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I blink at him. “I do,” I say slowly, “but aren’t you a pickleballer? I didn’t think you played actual tennis.”

“I do. Where do you think my brilliant pickleball skills come from?” He takes a step toward the gate, already shedding his watch and tucking it into his pocket. “Come on. I’ll hit with you.”

At this point, what do I have to lose? I’ve already been dumped by a stranger in front of the entire qualifying draw. It’s not like anything worse could happen.

I head over to my bag, reaching inside to pull out my backup frame. “Here,” I say, tossing it to Theo. “But I don’t carry a spare pair of men’s shoes. You’ll have to play in those.”

He catches the racquet by the throat and shrugs. “Which side of the court do you want?”

“I’ll take the shade,” I say, pointing toward the far side.

Theo pockets a couple of balls and heads to the baseline. “I may be a little out of practice,” he says, bouncing a ball a few times with a rhythm that looks suspiciously practiced. “I apologize in advance.”

“You’re doing me the favor, Theo. I’ll take whatever you can give me.” I bend my knees, hopping lightly on my toes, waiting for his serve.

He tosses the ball, rocks back on his heels, and snaps his wrist. A nasty slice serve screams past me and clips the corner of the service box.

I stand there, stunned. “You call that rusty? Theo, that must’ve been a hundred and ten miles an hour.”

“I doubt it was that fast. I used to top out at one hundred,” he says casually, already moving to the other side of the T. “At least on a grass court. I’m not sure what the speed would be on a hard court or clay.”

There it is. Another shocker in a week full of them—Theo isn’t just a hobbyist. He’s good enough to have played semi-professionally.

The remainder of our session passes in a blur. Theo is wicked fast and moves me around the court. I barely have time to react, much less think.

“Better, Katie!” he calls out, following an approach shot to the net. “Stop apologizing for your power. If you’re going to lose, do so because you went for it, not because you were too afraid to try.”

He catches a stray ball and walks toward the net, chest barely heaving despite wearing a dress shirt in the high humidity. I meet him there, leaning heavily on my racquet, sweat dripping off my chin.

“You hit well,” he says, his tone shifting from coach mode back to the steady, observant man I serve three days a week at Mamma Lina’s.

“Thanks to you,” I say, wiping my face on my wristband. “You knew exactly how to push me and what to say.”

“I’m just repeating what my old coaches used to drill into me,” he says, then frowns. “Speaking of . . . where is yours? I haven’t seen anyone with you.”

“I don’t have one.” The admission tastes like copper in my mouth. “Couldn’t afford it. But I realized this past week I need one. I just started looking. It’s gonna take time to find someone in my budget.”

Theo furrows his brow. “What about a sponsor?”

“It’s a great idea, but doubtful with my ranking.” I shake my head. “I’ll be blunt with you. I’m on my last legs here. What you saw from me earlier, that mess with the AirPods girl, that’s how I’ve been playing lately. I’m lucky I still have my equipment covered, but even that’s on thin ice. Nobody wants to put a logo on a sinking ship.”

Theo stays silent for a moment. His fingers tap the grip of his racquet. “What if I had a solution to that particular problem?”

The casual question sends a flicker of hope through me. But hope is dangerous. If it were anyone else, I’d scoff at them. But Theo has a habit of making impossible problems seem solvable.

“Theo . . .” I start.

He arches an eyebrow. “Katie, humor me.”

“Fine, let’s say you did.”

“Would you let me place a few calls on your behalf?” he asks.

“Sure,” I say, a dry laugh escaping. “But who’d be stupid enough to say yes to a player in a slump?”

Theo holds up a hand. “I don’t let my engineers say anything that isn’t factual, and I’m extending that rule to you. Stop with the self-deprecation.” He looks me dead in the eye, and for a second, I see the hard-line boss he must be at the office. “You are talented, Katie. Full stop. All you need is a little polishing. Let me help.”

The motel flashes through my mind. The panic booking. The storage unit. The hundreds of dollars I’d spent trying to prove I could handle everything myself.