Then she noticed my left knee. I had been favoring it for a week and dismissing the ache as something that would disappear if ignored with sufficient confidence. Maya crouched beside the bench, asked where it hurt, and told me to sit out the semifinal. When I protested, she looked up and said, “Your knee matters more than pickleball,” with such seriousness that even my joke about people overhearing failed to move her.
We lost the semifinal eleven to nine. Maya blamed my knee, I blamed a gust of wind, and she pointed out that the flags had been hanging motionless for the entire match. Afterward, we sat in the grass eating sandwiches while Noah and Jess joined us, and for a few minutes the morning felt uncomplicated. Then Jess called us adorable, Maya pointed a pickle spear at her and said that was a dangerous word, and Noah groaned when Maya and I gave conflicting answers about whether anything was wrong.
