I looked through everything I could find on the guy. He jumped around a few junior colleges before landing at Valley, decent records at all of them. Really, nothing out of the ordinary.
I followed that with looking up Keira.
Keira Brooks. Twenty-one, junior. Played on her local Valley high school team with all-state honors her junior and senior years. Since coming to Valley, she’s placed in a handful of tournaments, missed the cut at the championship last spring, and had her first individual win a few months ago.
After that, I could only find one more tournament she played where she led until the last day and then bombed with three bogeys in a row and tossed a driver into a water hazard. I laughed at that because I could totally picture it. And then saw it for myself when I found a clip on YouTube. Guess that was what she meant by losing her head.
By the time I drag myself through getting ready for the day and get in my vehicle to head back to Scottsdale, I’m behind schedule. But I can probably take care of most of the things I missed last night and this morning with a few phone calls during the drive. When I get home, I can get to my client emails, and shit, I need to check in with all my direct reports too.
There’s really no escape. Anything I put off one day just gets piled onto the next. Still, I think last night might have been worth it; although, I need some caffeine.
At the end of the parking lot, I hesitate to turn right toward the freeway. I rub at the back of my neck and let out a sigh.
It’s none of my business. I have better things to do. I shouldn’t get involved. I have my own shit to handle. I absolutely shouldn’t be angling for ways I can see Keira again. Not only would that be a bad business decision, but also a terrible personal decision.
Fuck.
I turn left.
At the Valley U golf course, I head through the clubhouse and out to the driving range, where I find Mark hitting a few balls. He leans on his driver and waits until I reach him before he says, “Hey, Linc. What are you doing back?”
Shifting awkwardly, I wonder if I made a mistake coming here without calling first . . . or just coming at all. I’m winging it, and I hate winging shit.
“I took a look at the videos from yesterday and thought it might be useful if I could sit with the boys and talk them through what I see.”
“Yeah, of course.” He gives me a weird look. “I don’t have the budget to pay for another day.”
I hold up a hand. “No, of course not, and in fact, I’m crediting you back for yesterday. We’re friends—or, at least, we used to be. I just want to help. They seem like good kids, and like I said yesterday, I really appreciate that you’ve been such a big supporter of my business. I should have offered long before you reached out.”
“All right, don’t get too soft on me or I’ll think too hard about why you’re being so accommodating. The truth is that I don’t care why. I need all the help I can get. Practice isn’t for a few hours still though.”
I nod. “I figured. Uh, one other thing. Do you think it would be okay if I offered my services to anyone that comes by today?”
His brows furrow. “You mean like a public clinic?”
“Sure. To anyone. Not all my clients are competitive athletes, you know?”
“Yeah, I don’t see a problem with that. Just tell me what you need.”
Mark and I drag a table and three chairs outside and he erects a sunshade over me while I setup my laptop.
I’m actually a little disappointed I didn’t think to do this yesterday. Yeah, it takes more time, but it’ll be easier to provide specific and hopefully helpful feedback when I can show them exactly what I mean on the video.
It’s slow for the first hour. A handful of people come by the course, but only one is interested in help.
Lou is a retired Valley professor who, according to him, is trying to figure out what to do with his days now that he’s no longer teaching. He’s a nice guy, and I enjoy chatting with him, but I cringe as I watch his swing back on the screen. There are so many problems that all I can do is help with his setup and grip. Feels like a shallow victory when he masters that and heads off to the driving range.
Mark let his team know I was here again today, so they drop in early, which is nice since I’m twiddling my thumbs and triple guessing being here.
As I suspected, showing them slow-motion clips of their swings gives them a better understanding of what they are doing wrong and where they can improve. The real challenge comes from their ability to change habits that have been ingrained with thousands of golf balls. But it’s a start.
I’m finishing the last review when she arrives with a few other girls she was with last night. Her eyes narrow in confusion and she slows her pace. The girl to her left, Erica, I think, says something that Keira waves off.
I meet her halfway.
A small smile tugs at the corners of her mouth. “You’re back.”
“So are you.”
She tilts her head toward the girls she walked away from. “We have practice in fifteen minutes. What are you doing here?” She looks past me to my tent setup and smirks. “Another clinic with the boys’ team?”
“No. Well, yes, but not them exclusively. It’s a free clinic and it’s completely open to the public.”
“The public?” Her voice lifts an octave while she puts it together. A slow smile spreads across her face.
“Maybe you could let the public know? What time is practice over?”
“Five.” She’s still looking at me as if she maybe doesn’t believe I’m for real. “You’ll still be here?”
“I’ll still be here.”
The hopeful and pleased look she gives me makes my day seem not quite so wasted.
As the girls’ team heads off to practice, the driving range gets crowded with locals. I’m too busy to watch the time pass, but two hours later, the Valley U women’s golf team starts to fill my line. Though Keira is nowhere in sight.
I’m helping the first one of his players, when Coach Potter storms over. “What’s going on here? I thought I said I didn’t want you offering your services to my girls?”
The young girl in front of me, a freshman named Clarice, wilts in his presence.
“It’s a free swing review. What could it hurt?”
“Clarice, go on now,” Potter instructs. “Practice is over for the day.”
I step to him, giving Clarice and the rest of the girls my back, and lower my voice. “I get that you want to be the end all be all to these girls, but you might consider that I have something to offer them, as do a lot of other people.”
He scoffs, shoots me a glare, and then sends one over my shoulder to the girls as well. What a prick.
“My way. My rules,” he grits out and pushes past me, telling his girls to go home and rest up.
One by one, they shuffle away, looking defeated. Once again, I look around for Keira, finally finding her on the driving range. Her gaze follows Coach and her teammates, eyes blazing with hatred I’m finding it hard to blame her for.
She walks toward us with purpose, ponytail swinging side to side with every determined step. She stops and briefly chats with one of the girls, jaw tightens, and then she marches toward me.
Her teammates watch her with something like admiration, and when she reaches the tent, she hesitates for only a second before walking in and taking a seat.
“Are you sure about this?” I ask quietly.
She meets my gaze and then lets it slide to the left so she’s glaring at her coach. “Definitely.”
I try to forget about everything else around us and focus only on Keira, which isn’t really that difficult. Any hope I had that my fascination could be easily expelled by setting things right is shattered when I see her in action again. Everything about the way she moves with a golf club excites me.
It takes maybe two minutes to record her swing from every angle and upload it to my laptop so I can show her. In that time, her coach has disappeared, and her teammates have ga
thered back around.
I play her video as she sits in the chair on the other side of the table.
“You have a good swing . . . really good, actually. Nice and smooth. A few tweaks, and you’ll be hitting greens all day long.”
Her lips curve up as she laces her fingers together in her lap.
I freeze the video and then turn the screen so I can show her. “Right here, see how you’re extending early? You’re shifting your swing plane. I’ve seen much worse cases, but I think it’s where your inconsistency comes from. It also looks as if you’re holding back a little in a few of these.”
“I’ve had issues in the past with opening my hips too quickly. Coach Potter doesn’t want me swinging as hard as I can because I’m not consistent enough to control it.”
I grind my teeth a little and bite my tongue. “Yeah, it’s all related. But you have power, and you should use it. Let me show you something.”
Standing, I come around the table and walk her through a drill I use on clients with the same issue. She watches, brown eyes following my every move with interest.
“You wanna try it?” I ask when I’m done.
Silently, she stands and gets into position with her club.
“Do a few without the club first to get a feel for it. Bring it back to the basics. Changing motor functions requires breaking it down to the simplest movements.”
She tosses her club to the ground, and I step in front of her and get in position. Sometimes people are self-conscious, so doing the training with them helps remove barriers.
We move together, her mirroring me. I’m so close I can smell the fruity scent of her hair and a hint of sunscreen with each gust of wind.
“Nice, there you go. Can you feel the urge to push off that right leg?”
“Yeah, I really can.” She does it again, mouth set in a determined line and the tip of her tongue between her teeth.
“Do that about a thousand times and then add in your arms.” I extend my hands out in front of me and do the same motion. “And then you can add the club back to your swing.”
She nods again, but this time, it’s with a lot more enthusiasm. “Thank you.”
“I didn’t say anything any guy with a Golf Channel subscription couldn’t have.” I wink and grab a business card off the table. “I’d love to hear how it works for you or if you have any questions. You really do have a beautiful swing. Best I’ve seen in a long time. If I had a swing like that, they’d be fitting me for a green jacket.”
The tips of her fingers brush mine as she reaches for my card. Neither of us makes a move to break the contact right away, and her pale skin dots with pink on her neck and cheeks. “Thanks, Lincoln.”
She pulls away, tucking the card into her pocket and grabbing her club. As she walks backward out of the tent, I find myself holding her gaze. I can’t seem to look away. With the flip of her ponytail, she’s gone and the next girl steps through.
6
Keira
By the time I shower and scarf down a Pop-Tart, I have to sprint across campus to make it to my evening physical chemistry lab. I slip into my chair with only seconds to spare.
Professor Teague lifts a brow and glances at the clock. The head of the department is a huge stickler for attendance and being on time.
I catch my breath and hurriedly drink my Red Bull while he goes over the syllabus and then gives a brief lecture for today’s lab. He removes his glasses and holds them in front of him as he says, “You may get started.”
I swivel in my chair to face Keith. He’s a chemistry major like I am, and we’ve been partners for nearly every lab since freshmen year. He’s big on following the rules and does so to the point of basically brown nosing. Our friendship causes him great anxiety, I’m sure.
“Are you trying to get on his bad side on the first day?” he asks as he shakes his head. “You know he’ll dock us points if you’re late.”
“Relax, I made it.”
“I’m gonna get an ulcer if you cut it that close every week.”
“Practice ran late.”
“Oh, I heard,” he says as he sets up.
I skim over the instructions and the questions we’ll need to answer as we go along. “You heard what?”
“That you caused a scene after practice,” Keith says, tosses me a disapproving smirk, and then tries to read the handout upside down. “Tell me, do you try to make waves everywhere you go, or is it just a special gift?”
I know he’s mostly teasing, but I still bristle. “Coach Potter is a jerk. There is no reason we shouldn’t get the same extra resources you guys do. How’d you hear about it already anyway?”
“Everyone was talking about it at the house before I left.”
Keith lives in an off-campus house with Smith and Chapman. I’m pretty sure I have Abby to thank for Keith knowing, not that it wouldn’t have gotten out anyway. But, screw it, I stand by my actions. I learned a lot from Lincoln, so it was well worth whatever punishment Coach plans on doling out.
“Look, I don’t blame you. Lincoln Reeves is the best there is. I don’t know if I’d have gone against my coach’s wishes and made a scene like you did, but I get it.”
“Your coach would never do that to you.”
He shrugs and we start on the lab, easily falling into sync. We’ve worked together enough that we don’t waste time deciding who does what, we both jump in and do what’s necessary.
“What do you mean, he’s the best there is?” I ask a few minutes later.
He looks up, the protective goggles on his face making it hard to tell he’s raising his brows in question.
“Lincoln Reeves,” I explain. “You said he was the best there is.”
“Oh, right.” He scribbles something on our paper before continuing, “You don’t know who he is?”
“Just that he’s a swing coach. Abby said he was a big deal.” I lift one shoulder and let it fall. “He seems to know his stuff.”
“Lincoln Reeves is going to be a legend. Reeves Sports, his online coaching website, is still new, but it’s already one of the best out there. It has every sport you can imagine. Baseball, football, lacrosse, rugby, pickle ball, curling. And the athletes he has coaching?” Keith raises his goggles so they rest on the top of his wavy, brown hair. His blue eyes widen with excitement, and there’s a faint outline from the goggles making him look funny. “He has pro-level coaches answering questions, providing tutorials, and creating training plans. When you sign up, you’re getting the best of the best as your personal coach. If I had the funds, I’d totally sign up.”
“Is it expensive?”
“Nah, but it’s still out of my price range.”
“Pretty cool,” I say, but the excitement that hums through my veins makes me want to open my laptop right here and check it out. And maybe check out Lincoln some more while I’m at it.
He’s . . . well, hot, of course, but there’s something about his rare smile that makes my stomach flip. Mostly, those smiles seem to come at my expense, but I still can’t help but admire them.
“Yeah, it really is.”
“So, why would he come to Valley?” I ask, stopping any pretense that I’m working, and take a seat. “No offense, but you guys aren’t exactly attracting media attention.”
“He and Coach James played together in high school.”
It’s weird to picture Lincoln and Coach James as being in the same age bracket. Coach James is a younger coach. It’s his fifth year at Valley and second as head coach. Still, that has to make Lincoln, what? Thirty? The way he holds himself and the experience that oozes off him make him seem like he could be that old. But last night at the bar, he seemed like one of us—a hot grad student maybe.
“Did he play college?”
“They both did; although, not together. Coach James went to ASU. Lincoln went to Texas for a couple of years before he went pro.”
“He’s a pro? How come I’ve never heard of him?”
“He didn’t tour
for long. He struggled the first year, missed a lot of cuts, and almost lost his eligibility. Then, as soon as he started placing and gaining momentum, he had some back issues that took him out for a year. They were speculating that when he returned, he’d be the next big thing, but when he resurfaced, it was as a swing coach for one of his friends on the tour. He worked with several pros before starting his company.”
“Really? He coaches the pros?”
“Yeah, well, he did. I heard him say he only personally coaches a handful of clients now so he can focus on the business.”
I nod, lost in my thoughts. Keith pulls his goggles back down over his eyes, and we get back to work.
After lab, Keith walks me back to the dorm on the way to his car.
“Thanks,” I say as we approach the front of Freddy. “See you in class tomorrow.”
“No problem, and, uh, maybe be on time. Need me to text you?”
I roll my eyes. “I got it.”
Inside my room, I toss my bag on the bed, lie down beside it, and stare up at the ceiling, exhausted. My reprieve only lasts a few seconds before I sit up and grab my laptop and the card Lincoln gave me earlier.
Lincoln Reeves, Owner Reeves Sports. It lists the website URL, his email address, and phone number.
I place it on the bed next to my laptop and type in the web address. My pulse quickens as the logo appears in the left-hand corner. There’s a video on the main page, Lincoln’s build and those full lips of his are frozen on the screen.
Smiling, I click play and listen intently as he gives a thirty-second pitch for the site. His tone is serious, no smiles or enthusiasm—all business.
From there, I navigate to the golf portion of the site and watch another video, then two more. He holds a seven iron casually in his left hand, standing on a driving range, swinging the club lightly as he talks to the camera. He goes through a proper setup and then a few drills. It’s an introduction video, beginner stuff, but his command speaks to the breadth of knowledge I now know he has.
He isn’t saying anything I don’t know, but it’s the way he moves, and the memory of how being coached by him felt. Even now, my face warms like it had as his confidence and guidance wrapped around me earlier, making me feel as if I could do it—I could be exactly who I want to be. Nothing else mattered, only golf. I wish I could bottle that feeling.
Sweet Spot Page 4
