Sweet Spot

by Rebecca Jenshak

  Sweet Spot

  Rebecca Jenshak

  Contents

  Also by Rebecca Jenshak

  1. Keira

  2. Lincoln

  3. Keira

  4. Lincoln

  5. Lincoln

  6. Keira

  7. Lincoln

  8. Keira

  9. Keira

  10. Keira

  11. Lincoln

  12. Lincoln

  13. Keira

  14. Keira

  15. Lincoln

  16. Keira

  17. Keira

  18. Lincoln

  19. Keira

  20. Lincoln

  21. Keira

  22. Keira

  23. Lincoln

  24. Keira

  25. Keira

  26. Lincoln

  27. Keira

  28. Lincoln

  29. Keira

  30. Lincoln

  31. Keira

  32. Lincoln

  33. Keira

  34. Lincoln

  35. Keira

  36. Lincoln

  Epilogue

  Playlist

  Acknowledgments

  Also by Rebecca Jenshak

  About the Author

  Sneak Peek of The Assist

  Prologue

  1. Blair

  2. Wes

  Copyright © 2020 by Rebecca Jenshak

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this book may be reproduced, distributed, transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without written permission from the author.

  Rebecca Jenshak

  www.rebeccajenshak.com

  Cover Design by Lori Jackson Designs

  Cover Photo by Wander Aguiar

  Editing by Edits in Blue

  Proofreading by My Brother’s Editor

  Formatting by Mesquite Business Services

  The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Names, characters, places, and plots are a product of the author’s imagination. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-951815-03-5

  Also by Rebecca Jenshak

  Smart Jocks

  The Assist

  The Fadeaway

  The Tip-Off

  The Fake

  Sweetbriar Lake

  Sweat

  Stand-Alones

  If Not for Love

  Electric Blue Love

  For Craig

  “Hitting a driver is easy, it’s the size of a tennis racquet.” – Craig M.

  1

  Keira

  I’m not good at very many things.

  I never learned to play a musical instrument. I can’t draw. I’m messy, unorganized, and hot-headed. Pop-Tarts are a staple in my diet so, obviously, maintaining a balanced diet isn’t a talent of mine either. I don’t understand classic literature, and I’m hopeless at video games. None of it ever mattered to me. Nothing but golf.

  Wedge in hand, I bounce the ball off the clubface as if it’s a paddle. Each time, the ball lands squarely in the center—right on the sweet spot—with a light tap.

  Tap. Tap. Tap.

  The noise soothes and excites me. Body poised, right forearm extended slightly in front of me, the tip of my tongue between my teeth. That last part isn’t strictly necessary, but it’s a habit any time I’m concentrating this hard.

  My teammates stand to the side, watching my every move. I’ve done this trick a hundred times, but I know better than to look anywhere except at the ball. Even the trickle of sweat at the nape of my neck and the stray hair that’s fallen in my face won’t distract me.

  Tap. Tap. Tap.

  I move the club behind my back.

  Tap. Between my legs. Tap. Club forward. Tap. Tap. Tap. Right foot hop and kick, letting the ball bounce off the sole of my shoe before catching it. Tap. Tap. Tap. Deep breath as I track the ball, move into my final position, and swing.

  A shot of pride zips through me as the ball sails through the air, a white dot in the bright blue sky. My teammates cheer, finally breaking their silence.

  “That’s incredible,” Abby says, offering me a high-five. “And on the first try. Is this how you spent all of winter break?”

  I shrug. “It didn’t take that long to perfect it.”

  Erica stares at her phone, thumbs moving rapidly over the screen. “I’m posting it. Your trick shots get more likes and comments than anything else I post.” She looks up at me. “You’re more popular than I am on my own account. That’s screwed up.” She snickers and goes back to her phone.

  The other girls are giving me the appropriate props when Coach’s voice bellows from the clubhouse. “Ladies, hit the bunkers.”

  I swear he glares right at me as if I’m the only one standing here. I glare back, refusing to cower. He looks away first, and I call that a victory until he adds, “You too, Keira. Your fancy trick shots won’t help you in a tournament.”

  I open my mouth to argue that we were on a water break, so it wasn’t as if I had been wasting practice time, but Abby steps in front of me, blocking him from view. “Come on.”

  I grab my bag, and we head for the sand traps with the rest of the team.

  “You have to stop letting him rile you. It throws you off all practice.”

  “He hates me.”

  “He hates everyone.” Abby and I walk a few paces behind our teammates. She finger combs her silky, black hair into a ponytail and adjusts her visor. “He just picks on you the most because he knows he can get a rise out of you. Stop giving him what he wants.”

  I mumble my acknowledgment. It isn’t that I’m argumentative by default, but Coach Potter pushes all my buttons. If the man were a Pop-Tart, he’d be the unfrosted kind—a total disgrace to the Pop-Tart brand.

  “How was break?” she asks as we reach the group and set our bags on the ground.

  “It was fine. Yours?”

  “Good. What’d your dad get you this year?”

  My dad’s Christmas gifts are . . . entertaining. I raise my arm to show off the bright neon-pink unicorn scrunchie, which is one of twelve of varying colors he gave me this year. Last year, I got a pair of cat ear headphones. I’m convinced he thinks I will forever be thirteen years old.

  Abby laughs. “Why doesn’t he just get you a gift card or golf stuff?”

  “Oh no, he never goes the gift-card route. And I have so much golf stuff that I’m sure he would have no idea what to buy.”

  “Let me guess, you told him you loved it?”

  “He’s always so proud of what he picks, how could I not? Besides, I could be into unicorns.”

  She snorts. “It’s actually pretty cute. Maybe I need to get on the Christmas list next year.”

  We spend the next half hour hitting shots from the bunker and then Coach lays the pin down behind the hole and instructs us to keep going until we’ve each hit it three times in a row.

  It takes a few minutes to stop overthinking it, but soon, I have two consecutive hits and am lining up for my third.

  “Open the clubface a little more. Address it off the toe. You’re looking rusty. Come on ladies, focus,” he barks loud enough that I know it’s advice meant for the entire team, but Coach’s presence directly behind me makes me grip the club tighter. The man sets my every nerve on edge. His personality is completely abrasive, making me firmly believe either he hates coaching, golf, or maybe both. He certainly doesn’t like me.

  I’d rather swing the wedge at his head, but I breathe and refocus. Unfortunately, as soon as I make contact with the ball, I know it’s going right. Coach walks off without a word.

  I’m the last to finish and head bac
k up to the putting green. The boys’ team has already arrived. They practice right after us, but a quick glance at my phone tells me we still have more than thirty minutes left. They’re never this early.

  Abby’s holding her putter, leaned over as if she’s eyeing the line, but the only thing she’s eyeing is her boyfriend Smith. He’s on the driving range, staring right back at her.

  “You two are ridiculous, sneaking glances at one another like you’re in middle school,” I say, dropping a few balls onto the green and joining her.

  My friend blushes. “What? He’s cute. Let me stare without your judgment.”

  I shake my head. “What are they doing here so early, anyway?”

  “They have a clinic today with some big shot swing coach.”

  “Figures. Why do they always have people coming in to offer extra coaching? We’ve had a better record for the past two years, but do fancy swing coaches come to see us?” I don’t wait for her answer. “No, they do not.”

  She shrugs, not the least bit bothered by it, and honestly, I don’t know if I’d be upset if it weren’t for the fact our coach barely speaks to me, let alone coaches me.

  We’ve never seen eye to eye, but when I was holding my own in tournaments, he didn’t seem to loathe me quite so much.

  While we finish putting, Coach strolls over to review this week’s schedule. We have a tournament upstate this weekend but only five will travel and play.

  I keep my eyes glued to the ground as he says the first four names. Our top three rarely changes. Erica, Kim, and Cassidy are our most senior members and have earned their spots by consistently placing well in tournaments. Then there’s Abby. She’s streaky, but as of our last tournament in December, that streak is holding. That leaves only one spot. My spot. Or it was. One bad tournament last October and Coach was all too eager to replace me. I’ve been trying to claw my way back to his good graces ever since. Unsuccessfully, I might add.

  “And finally, Brittany will join us.”

  I glance up in time to see his cold, gray eyes sweep over the team and lock on to me, waiting for a reaction. It’s as if the man gets off on my anger. I plaster on a congratulatory smile and clap for my teammates. I will not let him see how much it hurts.

  He places both hands on his hips. “Weak practice today, girls. Get your heads right and show up tomorrow ready to work harder.”

  After everyone separates, I approach him. “Coach, can I talk to you for a minute?” My big, fake smile is starting to make my cheeks hurt.

  “What is it, Keira? I’m not going to change my mind on the girls going to the tournament.”

  Oh my God, why is he such a dick?

  “I understand. I was just going to ask what I might do to improve so I can have my spot back? Or, at least, a chance to earn it back. Before break, I was consistently scoring with the top three in practice.”

  “I can’t give you the answers. You have to prove it out there.” He points toward the course. If it’s some sort of voodoo mind trick, I’m clueless. He’s the coach, the sole decider of who plays. Of course, he has the answer. And I am proving it out there.

  “Right.”

  “Put the work in and give your best every time. And your attitude needs a serious adjustment.” His brows raise, and his eyes widen as he waits for me to respond. He’s expecting me to argue, I’m sure.

  “Yes, Sir.”

  I’m screwed. I’m already the hardest worker on the team, and he knows it. Golf is my passion. I love it. I want to be the best, not just on our team but in the world. I don’t think that’s out of reach for me. I’m good—really good—but I can’t prove that if I’m not playing.

  Abby waits for me by our bags. “What did he say?”

  “Nothing useful. Go ahead. I’m gonna stay and hit a bucket of balls.”

  “Seriously?”

  “I have to get my spot back. I’ll sleep here if I have to.”

  She chuckles. “Just don’t sleep with him.”

  “Ewww.” Bile coats my throat at the idea of seeing that vile man naked. He’s young-ish, late thirties, and reasonably attractive, but his personality kills any and all sexual vibes.

  I’m still swallowing my disgust when Abby elbows me. “Look, that must be the swing coach. Damn.”

  Slowly, I scan until I locate him. He isn’t hard to find. Tall, dark hair, bronzed skin set off by dress pants and a crisp white polo that he fills out nicely. His body language, even from this far, gives off an air of confidence.

  He smiles at something the boys’ coach, Coach James says, and it’s hard to look away. So hard it’s annoying. I’m totally annoyed by his good looks because of course he’s good-looking. Probably a real jerk, too.

  Okay, I might just be projecting my hatred for Coach Potter on all mankind, but I also really despise how the boys’ team always seems to get the outside attention and help.

  Abby pulls her hair from the ponytail. “We should go introduce ourselves.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I want to see that man up close. Don’t you?”

  I laugh. “What about Smith?”

  “See him; not jump him. Come on, it can’t hurt to make nice.”

  “No thanks.” I pick up my bag and shoulder it. “See you back at the dorm later.”

  “Don’t forget that we’re going out tonight with Erica and Cass.”

  “Oh, I haven’t forgotten. The promise of alcohol is the only thing that got me through that practice.”

  “All right, well, I’m headed back to shower and get ready. Don’t stay too long.”

  “Just long enough to work out my frustration.”

  “Please, it’ll be dark by then.” She smiles smugly and walks off toward the parking lot.

  I head to the clubhouse, splash some water on my face in the bathroom and try to wash away my irritation from practice. I grab a bucket of balls and walk over to an open mat on the driving range. The boys team huddles off to the side, Coach James and hottie swing coach the center of their focus.

  I don’t need them, and I don’t need Potter. I’m going to prove I deserve that spot all on my own. I bounce the ball on the clubface a few times, the concentration it requires and the familiar movements calming me instantly.

  I can do this.

  2

  Lincoln

  Starting a new business is hard. Exhausting. No, exhausting doesn’t even cover the half of it. Travelling the world, a different city every week, early mornings, late nights, sporting event after sporting event. It’s basically everything I ever dreamed of.

  Except for the crappy jobs that need to get done but can’t be pawned off on anyone else, which is my current state at the Valley University golf course. Ah, the joys of being the boss. I’m trying hard not to think about the box seats I had to turn down for today’s Cardinals playoff game. A cold beer and a million-dollar view would be pretty great about now.

  I find Coach James on the driving range, instructing his team to warm up and give each of their clubs a few swings. A few of the guys notice me, but I hang back until Mark lifts a hand.

  “Hey, Mark. Long time. Good to see ya.” I nod to toward the guys and smile.

  “You too, Linc.” We shake hands, and then he motions for me to follow him. “Let’s chat before I introduce you to the team.”

  He leads me into the clubhouse and to a small office. “Thanks for coming.”

  “Thank you for inviting me,” I say as we take our seats. “This should be fun.”

  He grunts a laugh as if he doesn’t believe my optimism. Yeah, I don’t either. The Cardinals haven’t made it this far in the season in years, and instead of watching the game, I’m going to spend my Sunday afternoon giving pointers to a bunch of college kids who expect me to sweep in and make big changes to their game in two hours of work. Not even I’m that good.

  I lean back and rest my interlocking fingers at my waist as I study my old friend. It’s been almost twelve years since I’ve seen him, but he’s the same
arrogant kid I knew in high school—minus a little hair and plus a little weight around his midsection.

  “It’s fine. Happy to do it. You’ve been a big supporter of the new coaching site and I appreciate it.”

  “But?”

  “How do you know there’s a but?”

  He arches a brow pointedly.

  “But any one of my guys could have done it. Why am I here?”

  “Because you’re the best.”

  Well, I can’t argue there.

  “Look,” I reason with him, “I’m glad to help how I can, but this isn’t really what I do. Analyzing and fixing an entire team of kids’ mistakes in a single afternoon . . . I’m not a miracle worker. Usually, I work with individuals over weeks, sometimes months or years. And the group clinics I offer cover a single aspect of the game like downswing sequencing or setup. A few hours giving pointers to ten kids isn’t going to make the same kind of difference that I see with my personal clients. I want to make sure you understand that.”

  “Well, you’re welcome to stay for as long as you need to get these boys on track. They’re excited about meeting you. They’re a young group, making all sorts of rookie mistakes, but I think they have potential. Smith Jacobson has a good, clean swing I think you’ll appreciate.”