He finally glanced at me, and our eyes snagged.
“Hey.”
I could pull so much context from the single syllable. He said it softly, like he was offering a truce while my family waspresent. There’d be no bottled-up drama between us today, just good old-fashioned competition.
“Hey,” I said back with a smile and little nod to signify I understood.
“So how are we doing this?” Wes asked, interrupting the moment. “Guys against girls? Siblings versus...” He trailed off, because “fiancée and coach” sounded clunky.
Owen glanced at me. “Considering I’ve been working with this one for ages and we’ve never actually played a real game together, I’d like to be on her team for at least the first game if that’s okay.”
My heart warmed at the thought of us finally on the same side of the court.
“Makes sense.” Wes bobbed his head. “Oh, before I forget, I brought you something. A little hooty-hoot for you.” He knelt to dig into his bag and pulled out a white-and-navy Barnham Owls shirt. “Wear it proudly.”
Owen looked awestruck as he took the thing. “Are youkidding? Thank you!”
His grin was as wide as the little boy’s at Penn Station.
“Just don’t wear it tonight; otherwise, he’ll look like a plonker with his fan club,” Claudia cautioned.
“Tonight?” Owen frowned as his eyes shifted to me.
“Oh, uh,” I stammered at the accidental invitation. “We’re going out tonight, to dinner and stuff—”
“You’re coming with us, right?” Wes demanded. “Losers buy the first round of drinks. Not that I’m implying anything, but maybe Iam?”
Owen’s jaw worked as he glanced between us.
“You should come,” I said softly.
He let out a little sigh as he weighed his options.
“Unless you already have plans,” I added.
I held my breath, because the buffer Wes and Claudia would provide could help patch things up between us even more.
“Yeah, that sounds great,” he said, fixing his gaze on me. “Thanks.”
There was no reason to be nervous, seeing as I had a ringer on my team, but I felt like I was about to perform for Owenandmy brother. It was more than a game; it was my sporty debut.
I hadn’t even factored Claudia into the equation, but after her white-hot game-starting serve, I shifted my focus. It wasn’t just a test of my performance. We needed towin.
Claudia’s serve bounced on my side of the court.
“All you,” Owen coached softly as I ran for it, even though I already knew it was mine.
I didn’t want to begin the game by getting overexcited and hitting it out-of-bounds, so I chanted “soft, soft, soft” as I readied my paddle.
I returned it cleanly, and we were off.
Wes came in hot with bangers; Owen and I worked on owning the kitchen. Wes was playing like a show-off, smacking back every ballhard. It was impressive, sure, but it wasn’t a sound long-term strategy. He’d eventually get sloppy or wear out. At least that’s what I hoped, although given his life was fitness, I wasn’t sure it was possible.
The soft-play defensive strategy on our side of the court worked for a while, but I could sense Owen getting antsy to smack a few balls back at Wes. I knew he had just as much power and better form, but he was letting Wes get overconfident.
Owen was playing chess.
At one of our early lessons, he’d told me that as the game skewed more bro-y, it was starting to resemble tennis, with more hard shots as opposed to long dink rallies that were easier for newbies and older players. I could definitely see it happening as we played. Wes had an occasional player’s approach—smack the shit out of the ball every time it came near—not a real strategy.
