Page 7 of Pick Me

I was a morning person when it came to everything but sports.

Getting up early for sexy times, eating, writing, shopping, or travel? No problem. But getting up to do anything that required

coordination beyond making my pour-over coffee was out of the question. Unfortunately, the seven o’clock slot was all Owen

could offer me. I was free to pick any day of the week but only at that heartless time.

I’d obviously opted for Thursday, since I was now two-for-two on Thursday Kai sightings. I knew it was unlikely I’d run into

him at the crack of dawn, and when Owen met me at the front door to unlock it for me, I realized that it was downright impossible.

My first lesson would be Kai-free, but maybe I could bring my laptop to the next one and then spend the rest of the day using

the fancy coworking space in the hopes of running into him again?

Yeah, it was weird, but I was on a mission.

“Good morning,” Owen said as he stepped out of the way to let me in. “Welcome to the first day of your new obsession.”

For now, I was fine with letting him think that my true obsession was the game and not the player.

“Good morning,” I answered as brightly as I could, given my grogginess and nerves. I looked around at the empty space. “Are we the first ones here or . . . ?”

“Yup,” he answered as he locked the door behind me. “We’re not open yet, so it’ll be just us for a bit.”

Owen was wide-awake, bucket hatted, and completely focused on me. He was in green basketball shorts, and he’d branched out

in the T-shirt department, this time in a black Wimbledon 2014 option, which, judging by the holes scattered at the seams,

had clearly seen lots of action. I still couldn’t understand how such an integral member of the Chelsea Pickleball Academy

team could write his own dress code. The other employees I’d encountered the two times I’d visited, from the people running

food to the front desk staff, all looked ready for an Insta feature. I assumed that he was a good enough coach that he could

sweet-talk his way into doing what he wanted.

Walking into the space without the sound of paddles thwacking balls and only half of the lights on made it feel eerie. I shot

a glance at Owen, hoping that he wasn’t a pickleball-playing serial killer.

I shook my head. Impossible. The meanest thing about him was probably his serve.

“I see you’re ready to go.” He nodded at my borrowed outfit, a different pleated white skort that was actually pretty cute

on me. Wasted, though, because Kai wouldn’t see me in it. “Do you want to drop your stuff in the locker room?”

I held up my small black duffel bag, which only contained my wallet, keys, and water bottle. “I’m good. Ready to start when

you are.”

Because the clock was ticking. I had a check-in call scheduled with Piper later today and I needed to crank out some words beforehand, so I could report semi-honestly about my progress. When it came to Austin and Abby, I was still running on fumes.

“Okay, let’s get you set up with a paddle,” he said. “Or do you already have one?”

I showed him my empty hands. “I have nothing, not even coordination.”

“Stop,” he chastised gently, smiling at me. “You’re going to do great.”

I knew better.

A few minutes later, I was following him with a paddle in hand to the only courts with the overhead lights on above them.

I cursed Meredith for forcing me into a scenario where an expert was going to be watching every move I made and then critiquing it all. I was self-conscious enough about my lack of grace without focused concentration looking for areas that needed improvement.

“Tell me about your background,” Owen said, fixing his gaze on me and spinning his paddle in his hand. “What type of sports

have you played?”

I grimaced. “None?”

He laughed good-naturedly, like I was joking. In a few minutes, he’d see the reason why for himself.

“What about workouts? What’s your preference?”

“Also none.”

Admitting it out loud made me feel soft and not in a moisturized way. In an I-have-no-idea-what-kettlebells-are-for way.

“Wow, okay.” He nodded. “Absolute beginner status, got it. So what drew you to pickleball?”

He watched me with a look that suggested what I said next would direct everything we did together. I hadn’t been smart enough to come up with a cover story, and admitting that I was chasing a crush on a stranger in order to find my muse would make me look certifiable.

“Uh... the social aspect?”

“Got it. You’re in the right place; pickleball is a great way to meet new people.”

I breathed a sigh of relief. First hurdle crossed.

“This sport is all about community,” he continued. “I don’t offer group classes, but after we finish up, you might want to

take some with Brandon. He’s basically the social director around here.”

I wasn’t about to admit right off the bat that the lessons were nothing more than a four-week fast track to Kai.

“Good to know,” I replied.

Owen moved a little closer to me. “Okay, first we’re going to talk grip. I noticed that’s what was tripping you up a couple

of weeks ago, and it’s a foundational aspect that I obsess about. I’m a firm believer in focusing on the basics. The worst

thing you can do is start your pickleball journey with bad habits and then try to unlearn them.” The corner of his mouth turned

up. “That’s why I love newbies like you. Clean slate.”

I felt heat rush to my cheeks at being appreciated for my beginner status, possibly for the first time ever.

“They call me the Big Gripper around here for a reason,” he continued. “Connecting your hand to your tool the right way is

the first piece of the puzzle. Show me what you’ve got.” He nodded to my paddle.

It felt like a pop quiz, and I wanted to prove that I was a good student. I mimicked what he’d shown me the first time I came

and gripped the paddle so tightly my forearm tensed.

“Nice, that’s a perfect Continental grip. You’re halfway there.” He nodded. “But are you trying to murder that paddle? Loosen up that hypergrip. Gimme some Satan fingers.”

Owen held out his paddle and released his pinkie and pointer fingers, which made him look like he was a metalhead at a concert.

“Rock and roll.” He gently closed his fingers around the paddle again.

If I couldn’t get something as simple as how to grip right, I was in trouble. I felt like I was already fucking up. Typical. I loosened my choke hold and mimicked him.

“Yes, there it is.” He nodded. “Let’s put it to work. Swing time. Now, if you had a tennis background—”

“Which I definitely don’t,” I interrupted.

“Right,” Owen continued. “But if you did, we’d have to work on getting rid of your backswing, because a lot of the action

in pickleball is out here.” He swirled the air in front of him. “To start off, all we’re going to do is... push the ball.” He swept his paddle in a graceful arc. “Try it. Push. ”

His voice softened as he said the word, like gentling his tone translated to the swing of his paddle.

I started off by accidentally strangling my paddle again, then corrected myself, and tried to look graceful as I moved it

through the air. I watched him carefully as he observed me, preemptively flinching, because even though he was trying to hide

it, I could tell by his expression that I was doing it wrong.

As usual.

“Not bad,” Owen lied. “But where’s the action?”

Another quiz, and I was ready. “Here.” I circled the air like he just demonstrated.

“Yes! The stuff back here?” He stuck his hand out to the side, then moved it backward, like he was winding up to hit a little yellow ball into the next dimension. “At this point, it’s unnecessary. We just need to connect with the ball and . . . push . Easy. Now you.”

Owen nodded to me and I commenced with pretending to hit a fake ball and feeling dorky.

“So close.” He frowned a little, and I felt a familiar dread creep through me at my inability to copycat. “One more, with

all of your action up front.”

How could I be failing already? I tried again.

“Yes, you’re almost there,” Owen cheered like I was a baby trying to feed myself a strand of spaghetti. “Hold on a sec.”

He jogged the few steps over and came to a stop about a foot behind me, close enough that I could almost feel him there. “Now swing.”

I turned abruptly. Pickleball wasn’t a contact sport, but he was close enough to me that if I brought my paddle back, I’d...

And the genius of his little lesson dawned on me.

“Okay, now I get it.” I chuckled. I walked forward a few steps.

“Nope.” He moved with me, like my shadow. “I’m going to haunt you right here until I see it. I’m risking bodily harm to help

you get your swing right.”

In a way, it was easier to pantomime playing without him staring me down, although he was close enough for me to catch the

scent of soap on his skin.

I fought against every instinct to draw my paddle back, because if I did, I’d smack him in the dick, and pushed it forward

instead.

“Yes! There it is. Again,” he shouted, ridiculously close to my ear.

I felt a little swell of pride as I repeated the motion.

“Nice! Now let’s try it with a ball.”

Owen jogged to the ball basket next to the court and then got into position opposite me beyond the net.

“Just a little push,” he coached as he dropped the ball and hit it so it landed right in front of me.

How the ball ended up whizzing past Owen once my paddle connected with it was a mystery, because I’d even chanted “just a

push, just a push” in my head as I reached for it.

“Well, you’ve got some power going for you, but you don’t need it yet.” He chuckled. “Let’s try it again, but this time, push . Everything is happening right in front of you; no need to crank it back.”

And so we continued for another ten minutes, with both sides of the court getting increasingly frustrated. I either missed

the ball completely or got too excited when I sensed that I was actually going to hit it and bombed it past him.

No surprise, I was hopeless.

“All good.” Owen stalked over to me, his easygoing expression now a smidge tighter. “We’re gonna downshift for a bit. Grab

a ball.”

I picked up one of the many littering my side of the court.

“I think we jumped in a little too quickly. Our focus now is going to be basic paddle and ball handling. Try this.”

In any other scenario, I would’ve taken advantage of the low-hanging fruit of him saying “ball handling,” but I was too in

my head to joke around.

Owen held his paddle horizontally in front of him, dropped the ball onto it, and bounced it rhythmically, keeping his body still except for the hand holding the paddle.

He made it look easy, like the ball was connected with a short elastic string, so that it smacked the exact same spot on the paddle over and over.

It was the sort of drill he’d probably use for kids just figuring out their hand-eye coordination.

Still, I went along with it and managed three bounces before the ball ricocheted away from me. Clearly I was the kid still figuring it out.

“Again,” Owen said in a tight voice. “Keep at it.”

I sighed, grabbed another ball, and attempted to not flail. I was having even less fun than I’d imagined.

“What’s that pointer finger doing?” Owen chastised as I awkwardly attempted to keep control of the ball. “This isn’t Ping-Pong.”

I realized my finger had migrated off the handle to the paddle part, and the shift back to the proper position caused the

ball to fly away again.

Owen was decidedly less teddy bear now. He watched me, wearing a frown that suggested he was regretting finding a spot on

his calendar for me.

“You’re very tight,” he said as he gestured up and down my body with his paddle. “Your forearm is flexed, which means you’re

death-gripping the paddle again, and that’s why you can’t keep control of the ball. When we play, we need to be loose...

easy... soft. But it’s okay. We’ll work this foundation stuff until you master it. We’ve got plenty of time.”

My frustration at myself boiled over when the ball flew from my paddle for the billionth time.

“But I don’t have time,” I complained. “I need to be out there, playing like I know what I’m doing, ASAP!”

My voice echoed around the empty space.

Owen regarded me in silence for a moment as the last bits of cheerful, encouraging coaching drained away. “Okay. Explain.

Why are you really here?”