Sweet Spot

by Rebecca Jenshak

I manage to find them, and I’m standing on a ladder, hanging the net from the hooks in the ceiling, when Lincoln calls. I hesitate to accept the video call and seriously think about sending him to voice mail, but somewhere deep down (like really deep down), somewhere that can forget what a sadist ass he is and how sore I am, I know I need him.

  “Hello?” I answer, putting it on speaker and setting the phone on the top of the ladder so I can continue to hang the net.

  “Keira?”

  I move my head in front of the phone so he can see me. “I’m here. One second.”

  “What in the world are you doing? And why do you look like a wet rat?”

  I ignore the last comment because I totally do, and he looks perfect as usual. “I’m trying to hang my old golf net in my dad’s garage. It’s raining out.”

  “It is?” It sounds like he moves around before he speaks again. “Huh. It’s raining here too.”

  “Where are you?” I ask, glancing at the screen and staring past him at the background. Blank, white walls that tell me absolutely nothing.

  “At home. Let’s see this net.”

  I get the last loop over the hook and step down the ladder. I switch the camera so it’s front facing and show him the setup.

  “How old is that mat?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe five years. I got it and the net for my sixteenth birthday.”

  “Well, you won’t need either today.”

  “What do you mean? The training plan says two hundred reps.”

  “That’s why I’m calling. Scratch that. I want you to go back to practicing without a club. And double the reps. That turn and weight shift need to be perfect. Your power is your best asset, but in order to swing as hard as you can, everything else has to be dialed in.”

  “But—” I start to object and think better of it. “All right, whatever you say.”

  For the next hour, I continue to bite my tongue and follow his instructions. Lincoln insists I need to slow down and rebuild my swing—something few people would dare try to do in the middle of a season.

  But it’s listen to Lincoln or keep hoping Coach Potter suddenly notices how much I deserve to be out there. And the latter seems as likely as Lincoln telling me to take tomorrow off and enjoy a nice bubble bath.

  “Pause at the top of the turn and concentrate on using your legs—your arms are just levers.”

  It takes a few minutes of him nit picking every single part of my body.

  “Your knees are bent too much.”

  “No, now not enough bend.”

  “You’re tilting too much.”

  “Your pushing with your right.”

  “Your shoulders are too stiff.”

  But I listen, and soon, his commentary falls silent and I settle into a rhythm, focusing on the feeling of my body and trying to commit it to memory.

  “I think I have it,” I tell him once the correct way starts to feel natural. I stop and face the camera, waiting for the next step or maybe a compliment.

  “Keep going. I’ll let you know when to stop.” He steps out of view, and I stick my tongue out at him.

  The door from the house into the garage opens, and my dad smiles as he sees me standing on my golf mat.

  “I’m gonna heat up a frozen dinner. Are you staying to eat, sweet pea?”

  Oh God. I don’t dare look at my phone to see if Lincoln is watching. “Oh, uh. I’ll make dinner for us. Don’t eat that garbage. Just give me a bit to finish up first.”

  He waves me off. “I’ll cook two Hungry Man dinners so I can prove that they aren’t garbage. Frozen packages of delight, those things are.” He shakes a finger at me as he goes back in and then lets the door fall closed.

  I glance at the phone and find Lincoln almost smirking.

  “Don’t say a word,” I warn him.

  “Wouldn’t dream of it, sweet pea.” He smiles, and I consider picking up a club and throwing it at his head, but don’t want to destroy my phone. “Go, have a delicious dinner with your father and then get another three-hundred reps in. Message me later and let me know how it goes.”

  “Three hundred?” My eyes widen and my brows rise, but Lincoln’s face remains completely serious.

  “Take advantage of the setup at your dads while you’re there. It’s better than your space in the dorm. We really need to figure out how to make it where you can hit balls there when the time comes.”

  “Yeah, my neighbors would love that,” I mutter quietly, but the man misses nothing.

  “Enjoy your Hungry Man.” He full-on smiles, and it looks good on him. I forget how annoying he is when he smiles like that.

  “What are you having for dinner? Do you cook? Pizza delivery? Or are you more of a takeout kind of guy?”

  “Actually, I’m having dinner with someone.” He lifts his arm and checks the time on his expensive-looking watch. “I should get going. Have a nice night, Keira.”

  Irrational jealousy heats my face. He’s going on a date and I’m having a microwavable dinner with my dad. Figures.

  Focusing all my frustration, I set the camera up to record and do all three hundred reps. And then fifty more.

  11

  Lincoln

  I walk through Gram’s door a half hour early. It’s a first, and I catch her checking the time on the microwave before she speaks. “Lincoln, what are you doing here so early?”

  “Can’t a man show up early to help his grandmother with dinner?”

  “He could, but I can’t remember the last time he did.”

  “Well, I’m here now.” I put the wine on the counter and push up my sleeves. “What can I do?”

  She laughs. “Pour me a glass and grab the rose plates from the top shelf in the china cabinet.”

  I grab two wine goblets, fill them, and take a drink of mine before her request sinks in. “The rose plates? We only use those on special occasions.”

  They were a wedding gift from her mother, and I can count the number of times she’s used them on one hand. Most notably her and Pop’s fiftieth wedding anniversary and five Christmases ago when we first found out he had cancer.

  “I made a vow this year that I would use the things that bring me joy more often. I’m not going to be around forever, you know?”

  “Really, Gram? Playing the death card?” I cross my arms over my chest and wait for the real reason we’re busting out her precious china.

  “Also, I invited my friend Margie and her granddaughter over for dinner.”

  I groan.

  She rolls her eyes, the second woman to do that to me today. “You act as if having dinner with a pretty young woman is the worst way you could spend a Saturday night.”

  She turns her back to me, stirring something on the stove, and I move to the china cabinet and pull down the rose plates.

  “I’m in no position to date right now.”

  “You keep saying that, and I keep ignoring it.”

  I chuckle, well aware she’s ignoring me. I can’t figure out how to make her understand that I don’t have anything to offer at the moment.

  “Listen, honey, I know Lacey made you feel like it was all your fault that things didn’t work out, but that’s rubbish. She was just as much at fault.”

  “Eh . . .”

  “She was. Marriage is hard work, but dating doesn’t have to be. Have dinner with Sweetie and just try to enjoy yourself, that’s all I’m asking.”

  “Sweetie? Her name is Sweetie?”

  There’s a knock at the door and Gram scans the place quickly. “Everyone’s early tonight. Get the door, will you?” She turns back to the stove, and I shake my head.

  “This is the last time,” I tell her quietly over my shoulder. “No more setups. I mean it. I’ll stop coming over.”

  She hums a response that I’m pretty sure is her total disregard for such a threat. And she’s probably right. I’ll keep coming back, hoping one of these times the girl at the door will make me believe Gram’s optimistic outlook.

&nbs
p; Sweetie turns out to be the perfect name for the woman sitting across from me. She’s blonde with blue eyes and a soft, syrupy-sweet voice. Everything about her says feminine, right down to the light pink dress she’s wearing and the pearls around her neck.

  It’s impossible to dislike her or not enjoy myself, but there’s absolutely zero chance she and I would work out. I’m a grumpy asshole, and this woman looks as if she’d burst into tears if I so much as looked at her the wrong way.

  If I do ever start dating again, it’ll be with someone who can take my shit and call me on it. Like Keira does. Or did. Since we started working together, she’s less vocal. The girl was holding back so many words today I thought she was gonna bite her tongue off.

  My phone vibrates in my pocket, but I know Gram will be pissed if I take a call at the table. A few minutes later, though, Sweetie’s phone rings.

  “Oh, good gracious. I am so sorry. I forgot to turn this thing off,” she says as she rummages through her purse and pulls out her phone. She bites her lip as she looks at the screen and then gives Gram and Marge big, puppy dog eyes. “I’m so sorry. I have to take this.” Then she looks at me. “I’ll be right back.”

  I wait until she disappears into the living room before I look at my phone.

  Keira: 350 reps done. You’re a sadist asshole. I can’t feel my arms.

  And another that came in a few minutes later.

  Keira: I don’t see anything on tomorrow’s plan. Same as today?

  I love that, even when she’s calling me an asshole for putting her through the wringer, she’s asking for more. And I don’t have to ask if the extra fifty reps she did was a silent fuck you—I know it was.

  “Lincoln,” Gram admonishes.

  I glance up from my phone as I tap out a text to Keira. Gram’s expression changes from annoyed to something I can’t place, curious maybe.

  “Sorry, Gram.” I fire off the message and pocket my phone.

  After Marge and Sweetie leave, I help Gram clean up.

  “Dinner was fantastic. As usual.”

  She smiles and hands me another plate to dry.

  “And I saw Marge eyeing these dishes with envy.”

  She laughs softly, but the quiet surrounds us again. There is a look of melancholy on her face that makes me wonder, but not ask, if she’s thinking of Pop.

  After the dishes are done, Gram flips off the kitchen light and walks me to the front door.

  “Same time next week?”

  “Mm-hmm. And maybe bring whoever you were texting earlier. It’ll save me a phone call or two to find your next date.”

  I try to picture Keira at dinner with Gram but shut down that train of thought fast. Do I think it would have been more fun, if not hazardous to my being, than sitting across from Sweetie all night? Yes. Is it highly inappropriate that I think that? Also yes.

  “That was a client, Gram. I told you I’m not dating right now. Well, unless you count the blind dates you keep setting me up on, then I guess technically I am dating, but it’s very solidly against my wishes.”

  She doesn’t bother apologizing. I’m sure tonight’s missed love connection has just made her that much more determined. “A female client?”

  I hesitate to answer a second too long, and Gram smiles all too knowingly. I think back to texting Keira, but I don’t see how anything I did or said could have made Gram think it was a woman. Maybe I’m not as good as I thought at hiding how much I’m enjoying working with Keira.

  “Yeah, so? I have lots of female clients.” Keira is my only personal female client, but the website has many, so Gram doesn’t know any better.

  “I saw that look in your eyes. You were smiling, for heaven’s sake.”

  “I smile.” Though as I say it, I realize I’m frowning.

  Gram laughs and touches my cheek with her palm. “I love you. Don’t work too hard. Have fun. Enjoy this time in your life. It goes fast.”

  I’m still thinking about Gram’s words when I get home. I grab a beer, turn on ESPN, and open my laptop. Gram doesn’t understand this is fun. I love my job. The pride and satisfaction I feel when a client succeeds is better than any high.

  And, yeah, I miss having a woman to come home to sometimes, but any time that longing gets too heavy, I think about the look of disappointment Lacey wore like the latest fashion for the last year of our marriage.

  Yeah, no thanks. I’d rather be single for the rest of my life than go through that again. Perpetually disappointing the person you care about the most chips away at you. Touching people’s lives by making them better at something they love, inspiring them to be the best they can, isn’t a bad way to spend my days.

  It’s late Saturday night, so I don’t call or text Keira about tomorrow’s training plan. I send instructions via the site, which will notify her by email.

  I press send and reach for my beer, but as I’m setting it down, she messages me on the site’s chat feature.

  Keira: Are you feeling okay? Have you been body snatched? Did someone hack your account?

  I chuckle as I respond.

  Me: Sunday’s are a recovery day. Stretch out, get a few turns in, and spend the rest of the day preparing for the week.

  Me: And eat something besides a Hungry Man frozen dinner.

  Keira: No worries on that. If I never eat another, it’ll be too soon. How was your date?

  It takes me a second to realize she misinterpreted my words earlier today when I told her I had dinner plans. I know I didn’t say date, but seeing as how it ended up sort of being a date, I don’t bother correcting her.

  Me: It was fine.

  Keira: Fine? *snort* Wow, lucky lady.

  Me: If you go out tonight, take it easy on the alcohol and make sure you still get enough sleep. Don’t derail all your progress.

  Keira: Wow, you’re a real conversation buzz kill. Do you ever stop thinking about training?

  Me: It’s my job to think about it. Every decision, no matter how minor you may think it is, plays a part in your success or failure.

  Shit, I do sound like a buzz kill. It’s true, though.

  Keira: I have no plans to go out tonight, and I’m already lying in bed. Happy?

  Well, no. Now I’m picturing her lying in bed. So, I’m not happy at all.

  My thoughts run away from me for long enough that I picture her bare legs and that gorgeous sun-kissed hair splayed out begging for me to run my fingers through it. Perving on a client—super douche move.

  Me: Good. Enjoy your day off.

  I log out of the chat before she can respond and spend the next two hours working on her training plan for next week and trying hard not to be the creeper she accused me of being the first time we met.

  12

  Lincoln

  Over the next week, I push her harder than I have pushed any other athlete I’ve ever coached. Ever. I need to know she’s serious. That she’ll work as hard as I will.

  Adding another client might seem like a small thing, but I spend a minimum of fourteen hours a week on a client. That’s an average client. I’m spending double that with Keira because of how much I believe in her. And if I’m spreading myself this thin and putting my hope in her, then I have to know that we’re in this together.

  On Tuesday night, I fly out to L.A. to see my brother and interview a woman to manage my tennis coaches. Kenton plays soccer for the L.A. Stars. Despite—or maybe because of—our family history with golf, he was never interested in it.

  He’s waiting at the bar near my gate. Turned in his seat so he can watch the passengers walking by, his hat is pulled low so he’s hard to recognize. Not that it fools me; I’d recognize his tall, lanky ass anywhere. The slight tilt of his shoulders and the way he sits on the stool with one foot resting on the top rung and the other on the floor is all so familiar.

  He stands as I weave through people to get to him.

  “Linc.” He embraces me and gives me a couple of good slaps before stepping back. “Been too long, brothe
r.”

  Smiling, I nod and look him over. He’s taller than I am by an inch, but his build is smaller—leaner from all the conditioning he does. I’m damn proud of him even if it means the time between seeing him seems to get longer each visit.

  “You look good. Nice game last night.”

  We each take a seat, and he slides a beer toward me. “Thanks. You catch it or watch the highlights?”

  I take a sip before I reply, “Come on, you really think I’d miss my little bro in action?”

  He raises a brow.

  “Fine, I caught the last twenty minutes or so.”

  “Did you see that header in the last minute?”

  “I did.” I hit the bill of his cap. “Should have picked a sport where you don’t have to use your head so barbarically. Or at least one with a helmet.”

  He just grins.

  We chat mostly about the team and what he’s been up to in L.A. as we grab dinner and drink more beer. Then I fill him in on Gram and her latest setup attempts.

  We’re both dog tired so we make it an early night and head back to his house.

  I chuckle as he leads me into his new place. It’s the first time I’ve seen it since he moved in six months ago and it’s as extravagant as I expected. “This place is ridiculous, Kent.”

  “I know, right? Check out the view.”

  I follow him through the entryway and into the living area with floor-to-ceiling windows that showcase the lights of the city at night.

  I drop my bag to the floor and fall into the chair where I can appreciate the skyscape.

  “I’m gonna shower. I got you all set up in the spare room.” He motions with his head to the right and walks off toward the left. “Glad to have you here, bro.”