Neighbors With Benefits: Chapter 22

“Is it weird that I’m nervous?” I asked as we waited inside the Pickleball building for the matchups to be posted.

“It means you want to win,” Bash replied, patting me gently on the back. “Which is the attitude I want to see today. This is extremely serious.”

“I thought you said the first rule of Pickleball is not to take it too seriously?”

“That was a lie!” he replied, leaning close to whisper in my ear. His breath was warm and stirred my hair. “Of course this is serious. We need to kick all these people’s asses, Jazz!”

“I feel silly trying to be competitive while wearing these clothes,” I replied, gesturing down at myself. With my neon blue booty shorts, neon green sports bra, and neon pink sweatbands, I looked like a 1980s caricature even more than Bash.

“You look perfect,” Bash insisted. “And it will be even funnier when we beat the teams wearing designer athletic clothes.”

“You told me no pressure, but this is starting to feel like yes pressure,” I observed. “Especially considering I just learned how to play.”

“After the way you looked on Thursday? I would have guessed you’ve been playing for a year.” He lightly put a hand on my lower back and nudged me forward. “They just posted the bracket. Let’s go see which court we’re on.”

There were sixteen teams playing, with the winners advancing to the next round. Each match was best of three games, which meant each round would only last about an hour. We could be going home by one o’clock, or staying until the evening.

Hopefully the latter.

Our first match was against a middle-aged mother and her teenage son. We warmed up together for a few minutes, and I decided that they weren’t bad. The son was the weak link though; he didn’t seem as focused as the mom.

I played horribly the first game; half my shots were unforced errors that sailed out of bounds. I started to get down on myself, until Bash took me aside when we switched sides.

“Relax,” he said soothingly. “You’ve got beginner jitters. We’re way better than these two. Just focus on hitting good shots—they don’t have to be great.”

His calm presence helped just as much as his advice, and I settled down and we barely won the first game. After that I was in a groove, and we easily won the second game, ending the match. We shook hands with our opponents and went inside to report our score to the administrator.

“What’d I tell you?” he said with a warm smile. “You’re doing great!”

“I feel great!” I replied. “That was fun. I know it’s just an amateur tournament, but it was so thrilling!”

“You’ll be a Pickleball addict in no time,” Bash said. “Time for a celebratory beer.”

I blinked in surprise. “You want to drink? We play the next round in twenty minutes.”

“This is the secret to our success,” Bash said, leaning close to whisper. His spicy deodorant filled my nose, along with a hint of his personal scent underneath. That thrilled me as much as the victory. “A beer between matches loosens us up.”

We split a beer between us, the taste rich and refreshing. Our second match was against a pair of women wearing matching Drexel University jerseys.

They were better than the first pair we played against, but we still had an edge. We won the first game, celebrating with a high-five and a quick hug. I grinned as we switched sides for the second game, my eyes scanning the crowd watching along the sidelines…

…and I saw Cat smiling back at me.

I hurried over to her and asked, “What are you doing here!”

“When you canceled our brunch, I snooped on Find My Friends to see what you were up to. I didn’t realize you were with the blond milkshake!”

I winced. “I’m sorry. I should have told you where I was going to be. I hate bailing on plans…”

“Stop it,” Cat interrupted. “This is the most valid reason I can think of to cancel on me. You two are so cute together! Lots of chemistry. I would swear you’re sleeping together already, but I know you would have told me first.” She raised a questioning eyebrow.

“Keep your voice down,” I whispered. “And of course I would have told you if something has happened.”

“So that’s a no?”

“Yes! I mean, yes nothing has happened,” I said. “We’re about to start the next game, so you can go now.”

“No way! I’m here to watch you two kick butt.” She sipped on a cocktail, challenging me to argue. “I’m loving the neon outfits, by the way. You’re like an eighties-themed porno.”

“Or an eighties workout video,” I said.

“I guess. I’ve never seen an eighties workout video, but I’ve watched a lot of porn.”

“Fine, you can stay,” I said. “Just don’t distract me.”

“I’m not the distraction,” she replied. “That extremely fuckable golden boy toy is.”

“Please call him Bash in public,” I said before hurrying back to my spot.

Bash had a curious smile when I joined him. “That’s the friend you mentioned, right? I think I remember her from your place that one night? And the housewarming party?”

“Just ignore her,” I said. “Let’s focus on closing out this game.”

He slapped me on the back. “I like the attitude.”

Despite Cat watching from the sideline, I was able to focus on the game. If anything, I played better with her there, and we closed out the match without any trouble.

Bash and I shared a celebratory hug, then a celebratory beer.

The alcohol was probably what loosened me up. Our semifinals game was against two grey-haired men who were surprisingly spry. We traded the first two games with them, then scored a few lucky shots to win the third game. Bash pumped his fist, and we hugged for a little bit longer, not caring about how sweaty we were.

“Yeah, Jazzy and Bashy!” Cat cheered from the sideline.

Everyone was so friendly—as we walked back inside to report our score, everyone we had beaten congratulated us and wished us luck in the final. It was a refreshing experience: everyone was just having fun.

Until we met who we were playing in the finals.

It was a married couple in their mid-thirties, wearing matching “Schultinators” tank tops; apparently their last name was Schultz. We caught the end of their semifinals match: the wife jumped into the air and slammed the ball down as hard as she could, hitting their opponent—a teenage girl—on the arm. The girl held back tears as they shook hands at the net, but as the Schultinators walked away, the husband mimicked a crying motion with his fist. The wife cackled with laughter.

“Yeah, they’re assholes,” Bash told me. “They aren’t good enough to play in the professional league, so they play in this one and destroy everybody.”

“I’m just happy to have gotten to the finals,” I said. “Let’s go have some fun!”

There was a crowd for the final game; all the other courts were empty, and most of the tournament participants were sticking around to watch the finals. When we shook hands with the Schultinators at the net, the husband said, “Good luck.”

“They’ll need it,” the wife said, loud enough for us to hear. “I saw her playing here on Tuesday. She sucks.”

“I was happy making it this far,” I told Bash as we took our positions. “But now I want to make her cry.”

Bash gave me a savage grin. “I liked normal Jazz, but I love competitive Jazz. Let’s do it.”

We lost the first game. Badly. The final score was 11-2, both of our points coming on unforced errors from the Schultinators. They screamed and shouted on every single point, like they were trying to be obnoxious.

I tried not to let it bother me, since I had only picked up the sport five days ago. But it was a frustrating end to an otherwise fantastic day.

“Jazz!” Cat shouted, waving me over to the sideline. “Come here!”

Bash and I walked over there. “What is it?” I asked.

Jazz put her arm around one of the elderly men we had played in the semifinals. “Marty, tell my best friend what you just told me.”

Marty leaned toward me and lowered his voice. “I have it on good authority that Kayleigh Schulz has elbow tendinitis in her arm.”

“Doesn’t look like it, based on how she’s playing,” Bash muttered.

“It only bothers her when she hits a backhand shot,” Marty insisted. “Hit it to her backhand and she’ll fall apart.”

“That’s why she’s playing so far to the left,” Bash realized. “So she can hit forehand every time!”

“Why are you telling us this?” I asked.

“We don’t want the Schultinators to win,” Marty replied bluntly. “Nobody does. Everyone is rooting for you two!”

I looked around the crowd. Several other players were watching us, and nodding along.

“Let’s GO!” the husband Schultinator shouted. “If you take any longer, I’m going to have the official disqualify you!”

Marty gave me a look. “See?”

“We’ll do our best,” Bash said, putting an arm around me and guiding me back to the court. “It’s the best plan we’ve got. Hammer her backhand side.”

“I’ll try!”

Returning a Pickleball shot was hard enough, let alone trying to aim it to a small target. But after a few points, Bash hit a perfect shot to the far left side of the court—to Kayleigh’s backhand. She returned the shot just fine… but winced in pain after.

They’re right, I realized.

Bash and I did our best to hit every shot over there. Sure enough, her returns became weaker and weaker. She started cursing. And the crowd was on our side, clapping every time we scored—while remaining silent when the Schultinators won a point.

We won the second game, 11-8. The crowd erupted in cheers, which caused Kayleigh to roll her eyes and sneer at the spectators.

For the third game, she moved even farther to the left so she could return everything with her forehand. But that left the middle of the court open, allowing Bash to hit winners right down the middle.

“You need to get those, Bob.”

“I can’t when you’re playing so far over, Kayleigh,” he snapped back.

Bash and I shared a private smile while they argued.

She moved back over and tried to hit backhanded again, but the shots were weaker than ever. After one particularly bad shot, she cradled her elbow and walked over to the corner of the court to retrieve the ball, taking her time. It took all of my willpower not to mimic the crying gesture we had seen in the semifinals.

Eventually, we were winning 10-6. It was match point. Bash handed me the ball, put his arm around my waist, and leaned in to whisper: “You got this, Jazz.”

But when we looked up, the Schultinators were walking off the court.

“It’s only ten-to-six,” Bash called. “We still have a point left.”

“This is bullshit,” Kayleigh said, tossing her paddle across the court. “It’s bad sportsmanship to exploit someone’s injury.”

“If you don’t get back in thirty seconds,” Bash announced with a grin, “If you don’t hurry up, I’m going to have the official disqualify you!”

The crowd laughed, and the Schultinators flipped everyone off and walked straight off the court and into the parking lot. The official came over and called it.

We had won!