Page 2 of Pick Me
So far, my “say yes” campaign was turning up mixed results.
The Houndmaster had indeed asked to hang out after our meet-poop, and right as I was starting to think that we were clicking
over coffee, he’d mentioned his yearlong, on-again, off-again “situationship.” He’d actually looked surprised when I excused
myself, before I was even halfway through my latte.
But there were highlights to saying yes as well, like a front row seat at an experimental theater performance with a group
of writer friends (the show was terrible, but we laughed our butts off) and going to a top secret purse sample sale with a
woman who literally “psst”-ed me as I was walking by and told me that I could be her plus-one to get in. I’d walked out with
a coin purse in the shape of cherries, a little treat that I couldn’t afford.
The inspiration itself so far wasn’t great, but I’d been managing about two hundred not-so-solid words per day since I’d started
saying yes to random stuff. My muse hadn’t returned, but at least I’d have something to show once my due date rolled around, even if it was bound to get savaged.
In this moment, I was second-guessing my willingness to be open to new experiences. I headed to Meredith’s room feeling like a fraud in borrowed workout gear after having said yes to what now felt like the worst idea ever.
“Oh my gosh, you look so good ,” Meredith exclaimed when I walked in. “Daniel’s going to love you!”
I squinted at her, then down at the white sleeveless shirt and black skort she’d loaned me. “I feel like I’m impersonating
you.”
As if anyone could confuse me for the willowy goddess. The skirt that looked cheeky on her was downright Catholic school uniform
on me, and not in a sexy Halloween costume way. In an “I was elected hall monitor; I need to see your bathroom pass” kind
of way.
It didn’t help that I was still in a growing-out-a-breakup-haircut phase. Hacking off six inches of my chestnut hair had felt
like the right move in the moment, but now I was stuck with a lob that was too short for a real ponytail. When I actually
put forth a little effort, I could make it look semi-cute, but lately nothing had felt worthy, which meant I was about to
subject the world to a ponytail the size of a cocktail weenie.
“Stop, you’re totally owning it! And that’s half the battle,” Meredith said. “Look like you know what you’re doing, and everything
else will follow.”
“But I don’t know what I’m doing,” I protested gently, plucking at the skort. “I’m not exactly athletic.”
“Trust me, pickleball is super easy.”
“Says the woman who’s basically ready to go pro after a week of playing.”
As predicted, Meredith had dominated the court and fallen in love with the game, so when Colton had suggested a round of mixed
doubles with his buddy Daniel from work, she used my “say yes” campaign to trap me into playing with them.
“Honestly, this is less about pickleball and more about you meeting Daniel,” she assured me. “Colton swears he’s great.”
She’d shown me his photo and he was decent-looking, so I wasn’t totally dreading that part of the pickleball equation. Sandy
hair, a square jaw, and a smile that made him look like he’d just told a joke and was waiting for people to laugh. In any
other scenario, I would’ve passed, but Meredith had giddily reminded me that I didn’t have much of a choice.
Which was why I found myself on the hallowed grounds of the Chelsea Pickleball Academy, a way fancier place than I’d anticipated. The vibes there felt more upscale coworking space than gym, with a clean black-and-white
aesthetic and windows overlooking the skyline. My initial understanding of people who played pickleball was that they skewed
boomer and wore visors, Skechers, and “It’s Five O’Clock Somewhere” T-shirts. The people on the courts around us all looked
like part-time models, especially Colton and Meredith, with their matching, blinding blondness.
Daniel was cuter in real life than his photos, a surprise plus. After we were introduced, I’d caught his reflection in a window
as he pointed at me, then did a victory fist pump, making Colton laugh and me feel better about my outfit. I knew right away
that I wasn’t going to be into him, but maybe I’d still enjoy our forced fun?
If I wasn’t so sports averse, I might’ve admitted that a date on the pickleball court was a decent first hang. Rather than
dealing with awkward small talk, we’d gotten right to the rules, with all three of them trying to dumb them down for me but
making it twice as confusing.
Dinking in the kitchen zone, mandatory double bounce—it was a lot to take in for someone who’d stopped playing orga nized sports in middle school.
What made it worse was that the court we’d been assigned backed up to the club’s juice bar, which meant everyone camped out for a postgame smoothie could watch my carnage.
“Let’s get out there,” Colton had finally suggested after going over the rules twice. “We’ll just have some fun.”
“You’ve got this,” Meredith said to me as she moved into position across the court from me.
“Hey, don’t fraternize with the enemy.” Daniel laughed but sounded a little serious at the same time. He looked at me. “Remember, pickleball is easy to learn but tough to master.”
I gulped as I nodded at him because even the learning part had been hard for me so far. I glanced around as they all got into
position and assumed serious, spread-legged stances.
“Yo, keep that paddle up, Brooke,” Daniel coached over his shoulder at me. “If you stay ready, you don’t have to get ready.”
I refrained from rolling my eyes at him. There was a fine line between helping and mansplaining.
“Zero, zero, start,” Colton announced as he got into position for the underhand serve that kicked off the torture.
Of course, the ball came directly to me.
I wasn’t about to fail right out of the gate, so I rushed toward it, swinging the paddle back and forth around my body like
it was a flyswatter.
“Brooke, watch the kitchen ,” Daniel scolded as my paddle connected with the ball. “Come on!”
I was thrilled that I managed to hit the ball but mortified when it popped straight up and went flying onto the next court
over, which was occupied by two very intense players.
I grimaced and hunched my shoulders to my ears when they both froze and turned to glare at me. “Sorry! Sorry!”
The guy closer to me scooped the ball and then served it back in my direction, and when I reached up to try to receive it, the ball ricocheted off my paddle and back to his side. He opted to jog it over to me.
“First time?” he asked, smiling as he handed over the ball.
I tried to answer him and couldn’t find any words, because the slightly sweaty guy grinning at me was jaw-droppingly good-looking.
Between the messy hair, black-brown eyes, bright smile, and adorable little mole next to his mouth, I was an instant goner.
“Yup, total virgin here,” I finally managed. I did a stupid little wave with my paddle, making my response that much more
mortifying.
He graced me with a half smile. “Hopefully they’ll be gentle with you, then. Good luck out there.”
He dashed back to his court before I could say anything else, and I stood there watching his calves for what felt like a solid
five minutes.
“Brooke?” Meredith called. “You okay?”
I snapped back to life. “Yup, all good. What happens now?”
Daniel stalked over to me, and I pretended to pay attention while he explained everything I’d just done wrong, as well as
what I needed to do to fix it. I nodded along, but all I kept thinking was WHO IS THE PICKLEBALL GOD ON THE NEXT COURT?
It was an involuntary full-body reaction that left me incapable of doing anything but sneaking glances at the court beside
us. It felt like that tender part of my heart had been cauterized ever since Leo, like the only way for me to continue existing
was to cut off the blood supply to a faulty organ. So what was this hopeful sweaty palms feeling?
And more importantly, did my muse just flit back into my life?
Daniel seemed to figure out that playing doubles with me was the equivalent of being on his own, plus I stopped trying after
realizing that he kept reaching in front of me any time the ball bounced near my zone. Meredith mouthed, “Sorry,” across the
net to me after twenty minutes of trying to stay out of his way.
We wound up losing, no surprise, and the moment the game was over, I focused all my attention on the court beside us, hoping
that my new obsession might glance my way. He didn’t, but his opponent, a bigger, burly guy in a black bucket hat that looked
completely off-brand for the club, couldn’t stop glancing my way.
Daniel walked over to me, forcing me to tone down my gawking. “Losers buy the winners smoothies. I can put it all on my house
account if you don’t have your credit card with you.”
“Oh, uh, I, um,” I stuttered, momentarily stunned that he was implying that I, as the biggest loser of our team, deserved
to foot the bill. “It’s in the locker room. I can go get it or...”
“It’s fine.” He waved his hand at me peevishly. “Let’s go.”
Daniel walked away to join Meredith and Colton in line at the bar, smacking his paddle against his leg with each step. I didn’t
know him, but it was clear he was not happy being paired with me, my cuteness notwithstanding.
And we still had two more games to go.
“It’s your grip,” a voice echoed from behind me.
I turned to find the bucket hat player from the next court over holding his paddle in the air in front of him, his eyes burning
holes into me.
He looked like he was dressed to clean a garage, in a white Chelsea Pickleball Academy–branded T-shirt and oversized red basketball shorts. I half expected to see Nike slides and gym socks instead of sneakers when I looked down at his feet.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
He stalked closer. “The reason your ball kept flying up was because your grip was off. Instead of doing this”—he mimicked
the awkward way I hadn’t realized I’d been holding the paddle—“try this.”
He held the paddle up vertically, placed his right palm on the hitty part, and then slid his hand down to the handle to grip
it.
“Like a handshake,” he explained. “It should feel really natural. Try it.”
He nodded to the paddle in my hand and I mimicked his movements.
“There you go.” He nodded approvingly. “Your next game should go a little smoother now. If your partner will actually let
you take a shot.”
I spotted the hot guy he’d been playing against heading toward us, freshly showered and in his street clothes. It was summer,
so he wasn’t in the Midtown dude uniform of navy slacks and a gray vest, but I could tell he probably worked in finance by
the light blue button-down and the massive silver linked watch on his wrist.
My heart sped up as he walked closer to us.
“Oh, my doubles partner?” I replied in an overloud voice, sneaking a glance to see how far away the hot guy was and timing
what I was about to say next so he’d be able to hear it. “Just met him today. I barely know him.”
The hot guy paused right next to us as I finished. Perfect. He glanced at me, then at Bucket Hat.
“Good time, bro,” he said, offering Bucket Hat a fist bump. “Thanks.”
“You know it.”
I smiled prettily at my obsession. “Hey, thanks for saving my ball.”
He looked at me like I’d just entered his field of vision. “Oh yeah. No problem. Hope losing your virginity wasn’t too painful.”
I laughed way harder than was necessary as he walked away, until I glanced at Bucket Hat and saw his sour expression.
He was actually sort of cute, in a disheveled way. If he cut the scraggly mullet poking out from beneath the back of the hat
and shaved his five-o’clock shadow, I’d even call him handsome, but the guy seemed committed to looking like a janitor.
“Kai,” he yelled after my fake boyfriend.
Of course his name was Kai. It was a quintessential hot guy name, which was why I’d used it for cowboys in three of my books.
“Yeah?”
“You gotta fortify that volley,” Bucket Hat shouted to him. “Drill it, okay?”
It was another language that I was suddenly more interested in mastering.
“Done,” Kai said as he backed away. “See you Thursday.”
And now I knew his schedule. Perfect.
Bucket Hat glanced back at me. “Anyway, good luck. If you keep that grip, I promise you’ll do better on your next game. Don’t
be afraid to take your shot, even if your partner gets in your way.”
“He’s not officially my partner,” I reminded him, just in case.
“Right,” Bucket Hat replied with a nod. “You can’t be a real partner until you learn how to play.”
I was about to pretend to be insulted by his implication, but he turned and walked away before I could say anything.
Meredith joined me, holding out a pale yellow smoothie. “Recharge.” She glanced over her shoulder to where Colton and Daniel
were practicing various swings. “That was... not great. Sorry. Do you hate it?”
“No, not at all,” I lied. “Because I think I just met my future husband.”