“You can’t afford for me to stay that long.” I smirk. “Let’s just focus on what you think would be the best use of their time for today.”
Leaning forward in his chair, Mark grins back at me. “Fair enough.”
After chatting about what he views as the biggest weaknesses of the team collectively, we decide the best use of everyone’s time is for me to do a few quick drills on adding length and accuracy to their drives. Then I’ll spend time with each kid before giving them targeted feedback.
We don’t talk individual players because I don’t want to walk out there with any preconceived notions about them. If I’m looking for a specific fault right off the bat, I might miss something else.
“All set?” Mark stands. “The guys are probably getting anxious to meet you. A few of them were here an hour before practice already stretching and warming up.”
“Let’s do it.”
The bright blue Arizona sky is flawless, not a damn cloud as far as the eye can see. That, and the nonexistent breeze make it spectacular golfing weather for January.
A man approaches as we step onto the grass and Mark slows. “Lincoln, this is Wyatt Potter. He’s the coach of the girls’ team.”
“Pleasure to meet you. I hear your record is pretty good this year.”
“Top two consecutively since I took over three years ago.”
“Impressive. I’m happy to include them in the clinic today or—” Before I can offer my services another day, he holds up a hand, which annoys the fuck out of me.
“No offense, but no one coaches my girls but me. Too many outside influences confuses them and makes it hard to keep them motivated.”
I quirk a brow. Is this guy for real?
Mark jumps in, “Lincoln’s a hell of a coach. He played professionally and—”
I clap a hand on Mark’s shoulder to stop him from saying more. It’s obvious this guy has no interest in my qualifications or background, no need to waste my time.
“Even still,” Coach Potter says, voice and face full of condescension.
What a prick. I dig deep for some professionalism and manners, despite his lack thereof. “Well, the offer is always good if you need anything. Good luck on the season.”
I step away, and luckily, Mark follows. When the boys spot us, they stop warming up and move in our direction, clearly ready to get started. There’s so much excitement on their faces that I can’t help but feel a little more energized myself.
Mark and I stand in the center as they form a half circle around us.
“Everyone, I’d like to introduce you to Lincoln Reeves. It’s a real honor to have him here today. He knows more about golf than all of us combined, so if he tells you something, take it as gospel.”
I bite back a laugh, knowing it probably cost Mark a little pride to give me that much credit. It isn’t as if he doesn’t mean it; I’m here because he wanted the best. But the relationship Mark and I had as kids included a lot more ribbing and jokes at one another’s expense than flowery compliments. Blame it on growing up together, competing against one another, and knowing all each other’s embarrassing childhood shit. Regardless, I appreciate him having my back with that asshole coach of the girls’ team and with his guys.
After thanking Mark and saying hello to the boys, I lead the group to one end of the driving range and go over some tips on technique specific to the driver, demonstrating as I talk. It isn’t overly complicated to understand, but putting it into practice is much more difficult.
When I’m done, I send them off to work on it, giving them about five minutes before I grab my camera and tripod. Going down the line, I film each of their swings from behind and the side, offer a few quick tips or corrections, and then move on. I don’t have time to completely analyze each swing, but I can pinpoint fundamental issues on the fly, so I do my best to give each of them helpful, individualized feedback.
I keep it lighthearted and fun, knowing they’ll perform better if they’re relaxed instead of worried about being perfect. Clinics are supposed to be inspiring, otherwise, what’s the point? I even find myself smiling and enjoying myself as I stand back and watch each kid take a couple of swings.
There’s always this moment as a coach or a lover of any sport where you’re holding your breath, hoping to be awed. I’d be lying if I said any of them succeed.
Smith Jacobson, Mark’s star athlete, has a decent swing, but it lacks power, and he’s missing confidence and tenacity. Every time he hits a bad shot, he takes five minutes setting up for the next, overthinking it and second-guessing himself. But, all in all, they’re a good group of kids, and with some work and experience, they’ll be all right.
“You’re good with them.” Mark nods toward his players. “If the site flops, I could use another good coach here.” He elbows me so I know he’s joking. “Love to have you back any time.”
We’re standing back twenty feet or so from the range. Time is up, but all the guys are still working, so I linger. I bet they’ve each hit close to two hundred balls. They have to be exhausted, but they’re pushing through on fumes and dreams.
“I’ll try to get the videos uploaded and sent to you tomorrow.”
“No rush. I appreciate it,” he says earnestly. “In a year or two, you’re going to have so much business you aren’t going to be able to keep up. Your grandfather would be proud.”
I soften at the mention of Pop. “Thanks, Mark. That’s a problem I’m looking forward to solving.”
Mark extends his hand, and we shake. “It was good to see you, Lincoln. Don’t be a stranger.”
By the time I pack up, Mark and his team have moved down the first hole. The late afternoon sun has started to descend, casting the sky in pink and orange. I stop and take it in, trying to remember the last time I hit a few balls for fun.
Another year, maybe two, and then I will be able to find a better balance. I’ve already found more success than I ever could have imagined when I’d had a moment of drunken brilliance to take the business my grandfather started forty years ago and expand it.
It’s taken longer, been harder, and required more sacrifice than expected, but it’s also brought a sense of pride and accomplishment that is beyond anything golf alone has ever given me.
I step back, scanning the horizon and soaking up this feeling so I can pocket it for a reminder the next time I’m going on two hours of sleep and want to give up.
A pure, hard thwack snaps me from my daydream. I find and follow the ball as it sails beautifully high and straight down the line.
“Damn,” I mutter and start toward whoever hit it. I need to shake this kid’s hand and, more importantly, see if he can do it twice. Anyone can get lucky and hit a shot like that once, but great golf comes from consistency.
My pace slows as I get closer. Confusion sets in, not because I was wrong and a chick hit it but because this girl in particular looks nothing like I would have expected. For one, she’s small.
The average woman on the LPGA is only five foot four, but I don’t think this girl is even that tall. And she’s thin. Toned, but not overly muscular like I’d expect someone driving the ball that far. Otherwise, she looks the part in a black golf skirt and matching long-sleeved shirt.
I don’t know where she gets her power, but I’m intrigued. She’s setting up another ball, so I hang back and watch. Crossing my arms over my chest, I wait to see what she can do.
She lets out a long breath as if she’s trying to calm herself. Dark hair, which has a reddish tint under the remaining sunlight, hangs over her shoulders and falls in her eyes. She jabs at it twice with one hand, only to have it fall right back in her face.
Resting the grip of the club against her stomach to free her hands, she pulls the long mane back into a ponytail and secures it with a bright-pink scrunchie from her wrist. Her frustration is evident, but I don’t think her hair is the problem.
Finally, she’s ready, and I find myself holding my breath as she swings. She’s more po
werful than most the guys I helped today, swinging in a way that makes me wonder who the hell she’s picturing as the ball.
I watch as she hits three more awe-worthy shots before I approach her. “Nice swing.”
“Thanks,” she says without looking back at me. She switches from a driver to a seven iron. This time, she doesn’t hit the ball square on, and it hooks to the left. Her jaw tenses, and instead of taking her time and a minute to compose herself, she goes right for the next ball with a similar result. It takes five shitty shots before she growls her frustration. “Damn it.”
“Can I offer you some advice?”
Her dark eyes lock on to me, and her brows rise as if I’ve totally offended her, but she doesn’t speak.
Trying to diffuse the situation, I step closer and offer my hand. She stares at it but makes no move to take it, so I shove both hands into my pockets. “I’m Lincoln Reeves. I just finished a clinic for the boys’ team. I’m a golf instructor and owner of an instructional sports website. You have power. Those shots you hit with your driver were really nice. Best I’ve seen all day.”
Her demeanor softens only slightly. “Thank you.”
“If you let me record a couple of swings, I think I can show you where it’s breaking down and help you hit it more consistently.” My body buzzes in anticipation. I really want to see what this girl is capable of. God, I love this job.
“No thanks. I got it.” She brushes me off with a flick of her ponytail and tees up another ball.
Well, that’s never happened before. Golfers tend to be open to feedback or will, at least, humor tips from pros at the driving range. It’s such a complicated and yet simple thing, hitting a golf ball.
“Are you sure? It’s no problem.” I can’t get a read on this girl. She’s out here putting in the work, so I know she’s determined, and her body language makes it clear she knows a good swing from a bad.
“On camera, it’s easier to see the nuances. You’re spinning your hips. Your timing is good, so it isn’t affecting every shot, but when it does, you’re hooking it.”
She stands tall, which isn’t really that tall, but my spidey sense tingles, alerting me to danger. I’ve pissed this girl off, though I don’t know why.
“Figures you’re helpful now.”
“Excuse me?” I smile, which is absolutely the wrong thing to do because she glowers back.
“Guys like you show up and offer all your wisdom to the boys’ team like just because they have penises, they deserve all the advantages. Did it ever occur to you to offer a clinic for the girls’ team?”
“I—”
“No, of course not. It doesn’t matter that we have a better record, year after year, or that I can out drive most of them.” She scoffs, tees up another ball, and gets into position. “So, no thanks. I don’t need another man who thinks he’s God’s gift to golf to offer advice that he probably picked up from the Golf Channel.”
Before I can speak, she draws back and smokes it. Chills run up my fingertips all the way to the back of my neck. “Holy shit,” I whisper.
A pleased smile tips up her lips.
“You’re right. Doesn’t look like you need me at all.”
She stalks off, that smug expression painted firmly in place. I watch her until she disappears from sight, the smile on my face so big and awestruck I think it might have been worth trading those Cardinal tickets for.
After leaving the golf course, I meet up with one of the guys who works for me, Heath, for a quick dinner before I head out of town.
“Can I get you guys anything else?” our waitress at The Hideout asks, her eyes not leaving Heath.
Amused, I rest an arm on the back of the empty chair next to me and wonder when she’s going to realize she hasn’t put down the beer she’s holding on her tray. My beer.
“Just that Bud Light you got there,” Heath says with a wink.
“Oh, right, of course.” Flustered, she sets the pint in front of Heath, gives him one last awkward smile, and then scurries off.
Heath wraps his hand around the glass and lifts it.
“Give me that.” I reach out and take it from him before he gets a drink. After a long pull of the cold beer, I ask, “You wanna get us both in trouble?”
“Relax, it’s just a beer. Besides, I look twenty-one.”
“Oh, well then, I guess it’s perfectly fine since you look old enough.”
“I’ve drank here lots of times. It’s no big deal.”
I’m about to lecture him, or at least tell him not to tell me shit like that so I don’t have it on my conscience, as a couple of guys walk by the table and then backtrack when they notice Heath. He stands and the guys chat for a few minutes before he motions toward me and tells them he’ll meet up with them later.
I officially feel like an old man. He’s making plans to go out after dinner and the only thing I have scheduled is a night alone, probably working.
“Looks like things are going well for you. Try not to get yourself into trouble. You get caught drinking underage and—”
Heath groans. “Save it. Between you and my brother, I’ve had this same conversation nearly every day since I got here five months ago. Five months.” He holds up a hand and wiggles his fingers for emphasis. “I made it through one semester, didn’t I?”
His sullen expression makes him look like the teenager he is, and I hold back a laugh.
“Noted. Tell me about the team.”
Heath gives me the rundown on school and the Valley U hockey team while we eat. He’s a good kid. Typical freshman looking to jump off the deep end and enjoy everything college has to offer.
I feel a sense of responsibility for him, almost like a kid brother. I met his real brother Nathan last year through a mutual friend.
He worked for me through his senior year of college, coaching aspiring basketball players. Their home situation wasn’t the best at the time and they both needed some extra cash, so I hired Heath to field the hockey questions that come in from other athletes trying to get an edge.
Though my background is golf, my coaching website spans multiple sports and is growing faster than I can keep up with. Heath is just one of the many experts and stars in their field mentoring the next generation of great athletes.
Heath’s a talented kid who won’t need my help for long if he keeps himself out of trouble.
The waitress drops the bill on the table and slides it in front of me as she gives me a timid smile. It’s the first time she’s given me much notice. Her eyes flash to Heath and he gives her a wink as she hurries away.
“Thanks for dinner,” Heath says. “You wanna meet some of the guys?”
Do I? A glance around the busy bar. Since we sat down, the college hangout has gone from a handful of empty tables to standing room only. Classes start back tomorrow, and everyone is ready to see their friends and party, totally undeterred by the chaos. I’m sure I was the same way, but that feels like a million years ago.
I suppress a groan. No, I definitely don’t want to mingle in this crowd. Thirty isn’t exactly old, but the years that separate me from these kids are dog years. However, if I’m looking out for him like a big brother would that probably includes hiking up my old man balls and tucking them into my waistband so I can meet the people he’s spending time with.
3
Keira
Abby and I meet some of the team at our favorite local restaurant and bar. It’s crowded, which isn’t all that surprising. A new semester starts tomorrow and the best thing about going on break is coming back and catching up with friends.
And this is the perfect place to do that while also bumping into lots of other people. Frat guys, sorority girls, jocks, nerds . . . The Hideout is beloved by just about everyone. Greasy food and cheap drinks, you really can’t go wrong.
We give up on finding a table, grab drinks from the bar, and then make our way over to Erica and Cassidy. The four of us stand in a tiny circle, basically shoulder to shoulder.
“It’s so packed,” Erica says as someone bumps into her from behind and sends her stumbling forward, her vodka and cranberry spilling over the side of the glass.
Abby grabs her elbow and steadies her. “You okay?”
She nods but still shoots a dirty look to the guy behind her.
“Be right back,” Cassidy says. “I’m gonna do a lap and see if I know anyone sitting at a table. Maybe we can squeeze in.”
After she disappears, Abby looks to Erica. “How was break?”
“It was good. I went to North Carolina with Cassidy. You guys should see her dad. Holy silver fox. I mean, I’d seen him a few times before at tournaments, but when he’s at home in old concert T-shirts and sweatpants . . .” She tilts her chin toward the ceiling and sighs.
“You’re ridiculous,” Abby says. “And if Cass hears you, she’s never going to invite you back home with her.”
Erica just shrugs. “What about you guys?” She looks between Abby and me.
“Smith and I split the time between our families. He came to Texas for Christmas, and I went to Alabama for New Year’s Eve.”
Both girls glance to me expectantly.
“It was nice.”
Erica snorts. “That’s code for boring as hell because you spent the entire time playing golf instead of enjoying break.”
She isn’t wrong, but golf is what keeps me sane. Well, golf and nights out with my girls. But in their absence, I might have spent more time than usual with a club in my hand.
Before I can defend myself, Cassidy returns with four shots, and is grinning as she holds them out to us. “I didn’t find a table, but if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em.”
Erica grabs one excitedly and Abby laughs as she takes one, eyes the lime wedge, and then sniffs the alcohol. “Tequila? This early?”
“I told the bartender to surprise me.”
Cassidy dangles the last shot glass in front of my face. “Ready to get drunk enough we can’t feel how much our feet hurt from standing in these heels?”
“Some of us were sensible enough not to wear five-inch heels to the bar.” I lift a foot, showing off my chunky heel boots.
Sweet Spot Page 2
