Page 32 of Pick Me

CPA during regular business hours felt like a foreign country. I was used to quiet mornings with Owen, not the chaos of a

busy Saturday afternoon. Nearly every court was in use, and I could see a crowd waiting at the smoothie bar.

“Damn. Swanky place,” Wes said as we ducked out of the rain and into the lobby.

“Not at all what I was expecting,” Claudia added, swiveling her head to take in the living plant wall and lounge chairs in

one of the hangout spaces.

I puffed up with pride like I was actually a sustaining member, until it struck me that I was enjoying the perks of the club

without paying a penny.

Yeah, I was actually a leech, and Owen would probably be glad to get rid of me once my lessons were officially marked complete.

I stuffed down any thoughts about the end of the line and forced myself to focus on the moment.

“Wait until you see the locker rooms,” I replied.

My worlds were about to collide, and I was feeling shockingly okay about it.

Probably because Wes was one of those people who took the spotlight trained on him and bounced it outward, making everyone else the focus.

He knew how to make people in his orbit feel comfortable and important, from the littlest fanboys to the moms with crushes.

Everybody loved Wes and everybody loved Owen, for different but related reasons. They’d be besties within three minutes.

We’d planned to play a few games and then get ready at CPA for a big night out, which included cocktails, then dinner at a

fancy restaurant Wes picked, then ending up at the bar to hang with Meredith.

“You remembered the stadium shirt, right?” I whispered to Wes.

“Damn straight.” He grinned back. “I need to thank the man who coached you to greatness.”

I was about to say something sarcastic about being less than great, but Owen’s voice echoing in my head reminded me to speak

about myself as if I were talking about a friend.

We were twenty minutes early for our assigned time, partially because Wes wanted to fight for the right to pay for the games.

The guy at the front desk glanced up at Wes and briefly widened his eyes, which was the normal Manhattan trying-to-play-it-cool-in-the-presence-of-a-minor-celebrity

response.

“Oh, hey,” he said, quickly looking at Claudia and me and determining that Wes was the only VIP. “Checking in?”

I pushed up to the desk beside Wes. “Yup, we’re the four o’clock on court twelve.”

“And we still need to pay the guest fee,” Wes added with his signature smile.

The guy nodded and refocused on the laptop in front of him. “Actually, you’re all set, no payment necessary. Do you need a

tour? I’d be happy to show you around.”

Since I was rarely there during business hours, he didn’t know that I was just as qualified to give the tour.

Owen appeared from his office, no doubt because he’d been watching the CCTV for us.

“Not necessary, Marcus, I’ve got this.”

I tried not to stare as he stalked toward us, because it was yet another Owen I wasn’t acquainted with. Not the Brooklyn book-signing

version or the vacation-casual Hamptons-party guy, but a naked-headed pickleball god .

He was wearing a dark gray slim-fit T-shirt that looked like it was made of wicking fabric and black shorts that actually

fit his body instead of swimming on it, which were short enough to show off shockingly defined thighs.

I cleared my throat and looked away before he could catch me admiring him. It was better for both of us that I’d never met

this side of him when we were sweaty and alone.

“Hey, folks, welcome to the Chelsea Pickleball Academy,” he said, hand outstretched to Wes. “I’m Owen. Big fan.”

Wes clasped his hand and pulled him into a bro hug, complete with twin thumps on each other’s backs. “Good to meet you, man.

Brooke’s told me a lot about you.”

It was true. I’d been accidentally hyping up Owen to Wes since my second lesson.

Wes stepped aside. “This is my fiancée, Claudia.”

“Fiancée? Wow.” Owen gave an approving nod as they shook hands. “Congratulations, that’s great.”

He finally glanced at me, and our eyes snagged.

“Hey.”

I could pull so much context from the single syllable. He said it softly, like he was offering a truce while my family was present. There’d be no bottled-up drama between us today, just good old-fashioned competition.

“Hey,” I said back with a smile and little nod to signify I understood.

“So how are we doing this?” Wes asked, interrupting the moment. “Guys against girls? Siblings versus...” He trailed off,

because “fiancée and coach” sounded clunky.

Owen glanced at me. “Considering I’ve been working with this one for ages and we’ve never actually played a real game together,

I’d like to be on her team for at least the first game if that’s okay.”

My heart warmed at the thought of us finally on the same side of the court.

“Makes sense.” Wes bobbed his head. “Oh, before I forget, I brought you something. A little hooty-hoot for you.” He knelt

to dig into his bag and pulled out a white-and-navy Barnham Owls shirt. “Wear it proudly.”

Owen looked awestruck as he took the thing. “Are you kidding ? Thank you!”

His grin was as wide as the little boy’s at Penn Station.

“Just don’t wear it tonight; otherwise, he’ll look like a plonker with his fan club,” Claudia cautioned.

“Tonight?” Owen frowned as his eyes shifted to me.

“Oh, uh,” I stammered at the accidental invitation. “We’re going out tonight, to dinner and stuff—”

“You’re coming with us, right?” Wes demanded. “Losers buy the first round of drinks. Not that I’m implying anything, but maybe

I am ?”

Owen’s jaw worked as he glanced between us.

“You should come,” I said softly.

He let out a little sigh as he weighed his options.

“Unless you already have plans,” I added.

I held my breath, because the buffer Wes and Claudia would provide could help patch things up between us even more.

“Yeah, that sounds great,” he said, fixing his gaze on me. “Thanks.”

There was no reason to be nervous, seeing as I had a ringer on my team, but I felt like I was about to perform for Owen and my brother. It was more than a game; it was my sporty debut.

I hadn’t even factored Claudia into the equation, but after her white-hot game-starting serve, I shifted my focus. It wasn’t

just a test of my performance. We needed to win .

Claudia’s serve bounced on my side of the court.

“All you,” Owen coached softly as I ran for it, even though I already knew it was mine.

I didn’t want to begin the game by getting overexcited and hitting it out-of-bounds, so I chanted “soft, soft, soft” as I

readied my paddle.

I returned it cleanly, and we were off.

Wes came in hot with bangers; Owen and I worked on owning the kitchen. Wes was playing like a show-off, smacking back every

ball hard . It was impressive, sure, but it wasn’t a sound long-term strategy. He’d eventually get sloppy or wear out. At least that’s

what I hoped, although given his life was fitness, I wasn’t sure it was possible.

The soft-play defensive strategy on our side of the court worked for a while, but I could sense Owen getting antsy to smack

a few balls back at Wes. I knew he had just as much power and better form, but he was letting Wes get overconfident.

Owen was playing chess.

At one of our early lessons, he’d told me that as the game skewed more bro-y, it was starting to resemble tennis, with more hard shots as opposed to long dink rallies that were easier for newbies and older players.

I could definitely see it happening as we played.

Wes had an occasional player’s approach—smack the shit out of the ball every time it came near—not a real strategy.

Owen had taught me more than just the mechanics of the game. He’d shown me how to pick up on my opponent’s tells and go-to

shots and how to best counter them. Neither one of us got stressed as Wes and Claudia pulled ahead.

After they scored another point, Owen walked over to me, spinning his paddle in his hand, his tell for venting frustration.

“Your returns are great, but let his big shots go out. Remember to watch his swing; that’ll tell you what’s coming. Don’t

be a hero and jump to try to steal them out of the air. Just let them sail by, okay? I know that goes against every instinct,

but trust me.”

I nodded and palmed the damp tendrils off my forehead. “He’s got no finesse,” I muttered.

“Exactly,” Owen agreed. “And that’s how we win.”

After all our time working together, it felt like our game was psychic. A simple nod or grunt from Owen and I knew what I

was supposed to do. And he gave me the space to make choices on my own rather than doubting me and cutting me off.

I watched Owen start returning shots that required Wes to either use his dicey backhand, or run around the ball awkwardly

to try to hit it forehand, or miss it completely. I followed suit and frustrated the hell out of my brother.

Claudia did her best to emulate Wes, probably because he’d taught her to play.

Her shots didn’t have the same zippiness, which allowed me to counter with the drop shots Owen had taught me.

I loved Wes’s groans of frustration as he raced to the kitchen to try to return my balls, only to watch it bounce, bounce, bounce before he could reach it.

“What the hell, Brooke?” Wes complained as I fired my own banger down the middle after a series of dinks. “You’re on fire.”

I shrugged a shoulder, trying to play it off like it was no big deal, and turned to Owen for confirmation.

He winked at me and held his paddle out to tap mine. “Nice.”

No surprise, we won the first three games. By the last one, Wes finally put his analytical skills to work and abandoned his

strategy of “all bangers all the time.” He and Claudia opted to hang out at the kitchen line, and we started having long dink

rallies, which, given we’d been at it over an hour and a half, was a welcome break.

It was as if Owen and I had wordlessly agreed to take it easy on them, to end on a high note. It was a squeaker—we technically

could’ve crushed them—but Wes and Claudia won the final game.

The four of us met at the net to touch paddles.

“Who are you?” Wes asked me in amazement as he wiped sweat from his forehead with the hem of his T-shirt. “You’re so goddamned good!”

He turned to Owen. “What did you do to her?”

We all paused to glance at Owen, and I felt a little itchy about how he might answer the question. Owen had definitely done

something to me; I just couldn’t figure out what.

Our eyes met, and suddenly it was just the two of us.

“I didn’t do anything,” he answered, still locked on me. “I just helped Brooke see what was always there.”