Page 139 of Big Dill

I frown. “Big Dill?”

“That’s what I’m going to call my business.”

I grin. “It’s perfect.”

“Big Dill,” she says. “After pickleball and…you.” She laughs, soft, real, and then tilts her head. “Brody, I think I forgot to tell you something.”

I take her hand in mine. “What’s that, babe?”

“I love you, too.”

Epilogue

Jami

* * *

Banff, Alberta

Pickleball competition

* * *

The gym hums with noise, the sharp crack of the ball, sneakers squealing on the floor, the low roar of people who care way more about pickleball than they’re willing to admit. I bounce lightly on my toes beside Brody, paddle loose in my hand, heart steady.

“You ready?” he asks.

I grin at him. “Born ready. Just try to keep up, lumber-snack.”

He snorts, and just like that, my nerves settle. I always play better when he makes me laugh.

The whistle blows and the first rally is fast and unforgiving. Hands at the kitchen line, quick reactions, no room for hesitation. I slide left, right, fire a cross-court dink that lands exactly where I want it. The cheer from the bleachers makes my chest buzz. I steal a glance and find half of Churchill Falls watching. I still can’t understand why they all insisted on flying here.

Brody follows it up with a wicked drive down the line, and I bump his shoulder as we reset.

“Unstoppable,” I tell him.

We move like we’ve been doing this forever. He covers the middle without even looking at me. I read his body language, know when to cut in and when to let him take the smash. When I lob, he finishes it. When he’s pulled wide, I’m already there, paddle flashing, saving the point.

We take the first game and I throw my arms in the air, laughing like an idiot.

Then the other team gets smart. They slow the pace, drag us into longer rallies, aim low at my feet until my legs start to burn. I clip the net on a dink I should’ve made. Brody sends one just long. The second game slips away, point by point, and I hate how fast momentum can turn.

“Still with me?” he asks as we switch sides.

I nod, swallowing hard. “Always.”

The third game is everything—tight, brutal, every rally a test. Sweat stings my eyes. My ponytail comes loose. The crowd leans in, and I can feel the weight of every point pressing against my ribs.

Match point.

The ball comes fast and low. I stretch, barely get my paddle under it. It pops up just enough. Brody dives, reaches.

Misses.

The ball lands on the line.

For a heartbeat, the gym is silent. Then applause rolls over us anyway. I bend over, hands on my knees, lungs burning, then straighten and look at him.