Sweet Spot

by Rebecca Jenshak

  There are a lot of videos. Some are by different coaches, and others feature current pros—men and women. I must view twenty videos, each one from start to finish, afraid I might miss the smallest piece of advice.

  I click through every single one with Lincoln. He really is the best. His explanations are clear and concise, and he’s able to break it down in a way that makes sense.

  I press play on another. In this one, he’s teaching the stinger. After a few minutes of explanation, he sets up to demo it. His swing is a beautiful, effortless thing. The ball rushes down the fairway, low and straight, before it bounces onto the green and rolls smoothly toward the pin and in.

  His smile turns boyish with surprise at the hole in one he just caught on video. He treks down the green with the camera at nearly a run. When he pulls the ball from the hole, he holds it up and smiles with pride and excitement. Pressing pause, I smile back.

  I open my email, type in his address, and then pause, going back and forth over how to address him. Lincoln? Mr. Reeves? Eventually, I decide to leave off all formalities.

  Thanks for today. I’ve never seen Coach Potter so mad.

  Keira

  P.S. Sorry again for insinuating that you might be a creeper . . . and for throwing tequila on you.

  After I press send, I get ready for bed and watch a few videos on my phone.

  There’s a nine-year-old kid in Florida who has his own golf channel where he does trick shots. It’s one of my favorites, and I watch his newest video as my eyes get heavy.

  He’s blindfolded and stands in front of five golf balls teed up about a foot apart. He goes down the line, hitting each one dead on. It’s impressive, and his young face beams as he removes his mask.

  His love and joy for the sport leaves an uncomfortable ache in my chest. Coach Potter makes it easy to forget how much I love golf, but today was a good day, and I want to savor it before he ruins it tomorrow.

  I loaded my schedule to take most of my classes on Tuesdays and Thursdays so that I can get in more practice time on my light days and so I can check in on Dad and take him to doctor appointments, as needed.

  I’m eating a bowl of noodles for lunch when I finally check my email and see that Lincoln responded. I open it with a giddy smile.

  You’re welcome. I hope you aren’t in more trouble with your coach. Working on the drills?

  Lincoln

  Still chewing, I type out a quick response.

  Headed to the course early to practice. I’ll find out what sort of punishment Coach has in store for me in a couple of hours. Whatever it is, it will be worth it. Are you still in town, maybe going around door to door to see if there’s anyone else you can help?

  Keira

  “Dad,” I call out as I come through the front door later that evening.

  The television is on, but he isn’t in his favorite recliner. I stop at the dining room table and strip off my jacket and place it on the back of a chair.

  The floor creaks, and his cane knocks on the hardwood before he shuffles into view.

  “Hey, kiddo. Wasn’t expecting you.”

  He hobbles the rest of the way to drop a kiss on my forehead, pausing before his lips press to my skin. “You smell like golf.”

  I snort. “Like golf?”

  “Yeah. Fresh-cut grass and sweat with a dab of Hawaiian Tropic.” He drops the kiss, and I smile into his quick embrace. “How was practice?”

  “Shot seventy-two.” I smile for the first time in a long time when thinking about practice. Even Coach ignoring me all afternoon can’t take away my excitement. “Best score on the team today.”

  He takes a seat in his chair and mutes the basketball game. “Proud of you.”

  “I thought I’d make dinner for us.”

  “Already ate,” he says, not quite meeting my gaze.

  “You didn’t?” I ask and move toward the pantry. When I see the empty frozen meal box in the trash, I groan. “Dad, no one should eat those. Ever. Ever, ever.”

  “The Suns are playing. I didn’t want to bother with cooking. Besides, they really aren’t that bad. Tell me about golf. When’s your next tournament?”

  He’s deflecting, but golf is always a good way to distract me. I tell him about the upcoming tournament. “I’m not going. Coach still hasn’t moved me back to top five.”

  “You’ll get there.”

  I shrug, not wanting to think too hard on what it’ll take to get Coach to see that I deserve another chance. I change the conversation to school and fill him in on my class schedule this semester. He pretends to be interested while I take out ingredients for his favorite casserole.

  My schedule, outside of golf is pretty short and uninteresting, and within a few minutes, we fall silent. With the exception of the occasional outburst at the television, neither of us speaks again until I cover the top of the dish in tin foil and set it in the fridge.

  “Put it in the oven at three hundred fifty degrees for about thirty minutes. I’ll be by later this week to take you to your doctor appointment.”

  He makes a dismissive grunt of acknowledgment. He hates feeling like he can’t do stuff for himself, but since his accident, he needs me more than he’s willing to admit.

  A fall from a roof left him with a broken leg and a knee that needed extensive surgery to repair. It left me with a grumpy parent who is arguably the worst patient in all of history.

  I tried to move back in with him at the end of last semester, but he wouldn’t have it. He even went as far as to block my entry into the house when I’d arrived with an overnight bag.

  I drop a kiss to his cheek. “Bye, Daddy. Stay away from the frozen dinners.”

  “You stay away from the junk food,” he fires back.

  I’d say it’s unlikely either of us is going to heed the other’s advice.

  7

  Lincoln

  Gram hands me a New Balance shoebox. “Here are all his old client records, like you asked for.”

  I lift the top and laugh even as I cringe. “This is how he organized them?”

  Index cards that don’t appear to be in any kind of order take up most of the box. Underneath those are a yo-yo, a half-empty pack of Big Red gum, and a notebook my grandfather carried to jot things down during client sessions.

  I shuffle through the cards, admiring his familiar handwriting. Some include addresses or phone numbers, but most don’t. I take one out and read it aloud, “Mary Lou always wears purple.”

  I raise my eyes in question, and my grandmother smiles. “I remember Mary Lou. She was a snowbird and came down every year January through April from Wisconsin, I think. She passed a few years ago.”

  “Wears purple?”

  She nods. “Always. Without fail.”

  I don’t bother throwing out her card. My guess is they’re all about as helpful.

  My grandfather was a great teacher. People came from all over Arizona for lessons with him, sometimes farther. He was patient, encouraging, and smart, so freaking smart. And I’m not just biased because I looked up to him my entire life. He taught me the game, so I can attest to how much his teachings have stayed with me over the years. Everything I know about golf leads back to him in some way.

  He wasn’t as good of a businessman, it seems. Guess he didn’t need to be. He was satisfied with the life he and my grandmother built here. If he were still alive, he’d probably balk at how much I’ve expanded the idea behind his small business. Reeves Sports is a tribute to the man I loved and a motivation to push harder, find success for myself, and ultimately, solidify my grandfather’s legacy.

  “These ought to be good for a laugh, if nothing else,” I say and drop the box onto the dining room table. It’s formally set with placemats, napkins, and dishes. And just like always, there is a bouquet of fresh flowers in the center. My gaze drops to the third setting. “Are we expecting someone else?”

  Gram smiles. “I invited Patty’s granddaughter, Autumn. You remember Autumn, right? She graduated and
moved home.”

  I sigh. “Yeah, Gram, I remember her.” I also remember that she dated my brother Kenton for two years. I use the word dated loosely, but either way—that’s a hard limit for me. “I’m not interested in dating right now.”

  “Oh, you don’t mean that. You’re just scared after the way your marriage went up in flames.”

  I chuckle against my better judgment. Leave it to Grams not to pull any punches. “It isn’t just that. I’m busy. The travel and long hours . . .”

  “The right girl will make all of those excuses seem silly. You’ll see.”

  No matter how many “right girls” Gram sends my way, I’ll never be the right guy to be what they need. But I don’t have the energy or headspace to try to convince my stubborn grandmother of that, so I accept defeat. “What can I do to help?”

  “She’ll be here in ten minutes, so go freshen up and let me worry about everything else.” She cups my cheek lovingly and then darts off to the kitchen with more energy than I’d expect from someone her age. Energy that has been dead set on getting me a new wife since the day I signed the divorce papers a year ago.

  Right on time, the doorbell rings. Gram shoos me to the door, and I drag it open with a forced smile.

  “Hey, Lincoln.” Autumn holds a bouquet of flowers in one hand and steps inside slowly.

  “It’s good to see you,” I tell her and offer an awkward one-arm hug.

  “You too.” She looks around as if she’s expecting someone else. “When your grandma invited me over to have dinner with her grandson, I assumed she meant Kenton.”

  Ah, well this makes more sense. No wonder she agreed to a setup.

  “Sorry about that.”

  She smiles, and it eases some of the tension for the night ahead. Gram appears, and Autumn steps forward. “Hi, Milly. These are for you.”

  “Oh, how lovely.”

  “I remember how you always had fresh flowers out. I used to love that.”

  Grandma’s eyes sparkle, and her gaze slides over to me. “Isn’t that nice, Lincoln?”

  Good lord, I’m sure she’s already imagining the flowers at my and Autumn’s wedding. Pump the brakes, Gram.

  “It sure is.” I reach for the flowers. “Let me take care of those.”

  “Nonsense, you don’t know what you’re doing. You kids grab a drink. Dinner will be ready in fifteen minutes.”

  We do as Gram instructed and head out on the patio. Maybe the fresh air will help me feel less like I might suffocate at any moment.

  Autumn is exactly like I remember her. Tall and thin with long blonde hair. Back when we were kids she was all tomboy, but if her dress and high heels are any indication, I’d say she’s given up playing in the dirt and chasing lizards.

  Our grandparents have lived next to one another for as long as I can remember, so we’ve bumped into one another a lot over the years. She and Kenton spent lots of weekends exploring the neighborhood while I tagged along with Pop when he went to work. He’d take me to the range, get me a bucket of balls to hit, and when those were gone, I’d sit on the ground and watch as he worked with clients. If it rained or when he travelled, I’d be forced to stay behind and hang out with my little brother and the girl next door.

  “Relax, Lincoln, it’s just dinner,” she says after we’re seated. “You look like you’re ready to take off in a dead run down the ninth hole.” She inclines her head toward the golf course behind Gram’s house.

  “Just dinner?” I laugh quietly. “You don’t remember my grandma as well as you think you do.”

  She rolls her eyes and settles back into her chair, obviously more comfortable than I am. “What have you been up to? It’s been years. I was sorry to hear about you and Lacey. I always liked her, she was really nice.”

  “Still is.” I take a long, long drink and then fill her in on the major milestones of my life, which takes an embarrassingly short amount of time. “What about you?”

  “I went to school upstate. Graduated last May, spent some time travelling Europe, and now I’ve accepted a position teaching middle school. It’s a long-term sub gig for now, but hopefully it’ll lead to a full-time job next year.”

  “A teacher?” I ask in surprise. Then she shoots me a glare that I bet makes her pre-pubescent students wet themselves and wipes the look off my face.

  As she’s telling me all the reasons she chose teaching as a career path, my phone rings with a call from my IT guy. Gram walks out to let us know it’s time to eat and eyes the phone in my hand with a disapproving scowl.

  “It’s work. I’ll be right there.”

  “Work can wait.”

  “Five minutes.”

  “Two,” she states firmly. “Come on, Autumn. I want to hear about your plans now that you’re back.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Autumn says, and they disappear into the house.

  I place the phone to my ear. “Hey, Will. What’s up?”

  “Hey, boss man. Site crashed.”

  “How long?”

  “Just happened. Looks like it was an operating system update. I’ll have it back shortly, just wanted to give you a heads-up.”

  “Okay. Send me more information when you have it. Anything else?” I ask, mostly to delay going inside. Will is one of those guys who needs minimal supervision, which I appreciate more than he knows. I barely have time to manage myself.

  “All good. We’re probably gonna need to add another server sometime in the next six months to handle the traffic, but we’re okay for now.” I can hear his fingers flying over the keyboard. “And we’re back. A few emails came in at the same time, I’ll put them in a zip file and re-send.”

  “Thanks.”

  “No problem. Later, boss man.”

  The call ends, and instead of hustling into the house like I should, I pull up my email. I really need to set up a filter to weed out the hundreds of spam messages I get every day. One from Keira Brooks catches my eye, and a smile spreads across my face as I open it. We’ve sent a few back and forth over the last couple of days as she’s checked out the site and worked on the drills.

  Saw your video with the hole in one. Impressive.

  Keira

  There’s a video attached. Under any other circumstance, I might wait or have a second of hesitation about opening an unsolicited video from a girl I barely know, but since I’m avoiding dinner with my brother’s ex, I click play.

  The camera faces a blank, white wall. Keira comes into view, long hair pulled back into a ponytail. She glances back at the camera and smirks before holding up a red cup in her hand and then setting it on the floor.

  She backs up about five feet, grabs a wedge and a ball, and stands sideways to the camera so I can see her profile. She takes a deep breath and then tosses the ball with her left hand and catches it with the club in her right.

  She bounces the ball off the clubface in a steady rhythm. After a few bounces, she moves the club behind her and between her legs, keeping that rhythm and holding command over the ball.

  Then she goes into trickier moves, catching it on the top of her shoe between bounces, kicking it with the sole of the other shoe behind her. It’s really something to watch. I’ve seen plenty of trick shots, but she has a graceful, fluid control that most don’t possess.

  For the finale, she bounces the ball a touch harder, moves the club behind her back, taps the ball, and somehow hits it into the cup.

  My eyes widen in disbelief. I watch it twice. If she somehow spliced the video, I sure as hell can’t tell.

  I send her a quick email in response.

  How many tries did that take?

  Lincoln

  I’m smiling at my phone, watching the video a third time when another email from her comes in.

  One.

  Okay fine, three.

  Keira

  I kick my feet up and lean back, sending another reply.

  Nice. How’s the swing coming?

  Lincoln

  As if she’s waiting for
my email, the same way I’m waiting for hers, the reply is quick.

  Just got back to my dorm. I’m going to work on the drills after I study.

  Keira

  The reminder that she is in college is a swift kick to the old man balls. She has a life outside of golf that I can’t relate to anymore. I sit forward in my seat and send one last email.

  Sign up for a free account on the site, there are a ton of videos that you’ll have access to, and you can get one free swing review each month from someone on my team.

  Even though I told myself the email was my final reply, I still wait for hers. It comes just as quickly as the others.

  Your team, huh?

  Keira

  “Lincoln.”

  “Hmm.” I raise my head slowly from my phone and find Gram scowling at me.

  “I said your name three times before you answered. Put that phone away and come eat. Whatever it is, it can wait.”

  I place my phone in my pocket. “Sorry, Gram.”

  Dinner passes relatively quickly, and it isn’t even that awkward because it’s clear neither Autumn nor I are interested in the other. After thanking Gram, I walk Autumn out to her car.

  “How is Kenton? Do you talk to him much?”

  Hands in my pockets, I follow her slow pace. “He’s good. Still in L.A. playing soccer.”

  “He always said he was getting out of Arizona. I guess I should have believed him.” She looks a little sad, and I don’t know what to say. Kenton is . . . Kenton. Carefree and fun, incredibly hard working and successful but somehow still manages not to take himself too seriously. “Tell him I said hello.”