Sweet Spot

by Rebecca Jenshak

  I eat slowly and manage to finish everything Milly puts in front of me. Now I’m ready, I tell myself ignoring the way my hands tremble as I carry my dirty dishes into the kitchen.

  “The rain stopped early this morning, and it promises to be a beautiful day.” She takes the plate and glass from me and hands me a brown paper bag. “Take this with you for later.”

  I look inside to see a banana, a sandwich that looks like it might be peanut butter and jelly, and a Gatorade. I reach out with one arm and wrap it around her neck, surprising us both with how tightly I hug her. When I pull back, there are tears in my eyes. “Thank you.”

  “I know that there’s no talking you out of playing today, but listen to your body. There’s no shame in taking care of yourself. There will be more tournaments. Your time is coming. I can feel it.”

  “I will,” I promise.

  “Let me grab my keys, and I’ll drive you.”

  “No need, Uber’s on the way.”

  She nods. “Good luck.”

  Once I’m in the back of the Uber and headed to the hotel, I call my mom.

  “Honey, I’m so glad you called. I wasn’t sure how long to wait before I worried. You sounded so tired last night. Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, I am.” I close my eyes and lean my head against the headrest. “I had a good night’s sleep and a good breakfast. I’m going to try to play today.”

  I wait for her to chastise me or tell me that isn’t a good idea, but she laughs lightly and says, “Of course you are. I wish I were there to see you. Bart and I’ll be there at the Open though. He’s already memorizing the course and checking out the local restaurants.”

  “You’re coming?”

  “Yeah, your coach sent us all the details, booked us flights and hotels. Your dad, too. Honestly, honey, I didn’t know how much you wanted us there, but he said it would make you happy if we were there to cheer you on.”

  “He did?” I’m confused as to why Coach Potter would call her and make these plans, but then I realize she’s talking about Lincoln. “When?”

  “Last week.”

  My heart clenches at the thought of him going to all that trouble for me because he was so certain I was going to make it.

  What if I don’t? I keep the question inside for fear that voicing them will somehow make it more likely.

  “I can’t believe you’re really coming.”

  “Of course. Don’t sound so surprised.”

  I nod and wipe a tear away. I’m a freaking faucet lately. “I know it’s hard to get away. You have work and lives.”

  “I have some vacation time saved up, and I can’t think of a better way to spend it than watching my baby go after her dreams. Also, I googled the event and I saw that sometimes celebrities attend. Maybe I can trade in Bart for a Ben Affleck look-alike.”

  We both laugh, and the weight I’m carrying lifts a little.

  “I’m so proud of you, Keira. And I miss you. I don’t know when you got so big on me.”

  I hear a page for a doctor in the background and can picture her walking the halls of the hospital in her scrubs. I used to love to curl up beside her on the couch when she’d get home from working late shifts. “Listen, honey, I have to go, but good luck today and call me when you can, okay?”

  “I will. Thanks, Mom.”

  At the hotel, I shower and dress for the day and then head to the course. It’s still early, but many of the players in the first tee time groups are already warming up. I stretch first, not even touching my clubs for the first fifteen minutes.

  I avoid the questions about how I’m feeling and the sad looks from people who are already discounting my ability to play today. Their doubt wears at me, nicking away my confidence one sad glance and soft, condescending word of encouragement at a time.

  I head to the putting green. The club feels cold and heavy in my shaking hands. Zipping up my jacket and flipping the collar up to block the breeze, I take a few deep breaths to get my focus.

  I fall into my usual routine, but nothing goes right. I don’t know if it’s my body or my head, but I’m off, and it shows. My line isn’t right on my short or long putts. I head to the bunker with similar results.

  By the time I walk to the driving range, I feel as if I’m going to throw up. Coach Potter joins me as I take the first swing with my driver. His eyes light up with excitement as he nods to the lady with a microphone and the accompanying camera guy. “Keira, they want to ask you a few questions.”

  I step back, and the reporter introduces herself. “Hi, Keira. I’m Belinda with KTLR, how are you feeling today?”

  “I feel good.” My voice quivers, so I smile as big as I can to overcompensate and twist and turn the pink, unicorn scrunchie on my wrist.

  “You’ve had an exciting month, winning the Valley Invitational tournament and placing second at the University of Texas tournament. What’s contributed to your recent successes?”

  Lincoln’s face flashes before me, smiling back at me through the computer screen all those nights. I open my mouth to speak, but Coach interjects, “She’s a hard worker. We had a rough start to the year, but she’s really listened to the feedback, and I think it shows just how far a person can go with the right guidance.”

  My face heats at him trying to take credit for Lincoln’s work. Belinda looks to me to verify his statement.

  “I have a great coach,” I say simply. “I wouldn’t be here today without him.”

  That much is true. Potter smiles smugly, but it doesn’t matter. If I win, I’ll set the record straight, and if I don’t, people can believe my failures are at the hands of Potter. Lincoln has never once tried to take credit, which is just one more reason in a long list of why he’s a better coach and man.

  “Do you think you’ll be able to play at the level you need to today to win?”

  I suck in a breath because, isn’t that the question of the day? “I’m going to give it my best shot.”

  “Thank you, Keira. It was a pleasure to meet you. Good luck today.”

  I walk back to my spot on the range, Coach Potter standing behind me just like he did all those times for other girls on the team. I always imagined what it would be like to have his undivided attention before a tournament, but I have to say that it doesn’t feel any better with him by my side.

  His presence doesn’t encourage or soothe me like Lincoln’s does. In a moment of weakness, I look around for him. But even before I finish scanning the small crowd, I can feel he isn’t here.

  Focus. Only golf.

  I tee up another ball, blow out a breath, and swing. I know I’m holding back, but I can’t seem to access that gut-deep power and determination I usually can.

  “That was short.” Coach Potter’s brows draw together, hands on hips. “Try it again.”

  I hit five more balls and then take a break since I’m already out of breath and sweaty.

  Coach looks me over and shakes his head. “You can’t do it. You don’t have it today.”

  Then he just walks away. Now that I’m not performing at peak level, he isn’t interested in standing beside me. It doesn’t shock me, but it does hurt.

  Of all the times he’s doubted my ability, this is the only time I’ve ever believed him.

  34

  Lincoln

  “Any update?” I pace the office with a club in my hand in case I decide to completely lose my shit and break everything in sight.

  “Not since you asked thirty seconds ago.” Will chuckles and then his voice is serious again. “I’m working as fast as I can to figure it out. We’ll get it back up.”

  Four hours ago, our server crashed. The whole website down. Kaboom. I kept picturing it like a car explosion in an action movie, but instead of walking away like a badass, I’m in the car going up in flames.

  I’d woken with Keira nuzzled into my side and so many voice mails it used up all my phone storage. Begrudgingly, I left because that’s what you do when you own a business. You get out of b
ed or stop whatever it is you’re doing and you deal with it.

  I’ve already typed out an email to every member of Reeves Sports, letting them know we’re aware of the problem and working quickly to get the site back online. I emailed my clients personally, as well as my staff, and now I’m helping Will any way I can, which is basically just staying out of his way. It’s harder than it should be since all I want to do is to barrage him with questions as I pace.

  We redirected traffic from the website to our dark site, which explains the outage, but with thousands of members waiting to hear back from coaches and hundreds of potential new clients not being able to sign up—this is a nightmare.

  I click refresh on the browser again just for fun. The golf ball stick figure with a sad face frowns back at me. Once upon a time, I sat on a call and smiled at that graphic. How clever, I thought. That’ll make people feel better when they can’t access the site. Now I wanted to smash the cute cartoon figure in his adorable face.

  Stand, pace, check the time, sit, click refresh, ask Will for update.

  I shower, leaving my phone sitting on the counter and the ringer turned up so loud it’ll likely let the whole neighborhood know if I get a call.

  Keira’s probably already at the course warming up. I know she’s going to play—it just isn’t in her to give up. I hate the way my skin prickles with guilt not being there with her. I’m not even sure she wants me there, but it doesn’t change how awful I feel for missing it anyway.

  Dressed so I can leave for the course as soon as I’m done working, I head back into the office. Will sends me an update that they think they’ve figured out the issue and I need to jump on a call with him and the rest of the team to lay out a plan.

  I’m back to pacing with my club in hand, but with a slightly less ragey grip, while Will outlines the problem and possible solutions. Finding the issue was only step one.

  We brainstorm, me mostly just listening. I hire the best, so I don’t have to be an expert on everything, but right now I’d trade my left arm to be a computer engineer.

  “Worst case scenario, how long until we’re back up?”

  Will takes his time answering. “I’m not sure. An hour, maybe longer.”

  I kick the closest thing to me, which happens to be one of the many boxes stacked up in my office. The box on top of it falls to the floor with a metallic clank, contents spilling out in my pacing path.

  “Shit,” I mutter and squat to clean it up.

  Trophies and medals from tournaments dating back all the way to my first junior tournament are spread out in front of me. I pick up the closest one, a medal from a high school tourney, running my thumb along the raised lettering.

  I right the box so I can put everything back and dig through the papers at the bottom. Receipts and warranties—stuff from our filing cabinets that Lacey must have found and put together for me. Most of it’s trash, but Pop’s familiar handwriting makes me pause.

  A few days after my first pro tournament, when I was still wallowing in self-hate for all the stupid mistakes I’d made, he’d stopped by, told me he was proud of me and handed me this folded piece of paper.

  “Focus on remedies, not faults.”

  Pop wasn’t much for speaking his heart, but that single line said it all. It was everything he believed about golf and about life. When you screw up, take a moment to be sad or pissed, and then figure out how to fix it.

  And I had. It was exactly what I’d needed to stop obsessing and get back to work.

  “Lincoln? Boss man?” Will’s voice brings my attention back to the call.

  “Yeah, sorry, I’m here.”

  I carry the paper with me to my desk and sit behind my laptop to get back to work. I’m asking questions and taking notes, but my eyes continually drift back to Pop’s words.

  Focus on remedies. Simple advice that I’d put into practice in every aspect of my life.

  Except one.

  Fuck.

  I’d let all my faults get in the way of the thing I wanted most. Keira.

  And of course I want to be with her. Despite everything. Because of everything.

  I want her more than I’ve ever wanted anything. Ever. Period.

  I fold the paper and slide it into my pocket as I stand. “Will, I gotta go. You guys got this.”

  There’s silence on the other end of the phone for two long seconds. “You’re dropping off?”

  “Yep. I have somewhere important I need to be.” I smile as I picture their surprised faces. But no one is more surprised than I am. “I trust you to find the best solution. Do what you can and I’ll check in later.”

  I just hope I can get there in time.

  At the course, I park and run out to the area between the warm-up area and hole one. Fuck, I hope she hasn’t already teed off.

  I weave between players and spectators, tournament officials in their matching polo shirts. I finally spot her hanging back, all by herself.

  “Keira,” I call out. “Keira.” I reach her, out of breath and shaky from adrenaline. “Thank God. I made it.”

  She shakes her head slowly. “It doesn’t matter. I’m not playing.”

  “What?”

  “I can’t do it.” She shrugs looking defeated. “Not like this. I’m not even close to one hundred percent, more like fifty. Weak, anxious, in my head—”

  “I love you.”

  Her eyes widen, and her lips part in surprise, so I repeat it. “I love you so much. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before. I was scared that I’d fail you somehow and you’d hate me. Still am scared, if I’m being honest.”

  “But . . .” Her mouth opens and closes like an adorable baby fish.

  “I was a bad husband. My priorities were fucked up, and I stopped trying. I gave up. It was easier than admitting it wasn’t what I wanted anymore. I swore I’d never do that to anyone else. I tried to keep you at arm’s length because I knew that, if I let you in here”—I place a hand over my heart—“I’d never be able to walk away. So, I pushed you until you walked away from me, and I’ve hated myself every moment since.”

  She smiles the tiniest bit. This stunning woman that’s somehow become more important than anything else.

  “You needed me to push you, to show you that you were capable of doing anything you set your mind to, but I wasn’t expecting you to push me the same way. I’m in. All in. Without you, nothing else matters.”

  A guy in a white polo shirt with the country club logo walks up behind Keira and says her name. She looks from me to him and then back to me. I can see the panic on her face and feel the anxiety bouncing off her.

  “If you don’t feel up to this today, I’ll spend every day for as long as it takes helping you get back here. Say the word and we’re out of here. But, baby, you can do this. This is your destiny.”

  I take out the note from Pop, unfold it so she can read what it says, and hand it to her. “I want you to have this. My grandpa gave it to me after my disastrous pro debut. It’s a Jack Nicklaus quote that he said fairly often. I carried it every time I played after that, but I never really felt the weight of his message until today. I have a hundred faults, but I promise I’ll keep working to be better for you. So I can push you when you need it and help you get everything you want and deserve.”

  “It’s almost time.” Polo guy smiles and nods for her to approach the tee box.

  “Just one more second,” I tell him and take her gloved hand, running my thumb over the leather. “I love you. You can do this. You don’t need me, you never did, but I’m glad as hell you found me anyway.”

  I can’t read anything on her face but shock that I just dropped my heart at her feet and nerves that she isn’t in any shape to play golf today.

  “Keira,” the tourney dude says again in a quiet, serious tone as he moves to stand at her side.

  She nods to polo asshat. “I’m coming.”

  Lifting Pop’s note, she glances back at me. “Thank you for this.” She moves toward the tee b
ox, turning before she steps onto the grass. “You’re staying, right?”

  “Nowhere else I’d rather be.”

  She smiles and marches up to the tee box as I move over to watch with the other spectators.

  And it’s exactly where I plan to stay, right here on the sidelines making sure she gets anything and everything she wants for as long as she’ll let me.

  35

  Keira

  I find Lincoln standing to the side, exactly where he said he’d be, and he nods encouragingly. I wave to the crowd and then tee my ball. I stare down the fairway to the flag and visualize the flight of my ball and the exact spot for it to land that would put me in the best position for this par four.

  I take a few practice swings back from my ball and exhale a long breath. With it, I push out all the negative thoughts that have plagued me. I’m not in top shape today. Everyone here knows it, but they don’t know how much I want this.

  Lincoln does.

  I glance once more at him before I take my place. With him cheering me on, I feel unbeatable. He fuels my desire to push through, and I know that, win or lose, I’m going to give it everything I have.

  The crowd quiets until the only sound is the whisper of a breeze and my own breathing. Lincoln’s voice is in my head, encouraging and pushing me.

  I check my line one last time and swing.

  The crowd claps as I watch the ball flight. It’s shorter than yesterday’s drive and slightly off target, but it isn’t awful.

  My second shot brings me onto the green, but I have a slippery downhill twelve-foot putt. I miss it but manage to leave myself in decent position and save par.

  The next three holes are about the same. I’m playing safe, but it still feels as if I’ve run a marathon, and my throat burns from sucking in air. I’m still tied for second place, but there is only one stroke that separates us.

  Lincoln stands, hands crossed over his chest, white hat pulled low so I can’t see his eyes with the shadow, but I still know he’s looking at me.