Page 3 of Pick Me

I didn’t consider watching the soccer match on my iPad while I “wrote” at Hell’s Coffee true procrastination since it involved

family and would dominate the afternoon’s group text. I wasn’t really paying attention since the only player I cared about

hadn’t been on the pitch yet. I half listened as Barnham City got wrecked yet again, pretending that I was working when all

I could think about was how miserable my brother was probably feeling. He was edging past his prime years playing for a team

that was under a perpetual black cloud.

My older brother, Wes, was a nepo hire in the worst possible way—the son of Albert Nelson, a beloved goalkeeper who’d helped

take the Chelsea Football Club to victory in the late eighties, then retired to the States, married my mom, had Wesley, and

died unexpectedly way too young. The long shadow cast by his late father meant that Wes rarely had a chance to shine in his

own right, especially because he’d opted to play for an English team.

I jumped when someone tapped me on my shoulder and tried not to frown as I lifted one of my headphones to see what the stranger

wanted.

The old me was fine with occasional interruptions when I was working in public, because so many rom-coms started with coffee shop serendipity.

Can I share that outlet with you? Do you like the book you’re reading?

Does the French roast taste burnt to you?

And then the next thing you know, you’re shutting the place down hours later, thanking your lucky stars that Mr. Blue Eyes

had the balls to shoot his shot. After all, it was how Leo and I had met. A crowded café (not this one, of course), with just

one open chair left at my little table in the corner. Cue the banter, prolonged eye contact, and butterflies.

Now I knew better. It didn’t matter how cute the meet; it would always end in disaster. Sure, I was still saying yes, thanks

to my pact with Meredith, but it didn’t matter because a misanthrope had evicted my tenderhearted romantic soul, which was

why I was staring at a blank page on my laptop.

But... Kai . Every time I thought about the run-in with him on the courts, I felt that dormant flutter of possibility. That inexplicable

spark of attraction had to mean something , and I was willing to bet my next book to find out.

I narrowed my eyes at the tattooed stranger who was not Kai.

“Come on, you gunners!” The guy pointed at the screen, where Coventry was celebrating yet another goal. “Am I right?”

Technically, he wasn’t right because it was Arsenal’s chant and they weren’t playing, but I didn’t want to get into it.

I bobbed my head, keeping my expression neutral. “Yup.”

He leaned closer to squint at my tablet. “Are you for Barnham City or Coventry?”

“Barnham.”

“Oof, sorry about that.” He flinched dramatically. “Why?”

I wasn’t about to mention Wes, because I didn’t want to get into the inevitable questions about how it was possible that we were related given our different skin tones.

After twenty-eight years as siblings, the “half” part didn’t even register to us.

We had the same eyes, sense of humor, and love of stupid memes.

“I like their logo,” I replied with a shrug.

I did have more than my fair share of merch featuring the Barnham City owl mascot.

“Good thing it’s an exhibition match,” the guy said. “They still have a chance to get it together before the season starts.”

I glanced back at the screen just as the camera panned to Wes as he got ready to sub in. The family group text lit up right

on cue.

“Sorry, I need to respond to this.” I held up my phone and shrugged as it pinged with messages composed of emojis and exclamation

points.

“Just when it’s about to get good,” the stranger said, nodding toward my brother’s pensive face filling the screen. “Wesley

Nelson is amazing.”

The man had a point. I put my headphones back on and refocused on the messages piling up. My parents, aunts and uncles, cousins,

and Wesley’s father’s family in England were all on it, offering their take on every aspect of the game. If positive vibrations

and manifesting were a thing, the spirit in the group text should’ve been enough to guarantee a Barnham win.

My mom took advantage of the fact that I was active on it to message me solo.

You okay, sweetheart?

I’d basically gone dark over the past few weeks, chalking it up to my deadline and downplaying the whole broken-heart thing.

But she knew better.

Yup, all good. Working

A pause as the group text swelled with pride when Wes appeared on camera again.

So handsome!

Looking fierce and ready!

Choke on it, Coventry!

Here we go, here we go, here we go

How’s the book coming? my mom texted me. Better I hope?

I scrolled over to my email account before writing back to her, hoping that there was a miracle in the form of a deadline

extension waiting for me. The only message from my editor, Piper, was the one from a few days ago that I’d ignored, asking

if I was on track for my first ten-thousand-word review. I flipped back to my draft and felt a familiar dread claw at my throat.

I’d written 1,152 words. Crappy ones at that. Hollow, simplistic, high-schooler-trying-to-hit-the-book-report-word-count words

that suggested I’d never felt a real human emotion.

Getting there, I texted back to her.

When it came to my mom, less information was always the best course of action.

She was a worrier by nature, taking on the stress of her loved ones like she was volunteering as tribute.

I knew she was already maxed out helping my dad rehab from his latest training-induced injury, which had the potential to keep him from running in the Philadelphia Marathon with her in the fall.

How’s Dad?

We paused to briefly celebrate a pass to Wes.

Better! He hates the reduced workout schedule, but he knows it’s the only strategy for his knee. I have to train when he’s

not around, otherwise he tries to join me!

Running was the foundation of my parents’ relationship. They’d met when my mom took it up after she lost Albert as a way to

channel her grief into something tangible and manageable. She’d told me that every ache she endured as she ran was a reminder

that she was still among the living, even though her broken heart made her wonder why she bothered. But she had two-year-old

Wes and the hope that maybe the endorphins she got from the Montgomery County Striders Club would be enough to get her out

of bed each day.

Then she met my dad during a 6 a.m. fun run (a total oxymoron), which proved that it was possible to have two soulmates.

Ha. Dad’s addicted to exercise. I need to get back to work now. I’m nowhere near my daily word count goal.

Do you want me to read what you’ve got?

My mom had been my beta reader for Truth and Beauty , but there was no way I wanted her reading about my strapping, horny ranchers and the women who preferred riding cowboys

over horses. There wasn’t a single romance on her bookshelf lined with literary bestsellers, which was more than enough reason

to keep my work from her, plus the fact that my last book, Saddled Up with the Sheriff’s Daughter , had the word “clit” mentioned nine times.

I knew that my ghostwritten books weren’t great works of fiction, but they did have something going for them: guaranteed happily

ever afters plus scorching open-door sex scenes. I made sure that there wasn’t one magical penis among my heroes, just hardworking

men who put in overtime between the sheets.

I’m okay, thanks, love you!

Hootie hoot, fight blue fight. Hootie hoot!!!!!

She replied with the nonsensical Barnham stadium song.

I glanced back at my tablet as the camera zoomed in on Wes running down the field. He was so damn graceful , like clearing the length of it at top speed took no effort at all.

The athletic genes that defined the rest of my family had hopscotched right over me. I’d made my peace with my two left feet,

but now the whole Kai situation made me wish for at least a little hand-eye coordination.

But maybe I could fake it? Meredith was already good enough to teach me the basics, and she’d be thrilled to broker a meet -cuter with Kai.

And then once he figured out that I wasn’t just goofing around on the courts, that I was serious about the sport with the silly name, then maybe sparks would fly?

And once that happened, I could almost guarantee my muse would be back for good.