The Secret Hook-Up

It’s a terrible day for pickleball sign-ups.

A wall of thick, dark gray clouds are making a slow roll our way from the horizon. It’s hot enough here in a corner of Reynolds Park near the pickleball courts that the mascots have had to take breaks inside the concrete restroom building. And every fifth person who’s approached the table has asked if Duncan and I are dating.

“She deserves someone way better than me,” Duncan’s saying to a seventy-year-old woman who’s here to sign up for the seasoned citizens bracket, and who has asked the question.

He’s in a maroon Thrusters polo and a tan bucket hat that hides his curly hair. If you didn’t know who he was, you’d think he was any random admin person who sat in the back office for the Thrusters instead of the team’s captain who has four championship rings and celebrated a thousand career games played two seasons ago.

“It’s nice to see a young man who’ll recognize that,” the woman says. “So you know, though, you don’t get credit for lip service. You have to prove you mean it.”

“Would you like a Fireballs water bottle, ma’am?” I interject.

“Honey, when you get to be my age, you have so many water bottles that you forget which ones have water and which ones have vodka in them. Don’t fall for any sweet words from cute young men. Make them earn you. Don’t call him Daddy like those articles say you do.”

“The articles gave us that nickname because of how it sounds when you smush our names together.” It’s not the first time Duncan has said this today. “We didn’t ask for it. We’re not using it.”

“I’m unattached and planning to stay that way,” I tell her. The statement is lacking its normal conviction, and it doesn’t slide off my tongue the way it used to.

Freaking Duncan.

The man is in my head. And I’m not as mad about it as I would’ve expected.

She leans across the table and lowers her voice. “If he gets you knocked up, you call me. I can help with whatever you need. My number’s right there on the sheet, and I’m here for you anytime. For anything. Understand?”

“Thank you, ma’am. Denise down the way has your shirt. And she slipped me pepper spray before we started in case he gets too forward.”

While she takes the hint and heads over to the T-shirt table, Duncan grabs his own hydration bottle from under the table and takes a long drink, then offers it to me.

“I have my own, thank you.”

He grins. “Don’t want to get pictured sharing drinks?”

“On the same day you’re front-page sports headline news for wearing a jersey with my name on it to a Fireballs game? Which revived the Daddie thing? No.”

“Won’t do it again. But only because it was clearly bad luck for the team with that loss. I know you’re a superstitious lot.”

I lift my brows at him. “Who’s superstitious?”

“Afternoon, ma’am,” he says to the next woman in line. “You ready to sign up for some pickleball?”

“How likely are you to get hurt playing pickleball?” she asks him. She’s middle-aged, wearing an oversize T-shirt featuring the Pounders rugby team logo and leggings criss-crossed with a bright mishmash of all of the colors in the rainbow.

This question’s my domain. “There are inherent risks in any sport, but you can play at the level you’re comfortable, and we have protective gear available, like goggles and kneepads.”

“Is this league coed?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“How many men have signed up who look like him?”

While my brain trips over itself trying to figure out that answer, Duncan steps in. “They’re all far more attractive than me, ma’am. But we don’t know who’s single and who’s in a relationship, so tread lightly as you hit on them, eh?”

Her cheeks turn into beets. “Oh, no, I can’t hit on them. I want to know if I’ll feel…out of place. With attractive people.”

“What’s your name?” Duncan asks her.

“Mary,” she stutters back.

“Mary, it’s nice to meet you. Now let me tell you a few things about Pickleball Club. The first rule of Pickleball Club is that you don’t let anyone make you feel like you don’t belong here. The second rule of Pickleball Club is that you don’t make anyone else feel like they don’t belong here. And the third rule of Pickleball Club is that you have to do your best to have fun. Think you can handle those?”

She shifts her weight back and forth. “My husband just left me for a twenty-two-year-old,” she whispers.

“Is he a Thrusters fan?”

“Yes, but he likes the Berger twins more than you. Only because he’s a complete twatwaffle and thinks genetics are more important than character. No offense to the Berger twins.”

Duncan whips out his phone, thumbs over the screen, and sets it upside down on the table. “Takes a lot to offend those two,” he says. “You signing up, or you want more information first?”

“What happens if I sign up but I get hurt and can’t play anymore?”

“You can come watch,” Duncan says.

“The league will try to get someone to fill your spot if you can’t find anyone,” I add.

“So there are spare players?” she asks.

I shake my head. “No spare players, but some people like to play more often and will happily step in if someone’s missing a partner, or if you’re playing singles and your opponent still wants to play.”

“Oh, good. Good. I don’t want to let anyone down if I can’t do this. But I want to do something fun. For me. I haven’t done something fun in years.”

That sentiment from a middle-aged woman will never not hit me right in the gut. This is exactly the sort of thing my mom would’ve done if she were still here. I try to smile at Mary, but it’s a wobbly smile.

“I’m proud of you.” Shit. My voice is wobbling too. “You deserve this.”

We make full eye contact, and hers go shiny. “It’s hard,” she whispers.

“I know,” I whisper back. “But you can do it. And you’ll be so glad you did. New friends. New hobby. New life.”

“You’ve started over?”

I shake my head. “My mom did.”

“Is she happy now?”

“Yes,” I lie, ignoring the way Duncan’s head whips around toward me.

I want to believe she would’ve been.

That she would’ve signed up for a pickleball league and made new friends that she had dinners with and traveled with and celebrated weddings and grandbabies with. Maybe taken art classes with.

That she would’ve kept living the life she’d finally given herself permission to have if it hadn’t been cut short.

“Okay,” Mary says. “If your mom can do this, I can do this. Where do I sign up?”

Duncan passes her a clipboard. “Waiver and sign-up form here. If you want to be added to the Thrusters or Fireballs email lists, you can add your name here, or scan the QR codes and sign up online.”

“Do I bring it back here when I’m done?”

“Yep.”

She half jogs to the bench under a tree that people have been using to fill out their forms.

Duncan looks at me. “I thought your mom passed away.”

I don’t look back at him. “Can’t exactly tell people she finally seized life by the balls only to have it ripped away by a freak accident a year later if we want to stay inspirational, can we? She was happy. For about ten months. Are the Berger twins coming for spite pictures?”

“Very likely. What made your mom finally seize life by the balls?”

“It’s nice of you to ask them to come for a complete stranger.” I wave the next person over with my good arm. He’s already carrying a clipboard.

Duncan’s still staring at me.

I can feel it.

“I’m all signed up. Can I get a picture?” the guy in line says to Duncan.

That gets him on his feet. “You betcha.”

One of the Thrusters admins who have been hanging around steps in to snap the picture while I take a drink out of my own hydration bottle.

“How’s it feel to be Daddie?” the guy asks Duncan.

“Coach Addie and I are professional friends,” Duncan replies. “We aren’t individually or together anyone’s daddy.”

We take the guy’s form and send him on his way as quickly as possible. The wall of clouds is getting darker, thicker, and pressing closer to us, bringing in heavier winds that make us scramble to keep our stack of sign-up forms from flying away. Mary finishes her form and slips between the next two pickleball players to deliver them to us. Duncan tells her to stick around for a little bit. That it’ll be worth her while.

I flag down Sadie from PR and point to the sky. “When are we calling it?”

“Fifteen to twenty minutes,” she replies. “We’re shutting down the line and directing people online for sign-ups after these last half dozen or so.”

I nod and get back to sign-ups, roughly tracking that the mascots have returned from their break. Hard to miss when a commotion breaks out under the refreshments tent moments later though.

“Hundred grand says Zeus and Ares just got here,” Duncan murmurs to me.

“Sucker’s bet. If you wanted to put real money down, we’d be betting on what they’re wearing or what they’re carrying.”

The mascots.

The answer is the mascots.

Zeus gets Thrusty the bratwurst up on his shoulders and Ares gets Ash the teenage dragon up on his, and the two sets line up against each other for a pool noodle sword fight.

Mary’s laughter echoes over to our table as the giant former hockey players wave her over to get a picture with them.

“Thrusty’s gonna kick your dragon’s ass,” Duncan says to me as we all pause to watch.

“Ash can breathe fire. She’ll roast your bratwurst without hardly trying.”

He laughs, but it’s cut off by the first roll of thunder crossing the park.

We both look up at the sky.

“Time to close up,” the Thrusters admin says to us as three more assistants fan out to speak with the remaining people in line. “Quick pictures if anyone wants them, and then take shelter.”

Two people want pictures with me.

Seven get the fastest pictures I’ve ever seen with Duncan. I shouldn’t linger helping the admins get the table picked up and the paperwork in bins, especially since I’m still favoring my shoulder and can’t help as much as I want to, but it goes against my nature to not do whatever I can.

Which isn’t the real reason I’m lingering as lightning flashes in a distant cloud, sending another low roll of thunder grumbling through the park moments later.

No, the real reason I’m lingering is because Duncan is a magnet and I’m a pile of iron flakes.

I shake myself out of it as he’s doing the next to last picture. “I live across the street,” I tell the admins. “Mind if I get out of here before it starts pouring?”

Rain is fine.

We get our fair share of drizzly games over the course of any given season.

But it’s the thunder and lightning we need to take shelter from.

“Can you make it?” one asks me.

“Absolutely.” I’m not as quick as I was before I dislocated my shoulder—running is still jarring for my joint and I’ve just started working on rebuilding my strength and range of motion—but I can speed walk.

“Go, then,” they say. “We’ve got this.”

“Later, Duncan,” I say, just to not look like an asshole who can’t say goodbye.

His gaze hits mine for a split second as he’s posing for a picture, but I shift my attention toward the mascots, who are climbing into the back of vans that have been waiting. I wave to the Fireballs staff finishing up the rapid teardown of the shelter over the refreshment and swag tables, then head off at a fast clip toward my building.

Which is a little farther than just across the street.

Just farther enough that a fat raindrop plops down onto my head while I’m still roughly a block’s length from my building.

That fat raindrop is followed by another, then another, and another, in rapid succession, beating the oak and elm leaves around me, until it’s a full deluge only partially blocked by the trees.

“Addie!” an achingly familiar voice says behind me as my building comes into view.

A blinding flash of lightning rips through the sheets of rain pummeling us, nearly immediately followed by a crash of thunder.

“You should be headed to your car,” I say to Duncan as he falls into step with me. I’m soaked. He’s soaked. We need to get inside.

“I parked by your building.”

“Is everything from sign-ups picked up?”

“Staff is cleared out completely. They’re fast.”

“Good. You should’ve parked closer to the courts.”

We reach the street at a crosswalk. Duncan hits the button on a street post to flash the drivers an alert that pedestrians are crossing, and when we’ve made sure the traffic is slowing, we dash across, then three more buildings down, utilizing the overhangs to get out of the rain.

My shirt is clinging to me.

So are my pants.

I don’t want to look at Duncan and see what his clothes are doing to his body.

“Where’s your car?” I ask Duncan.

He jerks a thumb behind us. “About six blocks that way.”

“That is not close to my building.” I stop under my own overhang and finally fully look at him.

His curly hair is plastered to his head. Water drips down his strong nose and over his cheeks and into the scruff on his jaw. His Thrusters polo clings to his broad shoulders and the hard planes of his chest and his thick, corded arms as he wipes water droplets off his forehead. The wind blows rain into the sheltered area next to the door, and he visibly shivers.

“Good to see you today,” he says. “Thanks for letting me walk you home. Still on for Thursday after next?”

Is he serious? “I don’t need you to⁠—”

“I know,” he says quickly. “That’s why I said thank you for letting me do it.”

“You should’ve taken a ride with one of the staff.” I shouldn’t be cranky.

But I know why I am.

I’m mad at myself for telling him about my mom. When you know what’s wrong with someone, you can give it lip service to try to make it go away.

I don’t want Duncan giving me lip service.

I want him to mean it. I want him to prove it. I want to believe in him and not have him let me down.

Wanting him scares me.

He’s watching me as cars drive past, splashing water over the curb but not close enough to get us.

We shouldn’t be out here where we’re visible to anyone.

“I have to get to the ballpark,” I say.

“Yeah, game day.”

“The storm will pass. We’ll play tonight.”

“Definitely.”

“If you want to wait at my place until the storm blows over, that’s fine.”

He eyes me cautiously. “Addie, I’m not angling for an invitation in. I just wanted to make sure you got home safe.”

And that makes me mad too, and I don’t know why.

Fine.

Yes.

I know why.

It’s because it’s exactly what he’d say if he only wants me as a friend, or it’s exactly what he’d say if he wants more but he’s respecting all of the walls I’ve put between us. “You didn’t cook up the fucking storm, Duncan. Just come in and get dry and don’t get hit by lightning going back to your car, okay?”

He stares at me while thunder cracks the wet morning air.

“And don’t do my dishes,” I add.

He widens his stance and runs a hand over his head, slicking back his soaked hair. “When I do your dishes, I’m not looking for anything in return. You don’t owe me. There’s no tally board keeping score. It’s what you do for a friend when they need help. And sometimes it’s what you do for a friend even when they don’t need help.”

I squeeze my eyes shut and blow out a long breath. The wind blows more mist under the overhang, and this time, I shiver.

Get out of your own head, Addie. This is just about being safe during a storm. “I hear and acknowledge the words you’re saying, but I have a lifetime of examples to the contrary.”

“I can see where that makes trusting people hard.”

“Where it makes trusting people not worth it.” I hate sounding bitter. Hate it.

But if we’re going to continue doing community events together, and if he’s going to keep parking near me and walking me home and offering to do my dishes, and if I’m going to keep having this growing attraction to him again, and if he’s going to keep giving me all of these signs and signals that he likes me too, then he needs to know where I stand.

That it’s not him.

It’s me.

I have issues. They might be insurmountable.

And I like my life. I don’t feel like anything’s missing.

But lately, I want more.

Lately, I want him.

He squeezes my good arm. “Good luck at the game today. I promise I won’t wear your jersey. Clearly bad luck.”

“It’s thunderstorming, Duncan.”

“I’ll hang out in the lobby until it passes.”

And now I’m getting pissed. “Is this a game? Are you playing mind games with me right now?”

He shakes his head. “I’m just trying to respect what you want. I don’t think you want me in your apartment, and you don’t want me walking six blocks in a thunderstorm, so I’m fine hanging out in the lobby until it’s safe for me to go. That’s it. That’s my whole agenda right now.”

I want him in my apartment.

And that’s why I’m mad.

Duncan Lavoie has once again made me like him, and that scares the ever-loving fuck out of me.

Especially after talking to a woman today who put my mom back at the forefront of my mind.

I unclench both of my fists and suck in a deep breath.

I want him in my apartment.

But I need space to figure out if that’s a good idea.

“Okay,” I say stiffly. “Thank you.”

“You betcha.”

I push into the lobby as a long grumble of thunder rattles the glass in the door and walk straight into a wall of cold air that hits my wet clothing and skin with enough force to instantly pucker my nipples and make goosebumps erupt over every inch of my skin.

Duncan follows but stops beside the door.

I growl softly to myself.

This is stupid.

Him hanging out in the lobby is ridiculous.

My neighbors will see him.

And I can be a goddamn adult and work out my issues on my own.

“Will you please come up to my apartment until this passes?” I mutter as I jam the elevator up button with my finger.

I’m not looking at him.

But he’s watching me. The hairs standing up on the back of my neck tell me so.

There’s a soft ding in the lobby with every floor that the elevator drops on its way to pick me up. As the number clicks down to three, then two, then one, Duncan steps beside me.

“You’re sure?”

“Do not do my dishes.”

“I won’t touch your dishes.”

“I probably have some T-shirts and sweatpants that are big enough for you. So you can get dry.”

“Appreciate it. I’ll bring them back clean.”

“They might be pink.”

“Then I might not bring them back. I don’t have much pink in my wardrobe yet.”

The elevator doors open, and we step onto it. I don’t look at him. I don’t think he’s looking at me.

He doesn’t try to hit the button to my floor, so I take care of it myself.

The doors close, and the elevator begins its ascent.

“I’m not trying to be an asshole,” I mutter.

“I don’t think you’re an asshole. I think⁠—”

The elevator jerks. I reach out with both arms to steady myself, banging into Duncan with my good arm and smacking my bad arm against the wall as everything plunges into pitch blackness.

Shit.

Goddammit.

Don’t ride elevators in thunderstorms.

“Addie?” Duncan says in the darkness.

“Fucking fuck,” I reply on a sigh, gingerly rubbing my left shoulder.

“Does this happen often?”

“No. At least, I don’t think so.” Aren’t there emergency lights? Shouldn’t some battery-powered backup lights be on?

“So it should be quick?” his voice is getting quieter.

And new alarm bells start ringing in my head. “Should be. Are you—are you okay in the dark?”

“Yeah.”

It’s a short yeah.

“But?” I ask softly.

“I’m fine.”

He’s not fine.

He’s stuck in an elevator with me in the pitch black.

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And there’s no telling how long we’ll be in here.

Fuck.