My voice is scratchy, throat dry, and head pounding. I close my eyes and feel around for my phone. Wrapping my fingers around it, I turn onto my side and slowly open my lids again.
Curse vodka. Or maybe it was the beer. Maybe it was the mixing. Maybe it was the sheer volume. After Lincoln’s rejection, I softened the blow with a game of flip cup, and then I think there were a few games of quarters. Groan.
I have a dozen texts from people I ran into last night, ranging from concern to laughing emojis at how drunk I was and calling me a lightweight. There are two from Keith—one asking where I am and the next assuring me that he’ll take notes and we can meet up at lunch so he can fill me in.
The newest message, though, makes my already rolling stomach lurch.
Lincoln: I’ve sent over a training plan. We may need to tweak it based on your practices, so I’d like you to detail everything you do in practices for the next week. This morning get the run in and do the weight training. After your practice, we’ll adjust the swing drills as needed.
The time stamp is from ten minutes ago. I read it several times before I notice the messages above his from me, sent early this morning. I scroll up, heat making my face burn. There are three of them just after four a.m.
Me: What do I have to do to convince you?
Me: I’ll work harder than any of your clients. You say, “Jump,” I’ll ask, “How high?” Or in this case, you say, “Swing,” and I’ll ask, “How many times?”
Me: Please? This is important to me. It’s all I’ve ever wanted.
Oh God. I throw an arm over my face to shield me from the blast of embarrassment. My head is pounding, and I squeeze my eyes shut.
“You okay?”
I moan in response, but then his text sinks into my foggy brain.
“He said yes.” I sit up fast, too fast, and gag.
Abby sits on her bed folding the pile of clothes, mostly mine. “Who said yes?”
I check my email but don’t see the training plan that Lincoln mentioned. My laptop is on my desk, so I swing my legs off the side of the bed and stumble the few steps to get it and bring it back to bed with me. Abby grabs her mug off the Keurig and joins me.
“You’re acting weirder than normal. What’s going on?” She crosses her legs and takes a sip of the coffee.
“Ugh. The smell of that coffee is making me want to gag.”
“Don’t blame the coffee. You’re the one who lost three straight games of beer pong. For someone who deals in small balls, you have shit aim throwing them.”
“I don’t see it.”
“I’m pretty sure I got some video of it if you want to see just how bad you were.”
“Not that. Lincoln said he sent a training plan, but I can’t find it.”
“Lincoln? Lincoln Reeves, the swing coach? The one you threw tequila on?”
“Will no one let me live that down?”
“Why is he emailing you?”
I keep my eyes firmly on the screen as I admit the embarrassing truth. “I drunk dialed him last night. And then drunk texted him.”
“Keira!” She laughs. “What did you say?”
“I asked him—no, I begged him to coach me.”
Her eyes widen. “And he said yes?”
I log into the Reeves Sports website and see I have a message waiting from Lincoln. His profile picture makes me laugh—a stoic expression, ball cap on, blue polo shirt. He’s still gorgeous but far too serious. “Ah, I found it!”
Abby stands. “I gotta get to the van, and you need to get to class.” She picks up her phone. “Keith is texting me now. Will you put that poor boy out of his misery and tell him you’re up and on your way?” She grabs her bag and heads to the door.
I tear my eyes away from the screen. “I will. Good luck this weekend. I put something in the side pocket of your bag.”
She reaches in and pulls out the blue unicorn scrunchie.
“Go be a badass unicorn scrunchie-wearing superstar.”
Her smile is sad. “It matches yours.”
I lift my arm. I still haven’t taken off the pink one. Maybe my dad knows me better than I think.
“Thank you.” She slips it on her wrist and lingers in the doorway. “Part of me wishes we could trade places. I don’t really feel like going, if I’m honest.”
“You’re just dreading the drive.” Abby hates car rides. She doesn’t even like going across town to run errands with me.
“You’re probably right. Okay.” She lets out a long breath. “I’ll call you later and let you know how it goes tonight.”
“Bye.”
When she’s gone, I read over the training plan with a huge grin on my face. It’s detailed and a little intense. A two-mile run? And there are at least twenty different flexibility exercises in addition to weightlifting.
It all seems like overkill. We do conditioning and weights as part of our normal training, but it’s nowhere near this much. Regardless, I’m excited to try some of it.
It’ll have to wait though. I have to get moving if I’m going to get a shower and manage to stomach some food before my nine o’clock class.
I slide into a seat next to Keith just as class begins. My stomach cramps from the Pop-Tart I ate, and I’m sweating out alcohol from the half jog that was necessary so that I wasn’t late.
Keith shakes his head disapprovingly, and I stick my tongue out at him. Then I regret it because it makes me gag.
Fifty minutes has never felt so long. When class finally ends what feels like a decade later, I have to go straight to my next class and sit through another lecture. I’m dragging when Keith and I make it to University Hall for lunch.
“Do you want anything? I’m gonna grab a sandwich?”
“No, definitely not. My stomach is still really angry.” I look around at the food options and then end up changing my mind. “Well, maybe some chips.”
He nods, and I place my head on the table until he returns. I do my best to pay attention as Keith catches me up on what I missed in organic chem.
“I’m going to email you my notes too since I know your brain is still foggy.”
“You’re a prince.”
“I have to rush off to get my workout in before our next class. Don’t skip measurements class. Professor Anolf docks a grade for too many absences.”
“I won’t,” I assure him. “I have to take my dad to the doctor, but I should be done in plenty of time.”
“Today?”
I nod. “It was their only available appointment all week.”
When Keith leaves, I read through his notes and the accompanying chapters from the textbook. Since it’s still the first week, one missed class won’t kill me, but I can’t afford to fall behind. The season is just about to pick up and study time will be hard to find.
An alarm on my phone goes off with a one-minute warning, and I silence it and continue to hold the phone until it rings.
“Hey, Mom,” I answer.
“Hi, honey. How are you?” Her warm, upbeat voice makes me smile.
“I’m good. Between classes.”
“Does this time still work for you this semester?” she asks.
“Yeah, it’s fine.”
“Good. I look forward to our calls every week.”
“Me too.”
I try not to think too hard about the fact I’ve been relegated to a time slot much like dropping off dry cleaning or grocery shopping.
I was sixteen when she and my dad divorced, and she moved back to Maryland where she grew up. Last summer she got remarried. My new stepdad (super weird to think of him as that), Bart, is a doctor at the same hospital where she works, and he seems nice. I’ve only met him a few times. Mom’s happy, though, which is all that really matters.
“How’s school? Busy schedule this semester?”
I give her a quick summary of my classes and then tell her about golf. I play down my disappointment in not being with Abby and the others at the tournament this weekend and give
her my standard cheerful line, “I’ll just keep putting in the work until I get my spot back.”
“You will. I know you will,” she says.
“How’s everything else? Any boyfriends I should know about? Or girlfriends,” she adds quickly.
I snort. “No, Mom. No boyfriends or girlfriends.”
“Well, you’ll find someone.”
“I’m not worried.”
“When I was your age, I was already married. Not that I’m rushing you.”
I snort again and stop myself from pointing out the obvious—that it ended in divorce, but her thoughts must drift there anyway. “How’s your dad?”
“Stubborn.” I check the time. “Speaking of, I need to run so I can take him to the doctor.”
“All right, honey. Call me if you need anything.”
“I will.” I pause before saying goodbye. “I miss you.”
“You too, baby.”
Dad’s waiting on the curb when I pull up outside his house.
“You’re late.” Sweat beads on his forehead.
“I’m right on time. Your clocks are fast. I keep telling you that.”
“If you aren’t five minutes early, you’re late.”
“I don’t think that counts for doctor’s offices since they’re going to make us wait at least fifteen minutes.”
I get him in the passenger seat and drive over to the hospital.
“Wait here, and I’ll grab a wheelchair to take you in.”
“I don’t need a wheelchair.” He opens his door and swings his good leg out.
I hurry to help and bite down on my molars. Five very long and very exhausting minutes later, the sliding doors open and the air conditioning blasts my sweaty body. “We made it,” I say breathlessly.
My dad’s leaning on me, and my shoulder aches from the pressure, but he seems completely oblivious to my exertion. Damn, stubborn man.
“Mr. Brooks.” One of the nurses rolls a wheelchair in front of us, shoots me a sympathetic smile, and then bats her eyelashes at my dad. He grins at her and lowers himself into the chair without complaint, and I try not to roll my eyes as I go to the reception and sign him in.
When I take a seat beside him in the waiting room, he finally looks more at ease. Depending on me and not being able to get around like he used to is harder for him than it is for me, and I feel guilty for all the frustration I felt. “I’m sorry I was late.”
His mouth twists into a half smile that says bullshit. “You’re a good kid. I know you have better things to do than cart your old man around. Hopefully this is the last appointment you need to drive me to.”
“Optimism . . . I dig it.” I raise my fist for him to bump, but he just stares at me confused.
He grabs my hand and squeezes tenderly. “Love ya, sweet pea.”
Since Coach Potter is with the team travelling to the tournament, it’s a pleasant afternoon at the golf course. We divide into two groups and play eighteen holes and then work on some individual drills.
When I get back to my room, I face-plant onto my bed. I still have study group tonight before I can nap. Or maybe I’ll just go to bed really early. Reluctantly, I sit up and open my laptop and send Lincoln a message through the website that details today’s practice and the schedule through Sunday.
I’ve just started in on the swing drills he gave me when a message pops up.
Lincoln: How was the morning conditioning session?
Me: I didn’t get to it. Just starting in on the swing drills now.
I take a step back from the laptop to start again just as a call request from him pops up on the screen.
Tentatively, I press accept. “Uh, hello?”
“What do you mean, you didn’t get to it?” His voice is agitated and clipped. The screen is black, and I’m tempted to turn on the video so I can scowl at him.
“I didn’t have time today.”
“There’s always time.”
“I had classes all day, plus I had to go to the doctor, and I still have study group tonight, but I’m getting in what I can now.”
A notification on the screen indicates he wants to turn on video for the call—guess he had the same idea—to turn on video to scowl at me. I tuck my hair behind my ears and do a quick scan around the room. There isn’t much I can do about the mess, so I ignore it and press accept.
When his face appears, I forget to breathe for a second. His hair looks like he’s been pulling at it, and he’s frowning in a decidedly hot way—who knew that was possible? “Are you okay?”
“Yes?” I answer, a bit confused until I realize what I said. “I’m fine. I had to take my dad to the doctor. He can’t drive.”
His shoulders relax, but the frown stays firmly in place. “You have to make time for the training. You can’t skip it because you stayed out too late and felt like shit this morning.”
“That hardly seems fair since I didn’t know about the training plan until after I made the decision to drink my troubles away.” I smile at his ridiculousness, but he doesn’t return it.
“No excuses. If you want this as much as you claim, then you’ll make time. The next time you decide to skip the plan I line out for you, we’re done.”
I open my mouth to apologize or yell back, I haven’t chosen which, when he asks, “How much time before your class?”
“An hour.”
“All right, let’s get to work then.”
10
Keira
It’s still dark outside when my alarm goes off. I don’t bother changing clothes since I passed out in yesterday’s workout leggings and tank. The last two days have been a blur. After Lincoln scolded me like a child on Thursday night, I was at the field house until midnight getting in the training he outlined.
I thought he’d be pleased, but yesterday, he was in the same pissy mood. And maybe it’s delusional to think my getting up early on a Saturday morning to hit the gym will please him, but a girl can hope.
It isn’t that I want to please him exactly, it’s that I want him to know that I’m willing to do what it takes to be the best and he didn’t make the wrong choice in taking me on as a client. I saw that look on his face at the clinic when he helped me with my swing. He believed in me. I want that look back.
I jog over to the field house with my eyes half open, hoping that by the time I get there my body will be warmed up and I’ll be more awake. The weight room is basically empty. A few people are running on treadmills, but I have the free weights to myself.
I text Abby good luck on her second day of the tournament and then put my headphones on, trying to deceive my body into thinking I’m excited to be here by playing fun, peppy songs.
Today is upper body with a heavy focus on back, and apparently my everything is weak because every time I choose a weight to start, I have to go down by fifteen pounds and try again.
I note everything in the online workout journal Lincoln set up for me. Number of reps, amount of rest between sets, weight, and I add in my own notes of displeasure for certain exercises just for fun. Next to burpees, I let him know that it’s a dumb exercise with a dumber name. It’s too early to be clever.
I’m working my ass off for him, but I want to make sure he knows I think he’s ridiculous and overbearing.
While I’m between exercises, I pull up the swing review he completed for me last night. His deep, clipped voice takes my breath away as he commentates through the video. It’s gritty and raw, absolutely no frills. He goes right into it without so much as a hello.
He pauses at certain spots to highlight things I’m doing wrong and offer advice on how to correct it. Three minutes and twenty-five seconds of painfully honest feedback with absolutely no attempt to try to sugarcoat my weaknesses. It’s a little hard to take, but I hang on his every word anyway.
The video ends as abruptly as it started, and I hit replay. Each time I watch it, which is basically every time I rest, I’m filled with the same overwhelming desire to do more, try harder, di
g deeper.
As I’m finishing, Abby texts back to thank me and tell me she had a good warm-up and she’s about to tee off. She also assures me that Coach is still a dick—as if there were any doubt. Sometimes, it’s good to know I’m not the only one who feels that way though. Apparently, he spent most of day one with Cassidy and ignored the rest of the team.
I head to the outdoor track for a mile run. Today is supposed to be light conditioning, and I guess it is since I’m running one mile instead of two like yesterday, but it sure doesn’t feel easy.
Two hours, a shower, and a quick nap later, I head to the driving range, only to have it start to rain. Big, cold drops soak my clothes and hair. I shoot a glare at the dark clouds that are ruining my training session.
Seriously? It couldn’t have rained while I was running earlier?
I try to keep going even as my teeth chatter, but I can’t video my swing in this condition, so I head to my dad’s.
“Hey, sweet pea. You look like you ran over. Coming down pretty good out there.” He glances out the window from the recliner.
“I got caught in it at the driving range.” I take off my shoes and then go to my old bedroom to swap out my shirt for a dry one.
Back in the living room, I take a seat on the couch and wrap the throw blanket hanging over the arm snug around me. “Did you eat lunch?”
He nods to the counter. “Yeah, I ordered pizza a couple hours ago.”
“Any left?” I stand and walk toward the kitchen.
“Mm-hmm. A slice or two.”
It’s cold, but I devour a slice of sausage pizza while I open the fridge and rummage around until I find a Diet Mountain Dew. I hide them in the vegetable drawer and behind condiments he rarely uses.
“Dad, do you still have my old golf mat and net?”
“They are in the garage, I think.”
I take my soda with me and sigh as I see the disorganization of the garage. It’s clear where I got my messy tendencies.
Sweet Spot Page 7
