I step out and walk a few steps toward them before either of them notices. Lincoln is telling her he’ll call later when his grandma stops paying attention to him and looks to me.
“Hello.” Her smile puts me at ease, and I close the remaining distance.
“Hi. I’m Keira.”
15
Lincoln
“It’s lovely to meet you, dear. I’m Milly, Lincoln’s grandmother.”
“I was just telling Gram that we had dinner plans and can’t stay.” I place a hand at Keira’s back and then remove it, flex it and try to rid the burning sensation working up my arm. I’m about to crawl out of my skin with all the ways this is fucked up.
I brought a client to my grandmother’s house, which is unprofessional enough without all the ways my body is reacting to said client—none of which are the least bit professional. And now she’s a door away from seeing the blind date Gram has waiting for me. I should have known. The woman never gives up.
Gram seems to really like Keira, or maybe she just likes that I willingly brought a woman over. Gram was never supposed to know. I was just gonna slip inside, tell her something came up with a client, and then Keira and I’d be on our way. I should have called.
“We have dinner together every week. He’s a good boy.”
“That’s sweet.” Keira smirks at me, obviously loving every second of my discomfort.
Ha! If Keira knew the thoughts going through my head, she wouldn’t be calling me sweet. I scan the length of her. Her little golf skirts are going to be the death of me.
Gram nods. “I made tamales tonight. It’s Lincoln’s favorite, and I’ve invited my friend Jenny and her granddaughter.”
“That sounds delicious,” Keira says and presses a hand against her stomach, the movement lifting her shirt to show off the smooth skin just below her belly button. “I’m starving.”
I can see the wheels turning under Gram’s big hair.
“We can’t. Keira has to get back to Valley.” And away from me before I screw up and touch her again.
Keira shrugs. “It’s okay. It’s been a while since I’ve had a real home-cooked meal.”
“Well, let’s get you inside. The more the merrier. There are chips and guacamole you can snack on while I finish dinner.” Gram herds Keira inside, and I shove my hands into my pockets so I don’t rip the hair out of my scalp. Or touch her.
Keira turns her head as they enter the front door and smiles at me, sweet and playful. Gram continues inside, but Keira waits for me to come unglued from my spot.
“Come on.” She rolls her eyes, steps to me, and takes my hand, pulling me along.
Her small fingers wrap around mine and squeeze before she leaves me in the entryway and heads toward Gram in the kitchen. She washes her hands and then snags a handful of chips.
I move to the dining room to say hello to Jenny, who’s one of Gram’s friends I actually remember; though, I’ve never met her granddaughter Whitney. I apologize to them both, fumbling over what exactly I’m apologizing for since I had no clue, but I did just bring another chick to a blind date, so saying something seems like the right thing to do.
“I’m sorry about this. Gram must have mixed up the dates.” She definitely didn’t mix up the dates, and anyone who knows her, knows she’s still whip-smart. “Keira is a client, and she has an important tournament coming up this weekend.”
“Your grandmother said you’re a golf coach. Is that right?” Whitney asks.
I give her and Jenny a brief overview of the company. As I talk, my gaze randomly falls to Keira. She hasn’t left Gram’s side in the kitchen, and more surprising is that Gram hasn’t shooed her out. That might be because she wants to keep Keira and Whitney apart, so her matchmaking wasn’t in vain, but they’re both smiling an awful lot.
I do my best to entertain Jenny and Whitney while only allowing myself small glances at Keira. Making conversation has always come easy to me. I’m not as charismatic as Kenton, but I like people and I’m generally good at making them feel at ease and welcome. It’s part of the reason I travel so much. I’m more persuasive in person.
It’s nice out, so Gram and Keira set the table on the back patio, and we all sit to eat.
“Anyone want more wine?” Gram asks, bringing bottles of red and white to the table.
I prefer beer, but since I know there isn’t any in the fridge, I take the red and refill Jenny and Whitney’s glasses before giving myself a small pour. I’d like to guzzle the entire bottle to make this less awkward, but since I’m driving Keira, I won’t.
“Would you like some wine, dear?” Gram asks Keira, she’s the only one without a wine glass in front of her. “There are more glasses inside. Lincoln, why don’t you grab her a glass.”
Keira holds up a hand. “Oh, no thanks. I have to drive back to Valley tonight.” She takes a bite of her tamale and groans. “This is so good.”
Gram smiles while I watch on amused. Keira has totally bewitched her. If Pop were here, he’d be smitten too . . . just as soon as he saw her hit a golf ball, anyway.
“Lincoln was saying you have a big tournament this weekend.” Whitney passes a platter to me but speaks to Keira.
Keira glances at me while nodding. “Yeah, that’s right.” She squirms in her seat, pushes some food around her plate, and takes a drink of water, clearly uncomfortable with being in the spotlight. Put a golf club in her hand and she’d be giving them a show, but without one, she’s less sure of herself.
“Keira plays at Valley University. She had back-to-back top ten placings at the Pac-12 Championships and NCAA Regionals, was named Player of the Month in September, made first team all-Pac-12, almost advanced to semifinals of the NCAA Championship, too.” I finish and take a sip of wine. It’s still silent when I place it back on the table.
Gram’s smile couldn’t get any bigger, and Keira looks dumbstruck, as if she didn’t expect me to know her stats. Did the girl really think I took her on just because she begged and pleaded?
“Wow.” Whitney is the first to speak. She looks between Keira and me a couple of times. “That’s really impressive.”
“It sure is,” Gram says, eyes not leaving my face. I shake my head because I know exactly what she’s thinking. Just because I know the girl’s history, it doesn’t mean I’m interested in dating her.
And even if I were, it’s simply not possible. Putting aside the fact I’m her coach, I care too much about seeing Keira succeed to screw it up by getting in her way.
16
Keira
Lincoln went to walk Whitney and her grandmother to their car, but I stay on the patio with Milly, enjoying the light breeze and the last heat of the sun.
“Your house is beautiful. I can’t imagine waking up to this every day.” Lincoln’s grandmother’s house has a beautiful view of the golf course.
“George, my husband, had coffee out here every morning, and a lot of evenings too. I don’t sit out here nearly as much now that he’s gone, but it always makes me think of him.”
“Lincoln talks about him a lot—or, as much as he talks about anyone.”
“He started following George around as soon as he was able to walk and never stopped.”
I pull my legs under me as I try to picture a young Lincoln.
“My parents moved out here from Maryland when I was little. My grandparents were always far away so I never really had that type of relationship with them. I think it’s nice that he did. And nice that you two are still so close.”
“That must have been hard.”
I shrug. “They’ve passed now, but they would send cards, and we talked on the phone occasionally. I never felt like I missed out. Well, not too much. Seeing you and Lincoln together makes me think it would have been nice to have lived closer.”
“I’m sure Lincoln would love to have me across the country right about now. He’s one blind date away from never speaking to me again.”
I giggle, which is something I’m finding
I do a lot around Milly. “Why do you do it if you know he hates it?”
She sighs. “Because I’m afraid that, if I don’t push him, he’ll spend so much time fixing people’s golf swings that he’ll forget to fix his own issues and live his life. Eventually, you get old enough to realize work is the thing you do to afford a life, not to create one. And I don’t mind admitting that I’d also like a great grandchild before I die.”
Milly smiles and places her hand over mine on the table. “Don’t misunderstand me, I’m proud of him, and I’m glad he’s helping you. I just wish he'd take more time for himself.” She taps her fingers over mine and then lifts her hand. “There’s something about seeing you with him, though. You keep him on his toes, I can tell.”
She stands just as Lincoln reappears. “I’m gonna clean up. Why don’t you and Keira go for a walk along the course before it gets dark.”
I expect Lincoln to offer an excuse, but when Milly goes inside, he waves a hand toward the gate at the edge of the yard. “What do you say?”
As we walk down the golf cart path, the only sounds are our footsteps and the birds chirping. Palm trees dot the horizon, and the ninth hole stretches out before us. We have this entire amazing course to ourselves and it’s breathtaking.
“Your grandmother is . . .” I smile as I try to think of the right adjective.
“Overbearing? Bossy?”
“I was going to say wonderful, but those things too.”
“Yeah. She’s great minus the setup attempts at every turn. Last week, a woman emailed me and asked about having me out for a clinic at her high school, and when I called her to get more details, she told me she’d gotten my number from Gram, and oh, by the way, she was the librarian.”
“A librarian with a passion for sports . . . or maybe just the man playing the sport.” I bump my shoulder against his and then remain close. “You’re a catch.”
He arches a brow. “My gram tell you that?”
“Me and every other woman in the state probably.”
“Thank you for being so nice to her. She likes you.”
“I like her too.”
He steps away to pick up a water cup in the path and toss it into a nearby trash can. “You ready to get back?”
I nod. “Yeah, I should probably get started home.”
We turn around and head the way we came, walking up the ninth hole. I step closer again and this time he doesn’t try to put distance between us. The sleeve of his shirt and the warmth of his arm tickles me. “Why does your grandmother keep setting you up so she can, in her words, fix your issues?”
He groans. “Can we pretend she didn’t tell you anything that would make our whole client-coach relationship inappropriate and awkward?”
“Definitely not. I mean . . . I yelled at you and then threw tequila on you. It’s only fair I have dirt on you too.”
His lips twitch at the corners.
“So? What happened?”
He makes a strangled sound and I think his pace speeds up as if he’s trying to speed walk away from this conversation.
“Come on, tell me. It can’t be that bad.”
“I was married and things didn’t work out.”
I motion with a hand for him to keep going, which surprisingly, he does.
“Since the divorce, Gram has been on my case to get back out there. I keep telling her I’m fine, but she keeps pushing and setting me up on blind dates. I know she means well, but the woman refuses to accept that my life doesn’t lend itself very well to relationships. I’m on the road a lot, and even when I’m not, I’m working or thinking about work. Anyway, now that you know entirely too much about me, what about you?”
“It’s really just me and my dad. My parents are divorced, and my mom lives in Maryland with her new husband. Since my dad is as likely to set me up on dates as he is to cheer for the Cubs, I have far fewer dates than you.”
“They aren’t breaking down the door, making him clean his guns, or whatever the cliché dad jokes is?”
“Is that what you’re going to do someday? Answer the door on your daughter’s dates with a shotgun, blaring eighties rock, wearing jorts?”
He shakes his head. “I don’t own jorts, and you’re avoiding the question.”
“I’ve dated, nothing serious since high school . . . if you can count that as serious.”
“How come?”
“I don’t know.” I shrug. “There isn’t a lot of time. Plus, guys aren’t as into the whole standing on the sidelines and cheering on their significant other as chicks are.”
“You’re young, beautiful, and talented. I’m sure that’s intimidating for some guys. Trust me, plenty of guys would love to be there to cheer you on.”
My stomach flips, and I ask, “You really think so?”
His dark eyes meet mine, and those full lips pull into a wide smile. “I know so.”
17
Keira
The university golf course at Stanford is beautiful. Bright green colors set against the mountain landscape. In some ways, it isn’t so different from home, but in all the ways it matters in relation to golf, it’s completely different.
The elevation is different, for one, and then there’s the turf. One bad bounce on our hard, dry ground in Arizona, and I’d be swinging at dust. The grass here is lush and more forgiving. Every shot from the fairway is like hitting off a tee.
“You looked good,” Abby says as we’re finishing our practice round. “All those extra hours of practice are showing. How’d it feel?”
“I don’t know.”
She laughs, but I’m serious. I don’t think I felt my body the entire time. But now that I am focusing on it, a sinking feeling settles in my stomach. I’m so screwed.
“Come on, let’s go back to the hotel, shower, and then watch QVC before dinner.”
“I don’t think I’m gonna go to dinner.”
“What? Why?”
“I think it’ll just make me more nervous.” The team dinner the night before a tournament is something that’s supposed to be relaxing and uplifting, but it has the opposite effect on me. Maybe it’s Coach Potter, maybe it’s just me. Either way, I need to get my head right before tomorrow.
One thing is certain, if I screw this up, Coach Potter will make sure I never get another shot.
In our hotel room, I let Abby shower first and collapse onto the bed. I close my eyes and visualize the course. I see myself moving through each hole in best-case and worst-case scenarios.
Once it’s my turn for the shower, I stand under the hot spray and let every negative thought or fear come to the surface, and then, one by one, I try to dismiss them. It’s easier to let go of some than others.
“Are you sure you don’t want to come? It might be good to get out and forget about tomorrow for a couple of hours,” Abby asks as she grabs her purse.
I run a brush through my wet hair and pull the towel tighter around my body. “I’m sure.”
“Do you want me to bring you back something?”
“Nah, I might order room service or walk downstairs to grab something from the market across the street.”
“All right. See ya later.”
I’m lounging on my bed in a T-shirt and jeans, watching the local weather channel, when my phone pings with a text.
Lincoln: How did your practice round go?
Me: Okay, I think. I shot one under.
Lincoln: Nice work. Eat a light dinner, drink lots of water, and get a good night’s sleep.
Me: Does ordering pizza count as light?
Lincoln: Definitely not. Don’t you have some sort of team dinner tonight?
Me: I didn’t go.
Lincoln: Why not? You need to eat.
I roll my eyes but find myself smiling as the phone rings and Lincoln’s name lights up the screen. “Hello?”
“What’s wrong? Why aren’t you eating with the team? Did Potter do something?”
The protective note in his tone makes me want to
hug him simply for implying he’d be pissed if my coach had stepped out of line. “No, Coach Potter didn’t do anything. Well, nothing out of the normal.”
“Are you nervous for tomorrow?”
“Yes,” I admit. “Terrified. What if I screw up?”
“You won’t.”
“You can’t know that. I could go out there and bogey every hole. Or double bogey.”
He laughs. “That’s pretty unlikely.”
“But I could!” I insist.
“Okay, fine. I’ll play this game. Yes, you could go out tomorrow and double bogey every hole.”
The sinking feeling grows in my stomach, making it hard to breathe.
“Or you could go out there and shoot sixty-two and let everyone know that you mean business. Either way, the plan remains the same.”
“Coach Potter will never let me have another shot if I embarrass the team again.”
“Fuck Potter,” he clips and then his voice softens. “You’re the best player on the team, Keira. Go out there tomorrow and act like it. Own that shit.”
I’m nodding, that rush of excitement before a game finally thrumming through me. “Okay.”
“Yeah?” He sounds surprised.
I nod again, more determined. “Yeah.”
“Good luck tomorrow. Call me after and let me know how it goes.”
A half hour after we get off the phone, my stomach is growling, and I’m considering moving from my spot on the bed to go find something to eat when there are three sharp knocks on my door. I look through the peephole and see a man carrying a tray of food.
I open it, prepared to tell him he has the wrong room, but then he smiles. “Room service for Miss Brooks.”
“I didn’t order anything.”
He looks back at the paper in his hand. “Keira Brooks. Room three thirteen.”
Sweet Spot Page 11
