero desire to crimp her cravings. The thrill of flinging herself into fresh pursuits felt as central to her core as her zest for her tried-and-true passions-like painting and hiking and her deep-rooted friendship with Annie. Since Vance's departure five months ago, buds of true Meg-ness had begun to reemerge, unfurling like time-lapse blossoms.

To Meg's relief, when she rolled onto the pier in her hatchback, a dockhand wearing a wizard hat for no apparent reason waved her onto the ferry. Yay! she rejoiced as she pulled into the final slot in the car line. Every time Meg did not have to bear watching the ferry's huge form getting tinier and tinier as it chugged away, she felt like she had won the lottery. And even though the ferries ran every hour or two, by nature, Meg was not a waiter. Well, she had been a waiter, a waitress actually, but an artist must make ends meet somehow.

She ambled up the stairs and through the heavy metal door to the interior of Wenatchee. Meg had ridden Walla Walla and Tacoma as well as this ferry, but on each voyage the majesty of the ship made her feel like a tourist. Bright lighting, cavernous seating areas, and comfy chairs gave the open room the feel of a cruise ship. Along the bulkheads, seating booths looked out over enormous, double-paned windows with views to Puget Sound.