“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 gotplentyof time.”
My frustration at myself boiled over when the ball flew from my paddle for the billionth time.
“But Idon’thave 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?”
Chapter Eight
His suspicious expression made me regret my blurt.
Suddenly, the club felt airless, and the hum of the overhead lights had the same annoying, barely audible whine as bug zappers.
I stood motionless with my paddle hanging limply at my side, trying to come up with a reason why I needed to fast-track my lessons. Making up stories was what I did for a living, so why couldn’t I spin a convincing juke that would keep Owen from thinking I was an obsessed stalker?
But he was also my conduit. If I was honest with Owen, maybe he’d figure out a way to broker a game with Kai?
My desperation must’ve telegraphed across my face, because he softened as he studied me. “Is it a work thing? You need to brush up on your skills so you can play with clients or something?”
I bit the inside of my cheek as I considered how much to tell him. He looked worried, like he was as invested in my quest to master the sport as I was, no matter the reason. In the past hour, I’d experienced a couple different versions of Owen: a supportive, you-can-do-it coach and a hard-driving taskmaster. I liked this new side of him, the one reassuring me that we’re a team and we’vegotthis.
“I’m a writer,” I began slowly. “I’ve been writing romances for a few years now. Cowboy romances.”
Owen bobbed his head. “Very cool. I’m a big reader. Where can I check out your work?”
My heart melted a little at his question. Most guys made jokes about “mommy porn” when I mentioned what I did for a living. Even Leo had asked to read “just the dirty parts” of my books. I’d quickly schooled him about the clean/dirty debate in the romance world, making sure that he understood that “spicy” was a much better descriptor, since sex wasn’t inherently dirty.
Although sometimes it was, in the best possible way.
“Online mostly. They’re ebooks,” I explained, without mentioning that I wrote under a pen name. “Anyway, I’ve been in a rut lately. I had a bad breakup, and getting into the right headspace to create happily ever afters has basically been impossible for me.”
The corners of his mouth turned down. “Oh, wow. Sorry to hear that.”
“Thanks. I have a deadline coming up fast, so I’m sort of desperate to find some inspiration.”
Owen eyed me suspiciously. “Andpickleballis going to inspire your writing? Kind of a stretch, but okay. I’m down to help you get where you need to be.”
Part of me didn’t want to admit that I was only into the game for the vibes and not the love of the sport. It seemed shallow, and as much as I never wanted to bethatgirl, it felt very pick me. I was pretending to be into pickleball to attract a guy’s attention. Still... desperate times. A deadline. Bills. I forced myself to keep going.
“You know that guy you teach on Thursdays? Kai?”
Owen took off his hat and smoothed his hair back. I tried not to stare, because it was the first time I’d seen him without his ubiquitous hat, and I was shocked by how good he looked naked headed. The mullet-esque section that looked a little scrubby peeking out the back was actually luxurious in its full glory. Thick, wavy chestnut hair that was so healthy I wanted to ask what kind of shampoo he used.
“Kai Dorset? What about him?” Owen asked warily as he pulled the hat back on.
His last name—another piece of the puzzle.
I cleared my throat. “It turns out he’s sort of like...” I steeled myself to admit it out loud. “My muse. Or he’s going to help mefindmy muse. Or a combination of both. I hope.”
It came out sounding even weirder than I’d imagined.
