Sweet Spot

by Rebecca Jenshak

  “Cute,” she says, eyeing them with appreciation before holding up her shot glass. The rest of us join in, raising our glasses to the center and clinking them together before throwing back the strong liquor.

  We all grimace, and Erica gags a little as she sucks on the lime.

  “No more shots,” Abby says, and we all agree.

  Ah, the best laid plans.

  One hour and two shots later, my face is flushed pink and I can’t stop smiling. I’m holding on to Cassidy as we make our way back from the restroom. The place has only gotten busier, but the alcohol is doing its magic, and I’m less annoyed when people bump us from both sides like we’re inside a human pinball machine.

  Cass leads the way, a step ahead of me, her blonde hair swaying side to side with each short, bouncy step she takes. Every two seconds, she stops to say hello to someone. She’s definitely the most social and outgoing of my teammates.

  As the top-rated girl on our team, it should be easy for me to think of her as competition, but she’s just too dang nice to dislike.

  Tonight is exactly what I needed. A carefree evening with my girls. I’ve no sooner thought about how much fun I’m having when I spot Abby with Smith at the bar. I stop, and Cass looks back as our hands start to separate. She follows my line of vision.

  “Awww, they’re so cute.” When I don’t comment, she adds, “You don’t think so?”

  “No, they’re perfect together. I was just having a good time spending the night with just us girls. Since they started dating, I barely see her outside of practice.”

  She gives me a reassuring smile. “Come on. Let’s find Erica.”

  When we eventually find the missing member of our party, she’s sitting at the end of a table with three of the golf guys.

  “Hey,” Erica says, “look who I found.”

  “What’s up, Keira? Hey, Cass.” Keith stands and offers me his seat. He smacks Griff on the shoulder as he’s mid drink. “Get up, man.”

  Cassidy and I take their seats across from Erica and Chapman.

  The guys somehow manage to find two free chairs and drag them up to the ends. Keith gets another pitcher of beer and more shots magically appear.

  I can’t have another drink. I’m already riding the line between puking in a public restroom toilet and passing out peacefully as soon as my head hits the pillow. The latter is my preference, obviously. But I know myself and one more shot and I’ll think I’m invincible to the effects of alcohol.

  “No,” I say when all eyes fall to me and the last shot glass on the table. “I can’t.”

  “Come on, one more shot and then we’ll go dance,” Cass pleads.

  “Dance?” I ask and look around. “Where?”

  “Anywhere and everywhere,” she singsongs with a laugh.

  I glance to Erica for backup, but she looks just as excited as Cassidy. I have no idea where these two are storing their liquor, but they don’t seem nearly as drunk as I am. They’re only slightly taller than me, and we have similar builds. I could toss either one of them over my shoulder like a rag doll.

  Okay, actually that’s a lie, I’m too scrawny to toss anyone like that except maybe an actual rag doll, but I’m definitely stronger than them so why am I the only one feeling it so hard right now?

  Someone slides the shot glass from the center of the table to just in front of me. I open my mouth to protest again, but Cassidy looks at me with those big, brown eyes. The girl is some sort of sweet ninja with her ability to make me want to do things.

  I don’t usually care about going along with people just because I can stand on my own—maybe too much sometimes. But if Cassidy were holding a torch gun in one hand and a bottle of moonshine in the other, I’d probably want to tag right along to see what she was going to get into.

  She’s the scary type of friend who makes everything seem like a fun time until you’re sitting in the back of a police car or holding your head over the toilet while you sit on the dirty floor of a frat house bathroom. That first thing hasn’t happened yet, but the second has on more than one occasion.

  I knew she had this effect on me within two hours of meeting her freshman year, so I shouldn’t be surprised that right now as she tries to push a shot glass in my hand, my fingers curl around it and effectively sign me up for wherever the night might lead.

  Cassidy squeals with victory as I raise the shot. “Cheers!” she exclaims merrily, making sure to clink glasses with everyone.

  I give a little mini salute with mine and then bring it to my lips. I tip the shot glass back ever so slightly so just a taste falls into my mouth, and my stomach clenches in warning. Nope, not happening. Absolutely not.

  As discretely as I can, I move the glass to the left and quickly toss the remaining liquid over my shoulder. I glance around to see if anyone noticed, but everyone is busy squeezing their eyes closed and grimacing. Freaking tequila.

  I giggle at the ridiculousness and set my empty glass on the table at the same time Cassidy does.

  “That wasn’t so bad, right?” she asks.

  “No, it really wasn’t,” I say with sarcasm that goes totally missed.

  Success. I’ll just tag along tossing my good intentions and my drinks over my shoulder with no one being the wiser.

  4

  Lincoln

  I hate to admit it, but I’m not having an awful time. I feel a little old as these kids talk about lounging around their parents’ houses all break and how bummed they are to start waking up for eight a.m. classes again, but I can’t remember the last time I had a night out that was this carefree.

  Sure, I go to games and get to booze and schmooze, but I’m there to make connections, not to get shitfaced. As such, there’s always a certain level of professionalism I have to maintain so when business talk slips in, which it always does, I’m ready to make my pitch.

  I stand from the table of hockey players, which is more difficult than it should be thanks to the crowd. I sidestep at the same time as something wet hits my neck and trickles down the back of my shirt.

  What the hell?

  My hand instinctively wipes away the liquid, and I turn my head to survey the spot on my white shirt. The smell of tequila hits me, and a cold shiver runs down my spine. Tequila and I are not friends. That bitch screwed me over years ago, and I still haven’t forgiven her.

  I look up to find wide, brown eyes staring at me, horrified. I glance between the soaked fabric and the empty shot glass in her hand.

  “You,” I say at the same time she blurts out, “Oh my God, I’m so sorry.”

  The girl from the golf course yells at someone to hand her napkins, but no one at the table is paying attention, so she finally leans over to the holder, grabs a handful, and turns to shove them toward me. Seeing her flustered after she was all confidence and sass earlier is comical.

  “If you were aiming for your mouth, I’d say you missed.”

  “My aim was dead on, but I wasn’t expecting someone to walk into it.”

  Ah, there it is. I lied. Her sass is far more amusing than her fluster.

  “You were trying to toss tequila on strangers?”

  “Not on strangers, just anywhere but my mouth.”

  I chuckle at her response. I feel that.

  “I can’t take another shot,” she adds with a wobble of her head.

  I look to the group she’s with. They still haven’t noticed she’s gone, and by the number of empty shot glasses on the table, I can assume they are all drunk.

  I can’t tell if she’s in the same boat, but since she’s chucking shots over her shoulder, I’d say it’s likely she’s either drunk or out of her mind. Someone bumps her from the side, and I reach out to catch her, cupping her small shoulders. Her long, reddish-brown hair falls forward, teasing my fingers.

  There’s no way for me not to check her out this close up. Tight jeans wrap around her legs and come up high on her waist, meeting a white sweater that seems twice as short as a normal shirt should be.
/>
  My lips twitch at the same hot pink scrunchie from earlier circling her wrist. And are those unicorns on it?

  People have been bumping into me all night, but this is the first time I haven’t minded the contact. I inhale, catching a whiff of raspberries and tequila.

  Heath appears beside me, and her gaze momentarily flits to him before resting back on me. She steps back and tries again to hand me the napkins, but I shake my head. “I’ll live.”

  Heath snickers. “Don’t mind him. He could use a shot or two.” Then he turns to me. “Linc, I’ll be right back.”

  “Keira!” A girl in a tiny black dress appears at her side and hugs her arm. “I thought you ditched us and went home.”

  I test her name out, saying it in my head as I look her over. Keira. It fits.

  “No, sorry, I just ran into . . .” She stops as if she’s trying to remember my name. Ouch.

  “Lincoln,” I say, saving her.

  “Hey, I’m Cassidy.” She pulls her arm free from Keira’s and smiles—one of those big, Julia-Roberts grins with so much teeth it’s a little scary. “Come, both of you should sit before someone else tries to squeeze in.”

  Cassidy and Keira slide in, and I step up to the table.

  “Holy shit. Lincoln Reeves.” One of the guys at the table stands, runs a hand through his hair, and then thrusts his hand out, takes it back, and then smiles sheepishly. “Hello, sir, or Lincoln. Mr. Reeves? I mean, hey, man.”

  I’m having trouble remembering where I met the kid before until Smith Jacobson steps beside him and places a hand on his shoulder. “Hey, Lincoln. We weren’t expecting to see you here.”

  Ah shit. Figures Keira would be sitting with a bunch of guys from the golf team.

  I rub the back of my neck. “Hey, guys. Good to see you. I was just about to head out.”

  “No, no way,” Smith says. “Stay and have a drink with us.”

  I don’t see much of a polite way out, so I nod. “All right, one beer.”

  Smith grabs me a chair, which I pull up next to Keira, and a glass is filled and pushed into my hand. Then it’s twenty minutes of constant questions before the guys take a break long enough for me to take a drink and glance at Keira.

  She fidgets with the pink scrunchie on her wrist, tugging and twisting it. I keep staring and finally she looks up as if she can feel the weight of my gaze on her. Her lips curve up, not exactly in a smile, but she no longer looks like she’s plotting my death.

  Someone orders a round of shots, and I take the opportunity to slide my chair closer until my arm brushes the soft fabric of her sweater. “Let me know which way you’re tossing so I can stay dry.”

  I raise a shot glass and a brow, daring her to do the same. Keira brings it to her lips first as if she’s considering drinking it just to spite me, which wasn’t my goal at all. If she says she’s too drunk to have another, I believe it.

  While she sits frozen, summoning the courage or whatever, I keep my eyes locked with hers and chuck the contents over my shoulder. Her pink lips tilt up into a relieved smile and then she does the same.

  She holds my gaze as we both set our empty glasses on the table.

  “Let’s go to The White House!” someone exclaims, breaking the moment. “I heard they’re having people over for after hours!”

  Keira looks away first, and I shake my head, trying to make sense of the weird turn this night’s taken.

  There’s some back and forth over it, but the general consensus is they’re all ready to take the party elsewhere. Keira stands to let her friend out, and I unfold myself from my chair to make room.

  She fiddles with that hot pink scrunchie on her right arm and peers up at me through dark lashes. “I’m sorry,” she says when everyone else has gone to the bar to close out.

  “What’s that?” I ask, leaning down and holding back a smile. I’m totally messing with her, and she knows it.

  She lets out a long breath. “I said I’m sorry. I was pissed at my coach, and I took it out on you.”

  “And the tequila?”

  “That was an accident.”

  “Maybe we should start over.” I grin and offer her my hand. “I’m Lincoln. Swing coach, business owner, non-creeper.”

  She stares at my hand for a beat before placing her palm in mine. A shot of pleasure races up my arm.

  “Keira. Golfer, college student, skeptic.”

  A deep chuckle escapes from my chest. “Nice to meet you, Keira.”

  We stand smiling at one another, taking the other in, until someone bumps into her again. I motion for her to have a seat so we’re out of the way and then take the chair next to her.

  “I think you made a few lifelong fans,” she says, and I follow her slight nod to where Keith and Chapman stand talking.

  Chapman lifts his beer in a salute, and I wave before responding to Keira. “Believe it or not, most people were excited to see me today.”

  “I thought we were starting over.”

  “Fair enough. I won’t mention it again, but just so you know, I did offer my services to your coach.”

  Her eyes widen in surprise. “Really?”

  “He said no, obviously. My guess is that I’m not the first person he’s said no to, if that helps your hatred toward all mankind any.”

  Her jaw clenches and her features go from gorgeous to glower, which also happens to be gorgeous—so long as she isn’t glowering at me. “Why would he do that?”

  “Some coaches like things a certain way and think bringing another person in messes with their system.” Do I think it’s bullshit? Yes. But I’m not about to admit that.

  “I’m never going to get my spot back.” She meets my gaze. “I was travelling with the team until last fall.”

  “What happened?”

  “I had a bad tournament, lost my head.” She shrugs. “Coach replaced me, and I’m pretty sure he’s going to punish me indefinitely for it.” Her dark lashes flutter closed as her voice softens. “I miss it. The early morning smell on the course just before the first group tees off and the buzz of energy as the last pair walks onto the green on the final hole.” When she opens her eyes, her face flushes adorably.

  I clear my throat and take a sip of my beer. “I’m sorry. That’s tough.”

  “Are you speaking from experience or just being nice?”

  “I got looked over plenty of times,” I assure her.

  “What did you do?”

  “Worked harder, proved I belonged out there.”

  She rolls her eyes. “I could win the freaking US Open, and it wouldn’t make a difference to Coach Potter. He hates me.”

  “So, do it. You don’t need him to go the professional route.”

  She scoffs, but I’m not wrong. Playing college golf isn’t the only way to go pro—or even the best way.

  “No, but I do need coaching and experience, neither of which I’m getting. And now I know he isn’t letting anyone else come in and help me either. What a prick.”

  “He really that bad?”

  “He’s a dictator, ruling with fear instead of respect. He makes the game less fun for everyone.” She sits up a little taller and lets out a deep breath. “Anyway, not your problem.”

  “Still, he’s managed to have some impressive seasons.”

  “That’s because the team is crazy talented. Coach Hanson, the coach before Potter took over, was amazing. Everyone loved him. He’s the reason the team is stacked. He recruited hard, and everyone wanted to play for him. He left to coach at a smaller school closer to family, and Coach Potter took over right before my freshmen year. Really regretting not going to Duke about now,” she mumbles the last part.

  Smith and his girlfriend appear at the table, interrupting what I’m sure was likely to be a much longer tirade.

  “Hey, Lincoln,” Smith says, near empty beer in hand. “I just wanted to say thanks for all your tips today. I worked on them all evening. My release is already looking better. I took video, just like you said.
And I signed up for an account on your site.”

  “Good, I’m really glad it was helpful.”

  “Keira, are you ready?” Abby asks. “We’re heading out.”

  She stands. “Yeah, can you guys drop me off on the way? I’m ready to crash.”

  Smith nods, finishes his beer, and places the empty glass on the table.

  “Well, it was interesting,” Keira says, hanging back as her friends start to leave.

  “It was really good to meet you.”

  “Same.” And with that, she moves to follow her friends out of the bar.

  I call out before she gets lost in the crowd. “Keira.”

  “Yeah?” She angles herself between tables and groups of people on each side. Those brown eyes soften, and warmth spreads through my chest. I think about asking her to stay. I want to keep listening as she talks about golf with a passion that vibrates off every word. I understand it and respect the hell out of it.

  Instead, I go with something much more appropriate. “Work hard, keep your head down, you’ll be okay.”

  She seems to let my advice sink in for a moment before she gives a slight head bob and then ducks into the crowd.

  5

  Lincoln

  I sit up with a groan and look around the small, drab hotel room. I slept like shit. By the time I found Heath and got out of the bar, it was almost midnight.

  I’d planned on going back yesterday afternoon as soon as the clinic was over, but Nathan found out I was at Valley and wanted me to check on Heath and then, well, the night slipped away.

  I only had two beers but driving the nearly three hours home that late with any amount of alcohol in my system seemed like a bad idea. Then, I couldn’t fall asleep because I was too busy thinking about Keira and her fiery hatred of her coach.

  I don’t pretend to know if she’s a good golfer just from watching her swing, but I know she has the potential to be, and that’s even more exciting as a coach. So, why isn’t Potter playing her?