“How can you be so sure I have what it takes to make it?” I turn so I can face him. No one has ever believed in me the way he does, except maybe my dad, and that’s mostly parental love bias.
“I’ve been watching people swing golf clubs my entire life, and you remind me a lot of myself when I was starting out. Hot headed and passionate with an incredible work ethic. Very few people are willing to do everything that’s asked of them.” He brushes my hair away from my face. “And you do it and then ask for more.”
“Maybe it’s just you who I’m good at pleasing.”
His mouth pulls up into a smile. “That you are.”
“You’ve never said why you gave it up.”
“Not a lot to tell. I quit so I could coach and build my own business.”
“Do you miss it?”
“I miss the pursuit, working toward a goal and then moving the bar higher. But, no, I don’t miss touring. Getting hurt was a blessing. It made me realize it wasn’t being out on the course that made me happy, it was the work I put in to get there. I spent an entire year training so hard to get back and then when it was time.” He shrugs. “It didn’t sound as appealing as what I’d been doing in the gym. And giving that to other people, the same way my Pop did, it’s like I can feel him smiling down at me.”
I’m nuzzling into him, enjoying the heat of his skin and the touch of his body, thinking about his words and how amazing he is, when he steps away. “I gotta hop in the shower before a call. I made oatmeal, and there’s fruit in the fridge.”
The grimace that turns my lips down makes him chuckle. “There are also Pop-Tarts. I couldn’t remember if you said you preferred s’mores or brown sugar cinnamon.” Now it’s his turn to make a face. “I got both.”
“Oh my God, you do listen when I talk.”
He smacks my ass as he starts to the door. “Hmm? What’d you say?”
I’m still half-dressed and still playing with his toys when Lincoln returns, smelling of soap and dressed in slacks and a green polo. The ends of his black hair are wet, and he runs a hand through it. I’m not sure why I expected him to spend the day lounging in gym shorts and a ratty T-shirt since he’s worked every Saturday since I’ve known him, and I’m disappointed as he takes a seat behind his desk like he’s ready to settle in for the day.
“This thing is amazing. If they had these in arcades while I was growing up, I never would have left.”
He smirks and opens his laptop.
“What do you have today? Jetting off to an NFL game? Calling up your Stanley Cup winner friends?”
“Lots of emails, checking in with my other clients, phone calls with . . .” He stops and raises his brows. “You really want to hear the details?”
I scrunch my nose and shake my head. “All day?”
He must read the disappointment on my face. “Yeah. I figured you’d need to head back to Valley this morning. You’re welcome to stay as long as you want. I can take calls in the living room so you can hit balls in here or you can take the cart to the course.”
I fake a smile as he goes back to his laptop. I leave the spare room, grab a Pop-Tart from the kitchen, and wander around his apartment while I eat.
His office is the only room that looks lived in. The living room is sparse—coffee table, couch, and television. He’s tidier than I am, which isn’t exactly a large feat, and there are no water rings on the coffee table or stacks of papers.
In his bedroom, I close my eyes and inhale his scent. It lingers from the open bathroom. He’s made the bed, which earns a chuckle from me. Of course, he makes his bed every morning. I shower and get dressed, pack up the few things I brought, and then head back into his office.
He’s on the phone, leaned back in his chair, brows furrowed, and the end of a pen between his teeth. I hang back until he sees me and motions me in.
I grab his club again and take a few swings in front of the simulator without a ball. His eyes track my swing, always dissecting and coaching. I half expect him to pass me a notebook filled with critiques, but he only watches until I give up and go to him.
Facing him, I sit on the edge of the desk. I don’t touch him or speak; I just want to be near him.
His free hand palms my thigh, and his long fingers run absently across my skin. He doesn’t look at me or acknowledge me in any way but with his touch. And he doesn’t freaking skip a beat on the phone. He’s all tech talk about maintenance times and backups. Still, it’s pretty hot watching him be the boss man.
When he’s finally done with his call, he blows out a breath, drops his phone onto the desk, and then puts a hand on either side of my legs. “I thought you were practicing.”
“I am. I’m visualizing.”
He smirks before his lips twist into a regretful frown. “I have to send feedback to a client and then hop onto another call.”
“I know. I don’t want to get in the way. I should head back soon anyway.”
He tugs me down onto his lap, and his thumb holds my chin steady as he brings his beautiful, full lips to mine. His touch is soft, but his kiss is demanding. No warm up or interlude, just greedy desire to take what he can with the moments he has.
I don’t know how we get there so fast, but I’m grinding into him and he’s got both hands under my shirt when he mutters a string of curses. I’m breathless when he pulls back. It’s only then I realize his phone is ringing.
He answers, sounding totally normal while I can barely form a thought in my lust-addled head. I start to stand to give him privacy, but he holds me in place.
“Sorry about that,” he says when he hangs up a minute later.
“Is that a yo-yo?” I point to the open shoebox on his desk. His long fingers splay out over my ribs and he nods as his mouth covers mine.
His phone rings again, and he hums an annoyed sound as he inches back. His expression is apologetic but also resolved like he wants—or maybe needs—to answer it. I stand and step away. He doesn’t let go of my hand like I expect him to, and I’m stuck an arms-length away. “Thanks for yesterday. Go be awesome, Coach.”
“Your swings from the driving range looked pretty good. You still aren’t releasing your hands at impact, though.”
I nod and slowly rotate through my swing, focusing on keeping my right side from overpowering my left. Practice tonight has been beyond frustrating, and the tension, even through the screen, fills my room.
“I’m not seeing it with the foam balls. You have it here, but you gotta translate it to the range and course. There are more distractions out there, more pressure during a tournament.” His serious tone and the furrow of his brow make me want to work harder, but I’m already working hard, and I still can’t seem to get it.
I blow out a breath of irritation.
“Take a break. You have to give your brain time to piece it all together. We’ve thrown a lot at it. It’s just time and reps.”
“Time I don’t have,” I say and take another swing.
He lets me swing a dozen more times before saying, “Show me some of your fancy club work.”
“Why?”
He shrugs and leans back in his chair. “I think it’s cool. Come on, show off for me.”
I think for a moment before I go into one.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
I fall into the rhythm easily and allow my breaths to even out as everything else falls away.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
On the last bounce, I push the ball higher into the air and then catch it, pause with it on the face of the club, and turn a quick circle, arm straight. I end with bouncing it a few more times on the clubface and then catching it behind my back.
I do a mock curtsy at the end, a little annoyed but not exactly at him. I can do tricks all day, but it won’t fix my swing issues.
“That was awesome.” The proud smile on his lips erases some of my frustration. “Wanna see one of mine?”
When I nod, he grabs the yo-yo that was on his desk last weekend. He stands and adjusts the screen so I can see
him. With a wink in my direction, he loops his finger through the slipknot and begins. He’s laser focused as he gets into it like he’s remembering the feel.
After a few times up and down, he looks at me. “This one is called the sleeper.” He tosses the yo-yo to the ground and keeps it there, allowing it to spin for several long seconds before snapping it back up to his hand.
“Walk the dog.” He throws it back down and somehow moves it along the floor. “Around the corner. And . . . take the elevator.” He finishes with some fancy handwork and a big, boyish grin.
“Wow. That is the nerdiest thing I’ve ever seen.” Also, the hottest. Who knew yo-yoing was hot?
“Don’t pretend you aren’t impressed.”
I fake a yawn and look away from the screen. “Eh.”
When I glance back, he’s pulling his shirt over his head.
I sit forward, and he grins. “More interested now, huh?”
“Show them to me again.”
He does, and this time, at the end of them, he adds another, something he calls man on the flying trapeze.
“Why do you know all these?”
“My pop taught me. He kept it in his truck, and when I’d go with him to the golf course, he’d teach me a trick and then tell me to master it before I did anything else. Mostly, I think he was just trying to get me out of his hair for a while. A bucket of balls only kept me occupied for so long, and he spent four or five hours at a time with clients.” He stops and looks at the yo-yo in his hand. “I’d actually forgotten about this thing until I found it in some of his stuff.”
“Well, I never thought I’d say this about yo-yoing, but that was hot. Take your pants off and do it again.”
He shakes his head, and a deep chuckle makes my insides turn to mush. Lincoln happy and laughing makes everything seem better. Well, almost everything.
He must sense my mood shifting back because his voice changes. “Get some sleep, Keira. You worked hard today. Tomorrow will be better.”
25
Keira
It rains on and off all week. Practices are inside, and by Thursday, we’re all sick of being cooped up inside the small, indoor practice room and ready to get outside and take some real swings outside.
Coach dismisses us, telling us to get over to the driving range either tonight or early in the morning. Teams will begin showing up tomorrow afternoon for our weekend tournament.
“Are you going over?” Abby asks at the same time Coach says my name.
“Not sure. Go ahead. I’ll text you when I’m done.”
Coach talks to Brittany, and I approach slowly. He and I have been getting along just fine since he mostly ignores me, sometimes muttering under his breath when I do things to annoy him, but I’ve stopped letting him rile me. He isn’t worth it, and I don’t need him now that I have Lincoln.
“You wanted to see me?” I ask when I reach him.
He nods, and Brittany opens her stance to include me instead of leaving. My gut twists with the look of apprehension on her face.
She drops her eyes to the ground as Coach speaks. “Brittany’s been cleared to play at the tournament this weekend.”
“But—” I glance between them. “How?”
“My wrist is better.” She lifts her arm and smiles.
“But she hasn’t practiced in weeks. I’m a better choice to play this weekend.” I look to Brittany with what I hope is an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry, but it’s true.”
“You don’t get to make the decision.” Coach Potter yanks at his belt, hitching it higher on his hip. “I make the call, and I’m including Brittany in the lineup. I’m sorry, Keira. You’re just not consistent enough in your tournament play.”
I ball my fists in irritation. I don’t know if I’m angrier with him or myself. I text Abby that I’m not going to the driving range, and I do something I haven’t done in a long time, I crawl into bed before dark.
Lincoln texts around our usual time, but I tell him I’m exhausted and going to sleep early and turn off my phone. I need to tell him that I’m not playing this weekend so he doesn’t bother trying to make it, but I don’t want his, or anyone else’s, pity or empty words of encouragement. I want to wallow.
I’m surprised when Abby shows up at our dorm, but one look at her face tells me it’s solely for my benefit.
“You heard?”
She nods. “Brittany was over at the guys’ house. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I just wanted to be alone.”
She picks up an empty Pop-Tart wrapper and raises a brow.
“No judgment. I’m eating my feelings.”
“Well, stop because you’re playing this weekend.” Abby sits on the edge of my bed.
“No, I’m not. Coach made it very clear that I was not in the lineup.”
“That was before I quit.”
She smiles at my reaction–jaw dropped and eyes wide. “What? Why?”
“I’ve been thinking about it for a while.” She shrugs.
“But you’re playing so well. Don’t quit just because of me. You’ve earned that spot.”
“I know I did. To be honest, standing up for you is only part of the reason I did it. Golf isn’t fun anymore. It’s become just part of my routine. I spend practices wishing I were doing just about anything else. Seeing how much you love it, I don’t know, it made me realize how much I don’t. I want to enjoy my last year of college without running to practice every afternoon or travelling to tournaments I don’t want to play in.”
“You could see the season out. Quit before fall semester.”
“I could, but it felt much sweeter to do it this way.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“Say that you’ll spend tonight hanging out with me, watching cheesy romantic comedies, eating Pop-Tarts or whatever other junk food you have stashed, and tomorrow morning, you’ll get up and be ready to kick some ass in that tournament. Unicorn-scrunchie-wearing badass, remember?”
I laugh and glance down at my wrist. “Deal.”
On Friday, the sun finally comes out from behind the clouds, drying out the course as teams start to arrive. Lincoln calls as I’m leaving my dorm to head over to the course.
“Hey,” I answer with the phone between my shoulder and ear.
“Did I wake you?”
“No, I’m on my way out now. I want to get some extra swings in this morning.”
“Don’t tire yourself out before it starts,” he warns. “Go through your usual routine, and if you still feel like you need more time, do some visualization and drills without the club.”
“Okay.”
He chuckles. “I’m serious. There’s such a thing as being over prepared, and it usually goes hand in hand with too little rest. Remember, it’s supposed to be fun.”
“It’ll be fun when I’m on the leaderboard.”
We continue to talk as I drive over, and when I pull into a parking spot, I linger in my car because I’m not ready to say bye to Lincoln yet. Even though he’s always miles away, it feels weird knowing he’s boarding a plane and won’t be within driving distance.
“When do you fly to Los Angeles?”
“This afternoon. I land around five, but text me when you’re done with the practice round and let me know how hard you kicked ass today, all right?”
“Yeah, okay.” I inhale a deep breath and let it out. “Will you be back tomorrow or Sunday?”
“I’m not sure yet what Kenton and my parents have planned for me this weekend. I’ll do my best. Listen, I gotta go, my IT guy is calling. Give ’em hell today.”
The first eighteen holes are a blur. I’m in a zone. A mixture of determination and anger. I only get a short break before I’m teeing off for my second round.
Coach Potter waits at the first par three, but his words don’t even register. Part of not letting him negatively impact me anymore means I can’t let him positively impact me either. So, I tune him out and focus on everything Lincoln’s been tel
ling me for weeks.
On the tenth hole, I hit a beautiful stinger that gets a lot of cheers. The girl I’m paired with steps up to take her turn, obviously shaken and in her head. I’m intimidating, who knew?
My heart beats wildly, and every step closer to the final hole feels a little more like I’m walking on a cloud. As I walk to eighteen, the crowd follows alongside me, and it sinks in. I’m leading. It’s early, there are still a few groups to finish today and I have to get through tomorrow, but I’m freaking on top. By five.
A pang of something hits me. Lincoln. Lincoln knew. I glance over at the sidelines, hoping to see his dark head among the spectators. It’s silly. I know he isn’t here, but I wish he were anyway.
Abby catches my eye and waves. Her other hand is linked with Smith’s, and they are wearing matching smiles that tell me they’re proud of me. Keith and the rest of the guys are here too. I wait for it to fill me with the same burst of pride I get when Lincoln smiles at me, but it doesn’t come.
It isn’t just because of how much I respect him; though, that certainly helps, it’s because I know he gets it. This hunger inside me to succeed. He’s been in my shoes, and he knows what this feels like and what it’s going to take to make it.
With my final putt on eighteen, I stand, ball in hand, and wave. Coach Potter grins like he’s suddenly a proud and involved member of my success. I walk right past him and hug Abby hard. If it weren’t for her, I wouldn’t have this moment. We may not want the same things, but she’s here and she believes in me.
My dad didn’t want to try to crutch his way through so it’s a little bittersweet playing in Valley without him here, but I know he’ll be proud too.
“Oh my God, that was amazing.” Abby refuses to let me go, squeezing me so hard I have to hold my breath.
“All right, babe, let her go, she’s gonna pass out from lack of oxygen,” Smith says.
“Sorry.” She steps back. “I’m so proud of you.”
“Thank you.” I’m grinning so widely that my cheeks hurt.
Sweet Spot Page 16
