I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from tearing up.
A text buzzed in and I grabbed at my phone like it was a lifeline. It was from Claudia, not Owen responding to my three increasingly desperate messages.
Forgot to send this to you. Very cute!
It was a slightly off-center photo taken out on the street on our way to the restaurant, an unguarded moment between me and Owen in the misty darkness. The rain forced us to share an umbrella so we were huddled close, and based on the way our bodies were aligned and our strides were matched, it looked like we were dance partners heading out to wow the judges. Owen was talking and smiling, and I was looking up at him with a slightly awestruck expression, like he was revealing the secrets of the universe, or at least how to improve my backspin. We were illuminated from behind by a passing car’s headlights, making the falling rain sparkle like a million diamonds all around us.
I stared at the photo for a long time, scrutinizing every detail. Whatever we’d shared was something worth fighting for.
Thanks for sending. Safe travels. XO
I padded across the room to leave my phone on the kitchen counter, because I needed zero distractions for what I already knew was going to be a crappy writing session. Lately, I’d been excited to tease out the details of Austin and Abby’s shifting relationship, but today I felt zero pull to open the document. Even Einar and Zandria couldn’t get me into the right headspace.
I propped my elbows up on the kitchen table and stared at my laptop, willing myself to say off Reddit so I could focus.
Then I remembered that I had the perfect diversion that actually needed my attention and could be a way back to Owen: his chapter outline.
He hadn’t told me the direction he was taking for his book, but I assumed it would be a universal sporty angle, so he could tweak the content to fit any audience. I could already see him on a stage, delivering keynotes to various corporate sales teams across the country. If he packaged it right, he could make a killing, not only in speaker fees but also in back-of-the-room book sales.
I opened the document expecting some sort of vague, punny title, but his book was calledAthlete-Centered Coaching: The Importance of Balance and Empathy in Sports Mentorship.
I cocked my head like a dog hearing a siren. This most certainly wasnota universal, broad-appeal topic. I kept reading.
What Owen wanted to write was sports psychology for coaches working with everyone from student athletes up through adult trainers, not a pithy pop-psych book for corporate managers. The chapters included topics like intrinsic and external athlete motivation, resilience, emotional awareness and stress management, the myth of the obedient athlete, and the importance of observation and intuition.
He’d included a two-page reference section as well, citing various studies he planned to incorporate.
I stared into space as I considered his approach. Owen didn’t care about writing a bestseller. He was pitching a heavy, niche topic that might not find a home with a major publisher.
But it wasimportant. And if he could strike the right tone, he could transcend the psychology speak and write from the heartabout his own experiences as a young athlete with a tough coach, as well as incorporate vignettes from other athletes. I couldn’t call myself a true athlete, but even I had insights on how a long-ago throwaway comment from a coach figure had altered my self-perception.
Owen’s book needed to happen, with or without me.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Monday morning. Still no word from Owen. I was back at Jimmie McDaniel, paddle in hand, on a mission.
I was desperate for an endorphin release, but I also needed to keep practicing since the tournament was on the horizon. Part of me wanted to withdraw, but an equal part wanted to see it through. I was signed up. I had a goal. I wanted to see what real competition felt like.
I also had an ulterior motive for showing up.
I crossed my fingers as I approached the fence, and luck was on my side, because Howard was literally holding court with three other white-haired men.
“Well, good morning.” Howard waved to me as I approached. “You look like you’re ready to make my kind of trouble.”
“Hi.” I waved back. “I’ll sub in whenever.”
“We’re nearly done with this game,” one of the other men called to me. “I have to leave.”
“Sounds good,” I answered.
It wasn’t a leisurely wrap-up to the game, which was surprising given the average age on the court was probably seventyish. Their strategy was sound enough that the majority of the action was up near the kitchen, and when it was time to slapa ball out of the air as it zipped up the middle, they freakingsprinted.
I couldn’t believe the intensity I was witnessing.
They finished up and tapped paddles over the net, trash-talking the whole time.
“Get in here, Brooke,” Howard called to me. “Come meet these reprobates.”
