He held his phone out to me, and there on the screen was a LinkedIn bio for none other than a stupidly handsome Mr. Kai Dorset.
“Okay. I’m in.”
Chapter Eleven
“Yes,” Owen yelled as the ball bounced next to him. “Goodserve. Now let’s see it five more times in a row with no pauses. Just like that. Go.”
He pointed his paddle at me, and I felt like I was in front of a one-man firing squad.
The idea of five repeat performances froze me in place. “Oh, that was a lucky shot. I don’t know if I can do it again.”
We were working on serving, which felt like an impossible mix of power, pushing, and precision. All I had to do was drop the ball, then hit it across the net to where Owen was standing. So far, my serves had either been landing in the net or on the wrong side of the court. The fact that I’d been able to marry my paddle skills with enough oomph to send the ball over the net and into the correct zone was the exception, not the rule.
Owen frowned at me. “Why can’t you say, ‘I’ll try’? You’re a WIP, remember? Your first response is always negging yourself. How about a little positivity?”
I wanted to ask him the same question, because he’d been a drill sergeant since I walked in the door. Sure, Owen praised me—lightly—when I managed to do something right, but it was as ephemeral as a soap bubble. A quick “nice” or “good,” and then he went back to demanding more.
“I’m a realist,” I replied quickly. “I know my limitations.”
“Is that a fact?” Owen straightened up out of ready position and dropped his hands to his sides. “Then we might as well quit now.”
“Excuseme?”
We stood in a silent stalemate in the half-lit space, staring at each other across the net.
“You always say something negative before I can weigh in. Even when you do something amazing, it’s like you need to reassure yourself that you’ll be back to sucking in no time. Why is that?”
“I’m not good at this sort of stuff; Itoldyou that.”
My voice echoed around the space. He’d touched a nerve.
Owen walked to the net, studying me like he knew more than he was letting on.
“This isn’t about your skills, Brooke. I’m here to help with that part. I mean how you talk about yourself.”
I looked down at the paddle in my hand. “Just calling it like I see it. I’m not athletic.”
Normally, admitting my athletic shortcomings turned into a punch line, but Owen wasn’t about to let me get away with it. And honestly, with two lessons under my belt, it sort of felt like an indictment ofhimas well.
“And how do you define athleticism?” Owen asked.
Visions of my parents with silver thermal blankets wrapped around their shoulders postrace and Wes sprinting down the field with a ball dancing between his feet crowded my thoughts.
“Coordination. Endurance,” I answered. “Grit. None of which I have.”
And all gifts I’d seen Owen exhibit as we smacked the ballaround, even though he probably handicapped himself to kindergarten level to play with me.
He pulled a ball out of his pocket and lobbed it at me, and through some miracle, I managed to spring into ready position and swat it back in his general vicinity.
“And what was that?” he asked, pointing his paddle at me.
“Luck?”
He threw his head back, let out a frustrated groan, and marched in a circle.“Seriously?”
I stomped a few steps closer to where he was having his little fit. “You’re supposed to be teaching me how to be a better player, not lecturing me.”
“And you’re supposed to maintain a positive attitude so you can actually try to accomplish the things I’m showing you.”
