“Well, I’m not feeling very positive.” I could barely hide my frustration.
Owen finally fixed his gaze on me. “Then that’s going to be an issue. You might as well kiss Kai goodbye right now.”
It was a record scratch during our tense conversation. Owen clearly knew how to drop a name for dramatic effect.
“Are you saying I should give up?”
“Only if you want to.” Owen’s eyes searched my face. “I’m not about to force you to try to play if your heart isn’t in it.”
My heart was at the center of the whole ridiculous scenario, but I wasn’t about to remind him of the fact.
We both went silent until I snorted out a realization. “Are we really having such a serious conversation aboutpickleball?”
He held my gaze before answering. “It goes deeper than that and I think you know it.”
I floundered because I was feeling observed and dissected by someone who was gifted at both. “I don’t have coordination.”
Owen tossed another ball my way without even looking in my direction—a fake out—and I slapped it back so efficiently that I shocked myself.
“Liar.”
My cheeks went hot at the way he was studying me.
“It’s like you have ablock...” Owen said, half to himself as he rounded the net and stalked to my side of the court. “Your body is absolutely capable, despite what you keep saying.”
I blushed a little harder at the thought of Owen watching my body, which today was in yet another very cute and very tight Meredith hand-me-down skort and tank combo.
“Is your family anti-sports?” he demanded. “You’re all too bookish to bother with sweaty stuff?”
I laughed in his face. “Oh my god, no. My parents are big-time runners, and my brother plays professional soccer in England.”
“Seriously? Which team?”
“Barnham.”
A nod of recognition. “Did they compare you and your brother? Make you feel like you didn’t measure up?”
“Absolutely not.” I shook my head. “Never.”
“So your entire family is athletic, which means you’ve got to havesomeinnate genetic ability. I mean, I’ve definitely seen glimmers of it, but then it’s like your brain shuts you down. Like you’re almost afraid to let go and try hard.”
I shrugged. Pickleball lessons were somehow morphing into a therapy session that I hadn’t signed up for.
“Did youeverenjoy sporty stuff? Like at recess or in gym class when you were a kid?” Owen asked in a far gentler voice.
I snorted. “Well, sure. Who doesn’t like zombie tag and scooter boards?”
He was unmoved by my attempt at levity.
“What changed? Was it the competition aspect maybe?”
“No.” I frowned as I thought back to elementary school gym class. “I kicked ass at the Presidential Fitness Test. No one could beat my flexed arm hang time.”
An uncomfortable feeling stirred inside of me. I’d never really considered my anti-sports origin story, but thoughts of my echoey middle school gym came trickling back.
And Mr. Albertson.
It was one of those buried-but-not-forgotten memories, a “yeah, that happened” scenario that I’d let go of once life moved on. But now, given what Owen was dissecting, I let the feelings resurface.
