Sweet Spot

by Rebecca Jenshak

  My stomach growls at the smell of something I can’t place.

  We’re at an awkward standoff.

  “Where would you like it?”

  “On the bed, I guess.” I go to my wallet so I can pay him.

  “It’s been taken care of.”

  “Like on a room charge?”

  “No, it was paid for separately over the phone.”

  He leaves, and I remove the top off one of the plates. Salad.

  I pop a crouton into my mouth, well aware of where the food came from now that I see the boring contents. The second plate has a grilled chicken sandwich with veggies. Still boring, but better.

  Me: Thanks for dinner.

  He doesn’t respond, so I lift the top off the third plate. The smallest piece of chocolate cake I’ve ever seen makes me laugh. Such a complicated man.

  I’m the first from Valley to tee off. While I warm up on the driving range, Coach Potter stands back, arms crossed, and watches. It feels good, and my accuracy has improved, but I try not to get overly confident.

  There is a tenfold stress difference between warm-ups and taking that first swing to start the tournament, and that difference is responsible for talented players falling out of competition by the end of day one. Myself included.

  I hit my last ball and turn around for any parting wisdom from Coach.

  “I think I’m ready,” I say.

  “No one is expecting much, so just go out there, do your best, and try to contribute to the overall team score. No matter what happens, keep your head. You represent us all when you’re on that course. Understood?”

  Anger vibrates under my skin, and a cool sweat makes me want to push up my sleeves even though it’s barely fifty degrees. “Got it.”

  18

  Lincoln

  If determination were ever personified by a look, Keira would be wearing it. Determined and pissed—at the ball or at life, I’m not sure which.

  She’s just off the fairway in the first cut rough about to take her second shot on this par five. It’s her second round of the day, and I can tell she’s in better condition than the other girls. While they’re tiring, she still looks fresh.

  Teddy, the coach from Stanford, spots me and weaves through the small crowd to where I’m standing in the back.

  “Lincoln.” He extends a hand, and we shake. “What are you doing here?”

  “Watching.” I nod toward Keira and one of his players, Wren Thompkins. “She’s good.”

  He crosses his arms over his chest, and we stand shoulder to shoulder, watching as Keira takes her swing. It’s long, and Keira’s face shows her frustration.

  Mine must show it too.

  “That girl has power.” He laughs as Keira shoves her club into her bag and shoulders it. “And spunk. Reminds me a little of you when you were fresh on the tour. Remember that time you almost took a swing at Johnson?”

  I smile, but the memory makes me pissed all over again. He’d made a snide comment about Lacey and threw me off my whole game, which was exactly what he wanted. I should have punched him.

  We walk behind the crowd as they move with the players. Thompkins looks indecisive as she tries to pick out the right club for her approach shot.

  “Good to see you, Lincoln.” He moves up to confer with his player, and I hang back because I’m fairly certain Keira hasn’t spotted me yet.

  I probably should have told her I was coming, but the truth is I didn’t know I was until I found myself ordering her room service and then booking a plane ticket. Not being able to be here yesterday when she needed me ate away any concern of it being inappropriate.

  We can practice every day, all day, but it’s her ability to transfer that to competition that is important. She can do it, I know she can, but if she needs me to keep reminding her, I’ll be here for those reassurances later.

  Keira finds a rhythm on the back nine and ends the day one under and tied for fifth, though there are a lot of players who still have to finish. I find her in the clubhouse with one of her teammates.

  The other girl elbows her when it’s clear I’m headed toward them, and Keira’s brown eyes fall to me. She does a double take and then a wide smile breaks out on her face.

  “What are you doing here?” She steps forward and hugs me, taking me by surprise. She smells really good, and her body fits to mine a little too well. If I weren’t her coach, I’d be all too happy to pull her against me and let her know I’m just as happy to see her.

  “I came to watch you play, of course. Plus, my brother doesn’t live far from here, so I wanted to stop in and see him.” Kenton is in Seattle until tomorrow so it’s unlikely I’ll actually get to see him, but it makes me feel a little less weird about being here to add that tidbit.

  Keira introduces me to Abby, or reintroduces me since we met once before, and then Abby excuses herself leaving Keira and me alone.

  I motion for her to take a seat on a small bench next to the window and do the same.

  “I can’t believe you’re here. I was just getting ready to text you.”

  “Yeah? What were you going to report?”

  “One under.” She makes a face that tells me it isn’t as good as she hoped.

  “How’d you feel out there?”

  “Nervous, anxious, excited. By the second round, I was finally starting to calm down, but it’s infuriating how good Wren Thompkins is. Her shots were chasing down the pin all day.”

  I chuckle. “You out drove her every single time.”

  She sits a little taller. “Yes, that I did.” Her gaze turns to the window and out to the course. “I should probably get out there and watch, wanna come? Cassidy’s on two.”

  I want to. I really do, but I know I have a dozen things I need to do, things I put off this morning to be here. “I can’t. I need to do some work this afternoon. I’ll check in later.”

  There’s a hint of disappointment on her face that makes me seriously consider blowing off work, but she nods and stands to leave. “See ya later then.”

  I watch her go, each step she takes making the room feel a little less enjoyable.

  “Keira,” I call out before she’s out of earshot.

  She stops and turns her head, a hesitant smile on her lips. “Yeah?”

  “Good job today.”

  That smile gets bigger, and she takes a step, still looking over her shoulder. “Thanks, Coach.”

  I’m on the phone with Heath for our weekly check in. All the other employees check-in with the manager of their division because there’s simply too many for me to oversee all of them, but I do Heath’s one-on-one every week.

  Really, I just want to make sure everything’s good with him, but we do chat work for the first ten minutes and getting his take on things I might not see from my position, is always interesting.

  I lean back in the single chair in my room while he tells me about the most entertaining client of his week, a woman who is trying to win her man back by learning hockey via barraging Heath with questions on terminology and breakdowns of games she’s watched on television.

  “Look at you, hockey guru and relationship counselor.”

  I can almost picture him flipping me off through the phone as he says, “Fuck off. I’m going pro after this year. Watch and see, old man. Then you’ll have to find someone else to be your hockey guru.”

  “In the meantime, how about you stop procrastinating and crack open a book. I have to make some other calls.”

  He mumbles something, but I’m distracted by the knock at my door.

  I stand and speak as I cross the room, “Stay out of trouble. Call me if you need anything.”

  When I open the door, Keira holds up a bottle of wine in front of my face. I take it and open the heavy door wide so she can step in.

  “How’d you find me?”

  She walks in, taking in the space before sitting on the edge of the bed. “I asked. Nicely. And I might have batted my eyelashes at the cute guy at the front desk.”


  “Shameless.” I put the wine on the dresser and lean my back against it, crossing one ankle over the other. “What’s the plan for the night? Are you guys getting in some practice or taking the night off?”

  “Night off. Coach was pleased with how things went today, and it was spitting rain as we left anyway, so . . . we have all night to prepare for the final round tomorrow.”

  “Is that right?”

  She pulls her legs under her on my bed, and my thoughts go from golf to—fuck, I need a drink and to get out of this hotel room.

  Keira and bed—two words I’ve already established don’t need to be said or thought together. Seeing it, also real, reaaaal bad.

  “Have you eaten?” I stand straight.

  “Yeah.” She bobs her head from side to side. “Well, sort of. I had a sandwich at the course.”

  “Come on, let’s feed you something.”

  While Keira and I eat downstairs at the hotel restaurant, I give her a brief rundown of what I saw today. Then try to keep the conversation off golf so she can relax and have a few hours without stress.

  I’m usually good at small talk, but I find myself struggling to say anything and simultaneously trying to keep it all inside. She doesn’t need to know that I think it’s beautiful how she lights up when she talks about golf or how I want to run my fingers along her smooth skin.

  I’m on my third beer, which initially I thought was helping but now I’m wondering if sober state of mind was the way to go. A group of guys at the bar keep looking back at her. She’s totally unaware and I’m not about to point it out to her.

  Her phone vibrates on the table between us, and she glances at the screen. “I have to get upstairs. Curfew is in ten minutes.” She lets out a long breath, all the nerves we chased away returning before my eyes. “Will I see you tomorrow?”

  “I’ll be there,” I assure her. I’ve already paid our tab, so I down the rest of my beer and stand. “Let me walk you up.”

  She’s quiet as we take the elevator up to her floor. I want to say or do something to make her feel confident. It’s something I don’t usually need to do with my clients because I build their self-confidence through months of training, but we’ve only been working together a short time, and she doesn’t have that yet.

  The doors open, and I step out with her.

  “Thanks for dinner and for being here.”

  “No need for thanks. Does your dad make tournaments very often?”

  “No. Don’t get me wrong, he’s my biggest fan, but he only comes to the home tournaments.”

  With my hands in my pocket, I linger in the hallway. “I have a call I can’t miss tomorrow morning at eight, but I’ll do my best to get to the course while you’re warming up. Try to sleep tonight, I know how hard that is the night before the final day. No matter what happens tomorrow, you proved you belong out there today. They can’t take that away from you.”

  “I don’t want to just prove I belong; I want to win. I feel like I should stay up all night and visualize or practice my downswing. I can’t just sleep when I could be doing something.”

  “I know.” I free my hand from my pocket and take her fingers loosely in mine. It’s only the lightest brush of skin, but I feel more connected by that small touch than I have felt fully naked with others. “Trust me when I tell you that the best thing you can do tonight is sleep. Tomorrow you can go back to conquering the world.”

  She nods, and I drop her hand and step back to the elevator. “’Night.”

  19

  Keira

  Abby is on her bed texting Smith while I warm up with some light stretching in our hotel room. My alarm goes off, signaling the five-minute warning that the van is leaving.

  “Ugh, I just want to lie here another hour,” Abby says as she sits up.

  It’s still dark outside, but I don’t understand why she isn’t more excited. It’s day two, the final day of this short tournament. Today we’ll play our last round. Only eighteen holes to climb my way up the leaderboard.

  “The guys say good luck.” Abby stands and brushes her dark hair back into a neat ponytail and then grabs her visor and bag.

  “Why are they up so early?”

  “They have a special practice today to work on putting with another friend of Coach James’.”

  “Why am I not surprised?” I chuckle lightly. It doesn’t bother me quite as much as it used to . . . probably because I know I’ve already snagged the best coach in the world.

  Abby and I are the last to load up in the van.

  “Morning,” Erica chirps.

  Kim and Cassidy wave from the backseat. Kim has her headphones on, and Cassidy goes back to staring out the window. We all have our own ways of prepping on tournament days.

  “Everyone ready?” Coach Potter asks from the driver’s seat. His sunglasses dangle from a black cord attached to either side so they hang around his neck.

  On the ride to the course, I re-read the texts from my parents. Both sent early this morning, within minutes of each other, which makes me wonder if Dad texted Mom to remind her. Normally, I’d think it was Mom who’d have it neatly scheduled in, but there’s no way Dad forgot. He may not know what to buy me at Christmas and think Hungry Man makes gourmet food, but when it comes to supporting me and my love for golf, he’s never let me down.

  Dad: Good luck today, sweet pea.

  Mom: Good luck, sweetie!! I’m cheering you on from afar.

  My mom included a picture of her and Bart wearing the Valley U golf T-shirts that I got them for Christmas. It’s funny because I’d bet my dad is wearing his too.

  My nerves kick in as we arrive at the course and exit the van. The sun is still rising, and the morning air is brisk, so I zip up my Valley jacket higher on my neck.

  “I couldn’t sleep last night,” Erica whispers as we walk a step behind the rest of the team.

  “Me either.”

  “At least you’re in placing position. The top half of the leaderboard has to choke for me to come anywhere near the top three.”

  After all the groups finished yesterday, I’d been bumped to ninth place. It isn’t great, but I’m still in it. Abby and Cassidy are in fifth and second respectively.

  The team splits to warm up. Kim, Cassidy, and Abby start with chipping while Erica and I go to the putting area. Our easy conversation turns to silence as soon as our feet touch the green. Anxiety creeps up my body making my grip sweaty and my arms shaky.

  A few minutes later, Coach walks over with Cassidy. The expression on his face and the way they both nod seriously tells me he’s giving her last-minute pointers. He’s putting all his efforts into her, which isn’t a bad bet. She’s really good and continually places top five. Still, I can’t help but feel annoyed that he’s never given me that type of coaching.

  My high school coach used to say that when I stop yelling, that’s when I stop caring. Coach Potter stopped yelling the day I threw my club in the water hazard and blew the tournament. Actually, he started and stopped that day. I know he doesn’t believe in me, but in moments like this, a little boost of confidence, even from him, wouldn’t hurt.

  “Erica,” Coach calls and waves her over. She glances at me, rolls her eyes so only I can see, and then heads over to them.

  Closing my eyes for just a moment, I inhale and will my body to relax. All around me people are quietly talking and shuffling around, stretching, or pulling clubs from bags.

  Players down the line swing and hit balls, the ping coming every few seconds. It’s usually my favorite sound in the world, so I try to focus on it and ignore everything else. I search for that sound, among all hits, that perfect ping of the ball being hit on the sweet spot of the club.

  A gruff voice, not much louder than a whisper, breaks my attention, and I turn to see Lincoln off to the side, away from the coaches and players.

  Two bottom fingers wrapped around his coffee cup lift in a wave. The rhythm of my heart speeds up, but there’s something soothing abou
t his presence too. He’s here for me. Just me.

  I sneak a peek at Coach, who may as well not even know I exist, and walk toward Lincoln.

  “Hey,” I say when I reach him.

  The smell of soap and coffee hangs on him. A white Under Armour hat covers his dark hair, and his face is smooth, as if he shaved only minutes ago. He fits right in with gray slacks and a black polo, but there’s something about Lincoln that always stands out.

  “Morning. How are you feeling?”

  “Nervous.”

  His smile lifts. “Relax, have fun, and don’t throw anything.”

  An unexpected chuckle slips from my lips, garnering the attention of those around us, including Coach Potter. If looks could kill, then I’d be squished like a bug under my coach’s shoe.

  “Shit,” I mutter under my breath.

  Coach Potter waits until he’s close enough he doesn’t have to raise his voice before he speaks. “Keira, get back in line and pretend like you want to be here, for heaven’s sake.”

  My jaw drops, and I scramble for words to spit at him, but Lincoln’s hazel eyes meet mine, and his head shakes ever so subtly from side to side.

  I walk back and stand next to Abby.

  “What was that?” she whispers.

  “Coach being an ass like usual. God, I hate that man.”

  Lincoln and Coach exchange words, neither looking happy. Eventually Lincoln nods, glances over to me, and gives me one last reassuring smile before he walks away.

  Coach turns, doesn’t spare me so much as a cursory glance, and shakes his head in disgust.

  I’m paired with Mia Arnold, a freshman standout, from New Mexico State. She struggled yesterday, but as she walks over to stand beside me to wait our turn, she looks confident and ready to go.

  “Good luck today.” She pulls her driver. The smile on her face seems to sit there so securely.