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"Maybe Callan has some single soccer friends?" I asked hopefully.
"I've asked him, trust me. He can't think of anyone, at least not around here, though if you're up for long distance, there are some guys coming in for that big pickleball thing."
Paige let out a giggle at the mention of pickleball.
I let out another mighty sigh. This was one of the downfalls of living in one of the most beautiful, but remote, areas of the country. No one knew we were here, and the pickings were slim unless you happened to meet the right guy in high school, or unless he was imported somehow.
"Fine. Let's see the drunken psychic," I said.
"Yay!" Cheered Paige from the back.
CHAPTER2
ROCK
A SLIGHT CHANCE OF TOMFOOLERY
Going home to Singletree wasn't high on the list of things I was dying to do. Life was good in Virginia. My hockey career was on fire, my teammates were my best friends, and the contract I was about to be offered was going to cement my future with the Wilcox Wombats for the foreseeable future.
"It's an All-Star game," my teammate Sly reminded me as I grumbled about the trip in the locker room after a scrimmage.
"Yeah," I agreed. "And if it was an all-star hockey game, that'd be one thing. But it's not."
"True."
"I mean..." I shook my head. “Pickleball?"
Sly grinned. “Everyone loves pickleball."
"Well, I don't even know how to play. And what the hell is the deal with this craze anyway? I swear to you, my dentist's grandma plays pickleball. Isn't it an old people thing?"
"Is it dark in there?" Sly asked, pulling my confused gaze from the bag I was packing.
"What? In where?"
"Just wondering if it's dark up in your ass where your head has clearly been for the past year. Pickleball is sweeping the nation. I'll have you know, it's the fastest growing sport in the country. Especially among the twenty-five to forty crowd."
I frowned at him. "Have you been reading Wikipedia? Or has some pickleball organization offered you a sponsorship?"
He shrugged. "It's possible a paddle will soon be coming out emblazoned with my name."
I sighed and went back to shoving things into my bag. Somehow I always ended up with more of my personal belongings in the Wombat locker room than in my condo. "Congrats."
“Pickleball is huge. You know LeBron James plays."
"I did not know this," I assured my friend.
"You need some tips?" He leaned in and whispered this as if I might be ashamed to admit I had no idea how to play a game that had been named after a phallic picnic condiment.
"I think I'm good."
"I'm here if you need me."
"Thanks, Sly. I better head out. I guess we have pickleball practice tomorrow morning."
"You'll wanna be fresh." He gave me a knowing wink.
"Right." I wasn't particularly concerned with being fresh for pickleball practice. I was more concerned with sneaking in and out of Singletree without too many people from my past noticing I was there. The town was nuts, and the last thing I needed was any sort of kerfuffle. Because Singletree, Maryland, was the one place in the country where a grown man should worry about things like kerfuffles and shenanigans, and even tomfoolery.
