Page 11 of Pick Me

“ Y es,” Owen yelled as the ball bounced next to him. “ Good serve. Now let’s see it five more times in a row with no pauses. Just like that. Go.”

He pointed his paddle at me, and I felt like I was in front of a one-man firing squad.

The idea of five repeat performances froze me in place. “Oh, that was a lucky shot. I don’t know if I can do it again.”

We were working on serving, which felt like an impossible mix of power, pushing, and precision. All I had to do was drop the

ball, then hit it across the net to where Owen was standing. So far, my serves had either been landing in the net or on the

wrong side of the court. The fact that I’d been able to marry my paddle skills with enough oomph to send the ball over the

net and into the correct zone was the exception, not the rule.

Owen frowned at me. “Why can’t you say, ‘I’ll try’? You’re a WIP, remember? Your first response is always negging yourself.

How about a little positivity?”

I wanted to ask him the same question, because he’d been a drill sergeant since I walked in the door. Sure, Owen praised me— lightly —when I managed to do something right, but it was as ephemeral as a soap bubble. A quick “nice” or “good,” and then he went

back to demanding more.

“I’m a realist,” I replied quickly. “I know my limitations.”

“Is that a fact?” Owen straightened up out of ready position and dropped his hands to his sides. “Then we might as well quit

now.”

“ Excuse me?”

We stood in a silent stalemate in the half-lit space, staring at each other across the net.

“You always say something negative before I can weigh in. Even when you do something amazing, it’s like you need to reassure

yourself that you’ll be back to sucking in no time. Why is that?”

“I’m not good at this sort of stuff; I told you that.”

My voice echoed around the space. He’d touched a nerve.

Owen walked to the net, studying me like he knew more than he was letting on.

“This isn’t about your skills, Brooke. I’m here to help with that part. I mean how you talk about yourself.”

I looked down at the paddle in my hand. “Just calling it like I see it. I’m not athletic.”

Normally, admitting my athletic shortcomings turned into a punch line, but Owen wasn’t about to let me get away with it. And

honestly, with two lessons under my belt, it sort of felt like an indictment of him as well.

“And how do you define athleticism?” Owen asked.

Visions of my parents with silver thermal blankets wrapped around their shoulders postrace and Wes sprinting down the field

with a ball dancing between his feet crowded my thoughts.

“Coordination. Endurance,” I answered. “Grit. None of which I have.”

And all gifts I’d seen Owen exhibit as we smacked the ball around, even though he probably handicapped himself to kindergarten level to play with me.

He pulled a ball out of his pocket and lobbed it at me, and through some miracle, I managed to spring into ready position

and swat it back in his general vicinity.

“And what was that?” he asked, pointing his paddle at me.

“Luck?”

He threw his head back, let out a frustrated groan, and marched in a circle. “Seriously?”

I stomped a few steps closer to where he was having his little fit. “You’re supposed to be teaching me how to be a better

player, not lecturing me.”

“And you’re supposed to maintain a positive attitude so you can actually try to accomplish the things I’m showing you.”

“Well, I’m not feeling very positive.” I could barely hide my frustration.

Owen finally fixed his gaze on me. “Then that’s going to be an issue. You might as well kiss Kai goodbye right now.”

It was a record scratch during our tense conversation. Owen clearly knew how to drop a name for dramatic effect.

“Are you saying I should give up?”

“Only if you want to.” Owen’s eyes searched my face. “I’m not about to force you to try to play if your heart isn’t in it.”

My heart was at the center of the whole ridiculous scenario, but I wasn’t about to remind him of the fact.

We both went silent until I snorted out a realization. “Are we really having such a serious conversation about pickleball ?”

He held my gaze before answering. “It goes deeper than that and I think you know it.”

I floundered because I was feeling observed and dissected by someone who was gifted at both. “I don’t have coordination.”

Owen tossed another ball my way without even looking in my direction—a fake out—and I slapped it back so efficiently that I shocked myself.

“Liar.”

My cheeks went hot at the way he was studying me.

“It’s like you have a block... ” Owen said, half to himself as he rounded the net and stalked to my side of the court. “Your body is absolutely capable,

despite what you keep saying.”

I blushed a little harder at the thought of Owen watching my body, which today was in yet another very cute and very tight

Meredith hand-me-down skort and tank combo.

“Is your family anti-sports?” he demanded. “You’re all too bookish to bother with sweaty stuff?”

I laughed in his face. “Oh my god, no. My parents are big-time runners, and my brother plays professional soccer in England.”

“Seriously? Which team?”

“Barnham.”

A nod of recognition. “Did they compare you and your brother? Make you feel like you didn’t measure up?”

“Absolutely not.” I shook my head. “Never.”

“So your entire family is athletic, which means you’ve got to have some innate genetic ability. I mean, I’ve definitely seen glimmers of it, but then it’s like your brain shuts you down. Like you’re

almost afraid to let go and try hard.”

I shrugged. Pickleball lessons were somehow morphing into a therapy session that I hadn’t signed up for.

“Did you ever enjoy sporty stuff? Like at recess or in gym class when you were a kid?” Owen asked in a far gentler voice.

I snorted. “Well, sure. Who doesn’t like zombie tag and scooter boards?”

He was unmoved by my attempt at levity.

“What changed? Was it the competition aspect maybe?”

“No.” I frowned as I thought back to elementary school gym class. “I kicked ass at the Presidential Fitness Test. No one could

beat my flexed arm hang time.”

An uncomfortable feeling stirred inside of me. I’d never really considered my anti-sports origin story, but thoughts of my

echoey middle school gym came trickling back.

And Mr. Albertson.

It was one of those buried-but-not-forgotten memories, a “yeah, that happened” scenario that I’d let go of once life moved

on. But now, given what Owen was dissecting, I let the feelings resurface.

“I think it started when my sixth-grade middle school teacher made fun of the way I ran in front of the entire class.”

His face clouded over. “What?”

Owen’s reaction added some heft to a memory I’d written off.

“Yeah.” I nodded, staring across the empty room as the pieces of what had happened swam back into focus. “We were doing some

dumb indoor sprinting thing, and right after I had my turn, Mr. Albertson told the class that I looked like a drunk penguin

when I ran. And everyone laughed at me.”

“A teacher said that?” Owen asked with shock in his voice. “Why?”

I huffed out a laugh. “I was a lot back then. Sort of a ringleader. Loud and silly. Probably annoying. Maybe he wanted to—I

don’t know—take me down a peg? Shut me up? Let me tell you, it worked. Every time he made a crack about me, like calling me

‘Little Miss Cement Sneakers,’ I wilted. Some of the boys would imitate me in this really obnoxious way. Eventually, I stopped

trying.”

“That fucker crushed your spirit.”

It was an angle I’d never considered.

“I started manufacturing a lot of headaches and stomachaches so I could sit out gym class,” I continued. “When I got a little

older, I added cramps. And when I was forced to participate, I tried to change the way I ran.”

“Is that why you do that little skipping thing when I tell you to run toward the net? I thought you were just being cute.”

He thought it was cute ?

“I guess that’s my work-around?” I let out a shuddery sigh as all the old self-conscious feelings flooded through me.

“Well, it stops now,” Owen said as he pulled his phone out of his shorts. He fiddled with it, and a few seconds later, obnoxious

EDM music filled the club. He reached out and grabbed my hand. “C’mon. Let’s run.”

“What?” I sputtered as he pulled me along. I leaned back and resisted, tripping behind him.

“We’re running together,” he yelled over the music. “Exposure therapy.”

“But...”

His hand was gripped around mine, warm and tight. My choices were either to let him drag me along like an unruly puppy on

a leash or to kick my pace into overdrive to keep up.

I dropped the nine-dollar pink-and-yellow Amazon paddle I’d bought, which Owen had told me was an insult to the game, and

tried to avoid tripping over my own feet.

I felt myself reverting to my usual baby steps, but Owen’s tempo was unforgiving. He was flat-out sprinting, so fast that

his hat wobbled around on his head. He reached up to fling it off mid-stride, and when he looked back at me over his shoulder,

my heart triple-timed.

Up until this moment, I’d never seen him really laugh. A few grins, sure, but the way his face transformed into a crinkly, eye-squinting guffaw was so joyful that it was

impossible not to laugh with him, despite the way my calves were already shrieking. We probably looked as silly as it felt,

dashing around the place like two dorks running from the rain.

The noise must’ve woken Marti up from her bed in the office, because suddenly she was right there jogging beside us, her barky

commentary adding to the insanity of the scene.

The music was loud enough that I could almost feel it in my chest, and I found myself adjusting my pace to the beat with Owen.

“Open up that stride,” he coached over the music. “Try to match mine.”

As if it was actually possible given the height difference.

There were too many competing sensations to focus on any one, so the fact that we were holding hands was buried beneath my need to just keep up. We both could’ve let go — the closeness was a little overpowering considering we barely knew each other—but for some reason, the sensation of Owen’s

hand gripping mine was perfect in the moment.

“There she is.” Owen chuckled as I started to pull ahead.

Marti cheered me on as well, spinning and barking right next to my feet.

It actually felt shockingly good to let go and run without worrying what I looked like. My mom had always told me that our similar builds—ectomorph on the

shorter side—meant that I’d be a good marathoner, which had turned into a family joke. Brooke , running?

We completed a lap and a half around the entire place, laughing and tripping along, and I finally had to squeeze Owen’s hand and slow down to signal I couldn’t take much more.

The moment he let go, it felt like my tank dropped to empty.

I might’ve been built to run, but I certainly wasn’t conditioned for it.

I bent over at the waist and braced my hands on my knees, panting.

“Was that okay?” Owen asked. He pulled out his phone and turned off the music.

I glanced up at him and his hopeful, earnest expression made something tangle in my chest. Without the hat, he was a handsome

stranger, someone I was meeting for the first time. His dark eyes were full of concern for me, which was a nice break from

what I’d been experiencing with him on the court.

“Yeah,” I breathed out, still clutching my knees. “But let’s not make it a habit, okay?”

“No need at this point, but once you really start honing your basic skills, you’ll have to work on conditioning. Believe it

or not, pickleball requires endurance.”

I straightened up and laughed at the thought of it. “You’re really giving me a lot of credit.”

Owen shrugged. “You told me you have a goal; I’m going to help you achieve it. It’s what I do.”

His brow knitted, a microexpression I wouldn’t have noticed if he was bucket hatted. I wasn’t sure if it was because of the

impossibility of helping me get good at pickleball or the reason why I wanted to in the first place.

I hoped he’d forget that his hat was still in a sad mound on the other side of the building from us. I felt privileged seeing

all of his face, like he was sharing a secret side of himself with me. I sort of deserved it since I’d just confessed buried

childhood trauma to him. The least he could do in return is allow me to take in the full range of his expressions.

Like now. His gaze rested on me with a softness that told me he understood how momentous the lesson had been for me.

“Let’s get to it,” he said, nodding toward the court. “Time’s wasting. I’ll put Marti back in the office, otherwise she’ll

steal the balls.”

He scooped up the little dog and kissed the top of her head so quickly that I almost missed it.

I didn’t consider spending time with the kinder, gentler Owen Miller wasted time. Now that I knew he existed, I hoped he’d

stick around.

We headed back to what was becoming “our” court. Owen detoured to grab his hat, and I was half tempted to tell him to leave

it off.

“I started your book last night,” he said as he bent over to retrieve my paddle. “I’m really enjoying it.”

I had my usual seasick reaction to hearing that a new acquaintance was reading one of my horny, feel-good stories.

“Oh, thanks,” I replied as my cheeks went warm. “I’m glad.”

I wondered if he’d gotten to Trent and Eliza’s first kiss. I liked writing slow burns, but once that imaginary boundary between

my couples was breached, watch out. Someone was getting off.

“I know you’re looking to Kai to be your muse, but I have some thoughts that might help you.”

He handed over my paddle, then walked away to grab his, leaving me to wonder what editorial insights my pickleball instructor

was about to offer me.