Page 41 of Pick Me
“You look like a winner,” Meredith said to me as I twisted to scan my reflection in the mirror. “Scary strong.”
I’d opted to wear an old standard for the tournament, my black sleeveless shirt and skort, because I didn’t want to worry
about surprise scratchy tags or too-small arm holes as Howard and I kicked ass.
But of course, the tournament was no big deal, which meant there was no need for a spiffy new outfit. I was just playing a
slightly more regulated game than usual. We wouldn’t have to worry if a ball was in or out; the ref would tell us. I wasn’t
even a little nervous, or at least that’s what I kept telling myself. Meredith and Colton were coming to watch, and Nia told
me she was with me in spirit while she was off signing books on the West Coast.
The one person I needed to be there still hadn’t responded to me.
I couldn’t dedicate any headspace to worrying about Owen even though my regrets were constant low-level background noise in my head.
I didn’t have to be consciously thinking about him; Owen was always with me.
I knew exactly how he’d respond after every shot I made on the court, either offering a correction or celebrating my progress.
Whenever I heard a perfectly placed ball bounce off my paddle with the telltale thwack, Owen was there.
He’d taught me how to differentiate between a ball bouncing off the edge of the paddle and one hitting the sweet spot, and now I couldn’t unhear it.
“Colt is meeting us there,” Meredith said as she grabbed her things. “We should probably head over. Registration and all that.”
Meredith seemed bossier than usual, like she was nervous for me, which sent an unwelcome kink to my gut. I had to keep reminding
myself that the tournament was nothing more than achieving a goal. I didn’t have to win; I just had to play. To prove to myself
that I could.
“Yup,” I said. I grabbed my bag. “I’m ready.”
I walked outside half expecting the street to be crowded with people in court gear carrying paddles, like it was the Thanksgiving
Day parade but make it pickleball.
I clearly hadn’t fully convinced myself that the tournament wasn’t big deal.
When we arrived at Wollman Rink, I reversed my perception yet again. It was the first year holding the tournament on the beautiful
pop-up courts, and it seemed to have made a difference in the level of excitement. The low-key vibe of past years I’d clocked
in photos had leveled up, big-time.
“ Damn ,” Meredith said, widening her eyes at the long registration line. “Glad we’re early.”
I shivered despite the hot sun. This was supposed to be an unsanctioned, easy-peasy, fun tournament, but the gathering crowd
suggested otherwise.
Owen had mentioned the seasonal courts at Central Park when we first started training together, but I’d opted out when I looked up photos of them.
Initially, I wasn’t in the headspace to try to navigate the fourteen very busy, by-reservation courts.
I was happier hiding out at CPA off-hours or at crappy, old Jimmie McDaniel, playing with whoever showed up that day.
Now I was about to make my competitive debut on the fancy periwinkle-and-turquoise courts. There were already spectators ringing
them, leaning over the barrier and sitting on top of it. I spotted a guy handing out sports drink samples. Someone else selling
pickleball T-shirts and hats.
And a local news van.
Fuck. It was a big deal.
“I don’t see Howard,” I said as I scanned the crowd. “Maybe he changed his mind?”
Meredith laughed at me. “I know what you’re doing. Stop. He’ll be here, you’ll play your best, and we’ll be so proud of you
no matter what happens.”
An arm slid around my shoulders. “Meredith’s right. We’re already proud of you.”
I turned abruptly. “Dad?” I spotted my mom right behind him. “Oh my god, what are you guys doing here?”
He was beaming at me proudly, his eyes squinting up behind his round glasses.
“How could we miss it?” my mom asked as she swooped in for a tight hug. She was in her usual Athleta gear, looking fit enough
to jump on a court and dominate. “Wes told us how good you are, and he mentioned the tournament, which you neglected to tell
us about, so we coordinated with Meredith to be here.”
“You did this?” I asked Meredith as I hugged my dad.
She gave me a mischievous grin. “I helped.”
“But it’s just a stupid match,” I sputtered as I glanced between them. “You shouldn’t have come; it’s nothing.”
My dad took my hand and squeezed it. “We watch your brother play, and now we’re going to watch you. We’re very excited to be here. This is a big deal, Brookie.”
Seeing them was a balm on my soul given everything going wrong in my life, but it also put an extra layer of pressure on the
day. They were about to witness a version of me they’d never experienced.
“Seriously, you guys, it’s nothing. I’m sorry you’re wasting your Saturday. It won’t take too long; we can grab lunch after
and try to salvage—”
“ Stop ,” my mom scolded gently. She reached over to smooth a loose strand of hair off my forehead. “We brought chairs; we’re ready
to camp out for as long as it takes to see you win.”
Of course they brought chairs, because they were well-versed in organized sports spectatorship.
My phone buzzed and I clawed at it nervously. “It’s Howard. I need to meet him at registration. His wife is with him too.”
I stared at the three of them, still gape-mouthed with shock. “I guess I should go... but I don’t know which court we’re
going to be on so do you want me to—”
“Go,” my dad said with a laugh and hand flap. “We’ll find you. Don’t worry about us.”
“We’re grown-ups; we’ll be fine,” Meredith added. “Get your head in the game, woman!”
I watched them for a beat longer, gave them all quick hugs, then jogged off to find Howard.
Hours later, when the sun was finally sliding off the courts, Howard and I were sweaty, tired, and semi-victorious.
He’d been right about the dress rehearsal aspect of our last game together, because we couldn’t have played better.
I’d worried that the spectators just outside of my field of vision would throw me off, especially knowing that my parents were among them for my sporty debut, but every gasp and cheer from the crowd made me play harder.
In the end, we wound up in a very respectable third place in our bracket.
Howard couldn’t stop smiling at me. He’d worn all black as well, even switching to a black visor instead of wearing his blue
“Professor Pickleball” cap so we’d look like a united front. The age difference between us probably threw off our competitors,
which we used to our advantage to finesse our way to third place.
We waited for our bracket’s turn on the podium, cheering on the rest of the players as they collected their prizes.
“What’s in the envelopes?” I nodded to one of the sponsors handing out green Parks T-shirts and small gift envelopes to the
winners. “I didn’t realize that we’d actually get something other than bragging rights.”
“I think some free court time here? Quite an improvement over poor old Jimmie, yes?”
I glanced around the manicured arena. “It’s an upgrade for sure, but I’m partial to Jim. Great times with great people.”
Although moving my game to courts without any Owen memories made sense. I could start fresh in a place where we’d never spent
time together.
We watched another group pose for photos on the podium.
“I’m surprised that we did so well but also not,” Howard said. “There was some real talent out there.”
I gave him a soft punch to the shoulder. “No one expected Hurricane Howard.”
He chuckled. “Likewise, you surprised everyone with Brooke’s bodacious backhand.”
“My secret weapon,” I agreed.
That Owen had taught me.
“Let’s have the winners from group six,” a guy with a mic said, pacing near the podium. “Group six, please.”
“That’s us.” Howard nudged me.
We walked toward the podium, and a shout went up, including my dad’s two-fingered whistle, which I’d heard a million times
at Wes’s soccer games. I laughed and waved at my cheering section, which also included Howard’s lovely wife, Susan.
We shook hands with the two other teams that beat us and took our spot on the riser.
Third place felt fucking amazing .
“Okay, folks, presenting our group six awards, we’ve got our newest sponsor, the Chelsea Pickleball Academy,” the organizer
said. “Big round of applause for this gold-level sponsor.”
I was so busy making faces at Meredith and Colton while they snapped pictures that the words didn’t register at first, until
I saw a familiar form emerge from the cabana clutching a stack of T-shirts.
“ Owen ?” I whispered as he loped closer, dressed for a country club.
“Hey, that’s your coach!” Howard cheered. “Would you look at that? Serendipity!”
But I knew it wasn’t.
Owen was here for a reason, and I fucking hoped that it was me.