Sweet Spot

by Rebecca Jenshak

  I nod and open her car door. “It was good to see you. Congrats on graduating and good luck teaching.”

  “Thanks, Lincoln.” She slips into the car and grabs a pen and scrap piece of paper from the console. She scribbles on it and then hands it to me. “Call me if you want to get together again.”

  A flicker of attraction in her eyes that wasn’t present until just now surprises me and has me standing mute as she closes the door and starts the car. Well, that was unexpected.

  When I get home, I grab a beer from the fridge and head into my office. I drop Pop’s shoebox of contacts on my desk and open my laptop.

  I check email first, curious as hell to reread the conversation with Keira, then shoot her a quick response.

  Did you sign up?

  Lincoln

  I switch over to the site and log in so I can check my messages and swing submissions for the day. The notification for Keira’s reply pops up in the bottom of the screen, and I click on it.

  Yes. I submitted a video and someone named Simon is reviewing it.

  Keira

  I search through Simon’s inbox, something I alone have the site privileges to do. When new members sign up, their inquiries are routed to one of three of my golf coaches. Simon has the least experience, but he’s sharp.

  I can see he’s watched the video but hasn’t responded yet. That isn’t altogether surprising since it only came in an hour ago. We promise a response in twenty-four hours, so I expect he’ll get back to her tomorrow.

  I watch her swing, noting that she’s worked on her weight shift. It isn’t quite there, but the initial turn is better. My fingers itch to do her review myself, but there just aren’t enough hours in the day. I really shouldn’t be holding on to the few clients I have now, but coaching helps me remember why I’m doing this in the first place.

  My phone rings, and I go to silence it but pause at the name on the screen. Lacey. It keeps ringing while I decide whether or not to answer. It isn’t like her to call or text unless it’s absolutely necessary. We aren’t on bad terms exactly; we just have nothing to say to one another.

  “Hello?” I try to keep my tone totally neutral as I answer. Maybe it’s a butt dial.

  “Hey, Lincoln. It’s Lacey,” she says, voice tight.

  I find it humorous she thinks I’ve deleted her contact. Even if I had, hers is one of only a few numbers I could recite by heart.

  “Hey. Uh, everything okay?” I wince and try another approach. “How are you?”

  She laughs, breaking some of the tension. “I’m fine. Sorry to call, but I wanted to remind you that we have to get everything out of the storage unit. We pre-paid through April, after that there are additional fees.”

  “Right. The storage unit.” I think back, trying to remember what’s in it. It felt like my whole life at the time, yet I’ve managed just fine without any of it.

  “I’m going tomorrow if you want to meet me there. There are a few boxes we should probably go through together anyway.”

  “Tomorrow’s no good for me.” I rub at the back of my neck. “But feel free to go through them and take whatever you want. You know better than I do what’s what anyway.”

  She’s quiet, and I check the phone to make sure we didn’t get disconnected.

  “Lace?”

  “I spent our entire relationship taking care of things when you were gone or too busy or maybe just didn’t want to be bothered, so don’t take it the wrong way when I say that it isn’t my job anymore to go through your shit.”

  That wasn’t exactly what I meant, but years of guilt gnaw at me and keep me from lashing back. She isn’t completely wrong, a lot of things did fall on her, and I guess I got used to depending on her. It’s easy to slip back into those same roles, even now. “I can’t tomorrow. Is there another day? Next week I’m travelling, but maybe the week after?”

  She sighs, and it’s a long, exasperated sound. “Yeah, sure. Give me a call when you’re ready.”

  She disconnects first, leaving me with dead air and a thousand regrets. I drop my phone to the desk and stare at my computer screen.

  The end of Keira’s video is paused so that she’s frozen in position. I hit play one more time, letting her swing bring a little bit of joy to this shitty night, and then force myself to get to work.

  8

  Keira

  Wednesday’s practice is nearly identical to Tuesday’s. We break into groups to play eighteen holes and then spend some time with Coach working on individual drills. Well, except for me and a few freshmen he doesn’t get to before time is up. I’m positive that isn’t a coincidence that he somehow didn’t get to me two practices in a row.

  After everyone else leaves, I stay at the driving range, working on my swing until it’s too dark to see the ball. I’m trying to incorporate the things Lincoln said, but I can’t feel if I’m getting it right, and it’s beyond frustrating.

  I head back to the dorm, checking my text messages as I walk the stairs to the second floor. Abby is at Smith’s apartment, per the usual. Since she started dating him last semester, she rarely sleeps here.

  I shower and pick through clothes on Abby’s bed. I’ve taken to using it as a storage area for my clean-ish clothes—the ones I’ve only worn once but am too lazy to hang back up in the closet. Erica and Cassidy texted that they were having people over, and since I’d rather go out than sit here alone, I get ready and call an Uber.

  With eleven minutes to kill until my driver picks me up, I open my email. Simon from Reeves Sports has completed my swing review, and the write up has way more details than I expected. He’s even attached a slow-motion video of my swing like the one Lincoln had done, and talks through what he sees. I’d been expecting something much more generic. This is really cool.

  I grab my seven iron from my bag and hold it as I listen, pulling back and trying to get the feel of my weight shift like Lincoln had said that first time. Honestly, what Simon says is much the same, so either it’s standard advice they give everyone or Lincoln was right. I don’t know why that continues to surprise me. Everything about him radiates a confidence that can’t be fake.

  The thing is that, pro or not, it doesn’t automatically mean he’s qualified to give others advice. The best mentor I ever had was my high school coach, whose only qualification was that he loved golf. He worked hard and genuinely wanted his players to succeed. That, in turn, made us work hard.

  The Uber driver calls to say he’s pulling up outside of Freddy, and I grab my purse and hustle downstairs. When we’re on our way, I send Lincoln an email.

  Simon was more helpful than I expected. The site is really cool. I like the video feedback.

  Keira

  His response comes as the driver stops in front of Erica and Cass’s place. I thank him and walk to the front door slowly, reading.

  I just saw his feedback. It’s pretty spot on with what I thought after watching it.

  I can hear people inside the house, but I pause at the front door and email him back.

  You watched it?

  Keira

  An unexpected thrill shoots through me at the thought of him taking the time to follow up on me. I wait out front for a minute, and when I don’t get a new response, I head inside.

  A lot of the guys and girls from the golf teams are here hanging out in the living room watching television and drinking. Erica and Cassidy are sitting at a table in their small dining area with Chapman, Keith, and a sophomore named Han.

  “You made it,” Cassidy squeals and hugs me.

  “I did.” I squeeze her back and smile at the rest of the group. “I’m surprised you two are drinking the night before a tournament.”

  “Tomorrow is just a practice round, plus we can sleep on the ride,” Erica says. “Help yourself, we restocked the booze.”

  I’m pouring vodka and Red Bull into a cup when Brittany comes up to me in the kitchen. “Hey, Keira.”

  “Hey, Britt.” I offer her the vodka. “Drink?�
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  “No, I’m not drinking tonight.”

  I nod in understanding. Of course, she isn’t. She knows as well as I do what it’s like to be left behind while the team travels. I wouldn’t be drinking either.

  “I’m sorry about taking your spot. I know how hard you’ve worked and—”

  “Don’t be sorry. You’ve worked hard too. Coach made his decision, and as much as I disagree with it, it’s good for you. Take advantage of it. I know I would be.”

  She nods, and I step away before the conversation tanks my mood. “Good luck this weekend, Britt.”

  After a couple of drinks, we clear the table and set up for beer pong. Erica and me against Chapman and Han. Cassidy and Keith stand off to the side watching us. Cass has switched to water, and Keith holds a Natty Light in each hand.

  Erica and I get smoked three games in a row. My bloated stomach can’t take another loss, but I’ve managed to distract myself from thinking about the tournament this weekend. Well, sort of.

  “We’re getting thrashed. Do you have a couple of wedges around we could use so we have a chance in hell of winning the next one?”

  Erica’s eyes narrow and then widen with understanding. “Definitely.”

  She returns with a golf ball and two wedges.

  “All right boys, ready to switch things up?” I go first, tossing the ball and catching it with the club. I bounce it a couple of times before hitting it into the air, flipping the club around, and tapping it toward the cups. The ball hits the rim and bounces away, nearly tipping over two cups in the process. Guess there’s a reason we use ping-pong balls.

  Han shakes his head but gives it a try. After each of us has taken a turn, we’ve managed to spill half the beer, but no one has made a shot.

  “How about you use empty cups, and then the loser has to chug?” Cass suggests.

  “Good idea,” Erica says. We wipe down the table and re-start. Slowly, we garner a crowd, and they’re watching me closely as I bounce the ball off the clubface. This time, when I send it sailing toward the cup, it goes in. I drop the wedge to the floor and throw my hands over my head in victory as Chapman and Han chug their beers.

  “Oh, man. I’m glad you made that because I need to pass out.” Erica holds a hand over her mouth as she yawns.

  “What happened to sleeping in the van tomorrow?”

  “Sorry.”

  “Han and I are going over to The White House if you want to come,” Chapman says at the same time I look around to see everyone has left or is preparing to leave. My teammates are headed off to sleep so they can play well this weekend and that makes me want to keep right on drinking, so I don’t have to think about how I won’t be there.

  “I’m in.”

  Chapman, Han, and I walk the block to The White House, an off-campus house where some of the basketball guys live. Parties at The White House are always big and crazy fun. They had a foam party in their backyard once. It was insane. I’ve never seen anything like it.

  Loud music greets us inside and there are people everywhere. We head out to the back patio. Chapman grabs us beers, and we mill around.

  I spot the guy who was with Lincoln the night I tossed tequila on him at the same time he does me. I leave Chapman and Han and walk toward him. He stares at me for a second as if he’s trying to place me, and then one side of his mouth pulls up into a grin. “Tequila girl.”

  “Not tonight,” I say as I lift the cup of beer I’m holding. “You play basketball?”

  He scoffs. “Nah, I’m on the hockey team. Heath,” he introduces himself. “I don’t think I caught your name.”

  “Keira.” I glance around hopefully. “Is Lincoln with you?”

  “No way. Linc be caught at a college party?” He laughs. “He went back to Scottsdale, I think. He travels so much it’s kind of hard to keep track of him.”

  I nod like I know. “How do you know him? Is he a friend of yours or . . .” I’m trying to piece together how a college hockey player knows a pro golfer.

  “Sort of.” He bobs his head from side to side. “Friend, boss, pain in the ass. He’s tight with my brother, so he’s like a second big brother in some ways.”

  “Did you say boss?”

  “Yeah, you know his site? Reeves Sports? I work on the hockey portion of the website and do the occasional in-person job. Last summer, he got me a gig coaching at a kids hockey camp.”

  “Wow. That’s awesome. I’ve only checked out the golf stuff so far, but it seems pretty impressive.”

  “You play golf?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, Lincoln is the guy to know then. He’s the very best and a really decent guy on top of it. You know, when he isn’t acting like an overprotective ass.”

  “Do you provide reviews like he does—perfect hockey puck shooting form or something?”

  He barks a laugh. “Not a big hockey fan, huh?”

  “I grew up in the desert.”

  “There’s hockey here.”

  I raise a brow.

  “All right, I get your point. And no, my job is to answer questions that come in. Like, which shot is the hardest for a goalie to stop or how does someone increase the speed on their slap shot?”

  “That’s pretty cool.”

  Heath nods and flashes a cocky grin that reaches his dark blue eyes. “Just until I make it pro.”

  He says it so matter-of-fact that I believe him. If he’s half as good as he is cocky, I have no doubt.

  Someone yells across the party, and Heath’s head lifts. He nods to whoever was calling his name and then his eyes flit back to meet mine. “I gotta go. Nice seeing you.”

  “You too.”

  I find an empty chair in the corner of the crowded living room and pull out my phone.

  I entered Lincoln’s number from his business card into my phone. I’m not even sure why, I never intended to use it, but my finger hovers over his name in my contact list. I bite my lip, close my eyes, squeal quietly, and tap.

  He answers on the third ring. “This is Lincoln.”

  A small giggle escapes my mouth at his tone, which is totally serious and not fazed in the least about the time. Makes me wonder if he’s used to getting calls at one in the morning.

  “Hello?” he asks, voice bordering on annoyed.

  “Ah, much better. Do you really answer the phone at one in the morning without so much as a hello first?”

  There’s a beat before his deep baritone slides over the line. “Anyone who calls this late is delivering bad news. Might as well get right to the point.”

  “I guess that’s true.”

  “What bad news are you delivering, Keira?”

  Maybe it’s the alcohol or maybe it’s because it’s late at night and I likely woke him, but my name on his lips sounds like straight sex and my body warms. “It’s good news actually.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yep. I’ve decided that I want you to take over for Simon and be my swing coach. I signed up for the daily review plan.” Saying the words aloud makes me realize just how much I want it. I want to remember how it felt when he was standing near me, scrutinizing, and coaching me like he believed in me more than anyone else ever has.

  “I saw.”

  “You did?” I ask, pleased that he’s keeping tabs on me.

  “It’s my job.” He’s silent for a moment before asking, “Did Simon do something wrong? We have other coaches if you don’t think he’s a good fit.”

  “No, he’s been fine. But you’re the best. Everyone says so. I want the best.”

  He chuckles softly. “I’m not taking new clients. I’m having a hard enough time keeping up with the three I do have.”

  “And I’m not taking no for an answer.”

  There’s commotion in the entryway, and I look up to see some guy wearing a bear helmet riding a scooter. People are laughing and cheering, a few start chanting his name. “Datson, Datson, Datson.”

  “Where are you?” Lincoln asks.

&nb
sp; “At a party. By the way, I ran into your friend Heath.”

  “Heath is there?” He grumbles something and then adds, “I hope he isn’t drinking. Was he drinking? Never mind, don’t tell me.”

  “You’re changing the subject.”

  He sighs. “I’m sorry. I can’t. It wouldn’t be fair to you or my other clients. I don’t have time right now. I will get Roy to take over for Simon. He’s the most senior of the staff, and he’s just as good as I am.”

  “I highly doubt that.” I was so sure I could convince him that the rejection stings.

  “How’s practice going? Did everything smooth over with your coach?”

  “He added an extra thirty minutes of conditioning to our weekend workout, and he’s basically ignoring me, but it’s fine. Totally worth it.”

  “Keep your head up. You’ll be okay.”

  “Yeah, all right.” The alcohol and the late hour crash into me. “It’s late. I should go.”

  “Be careful and don’t call any other boys this late. It screams booty call.”

  I roll my eyes. “I assure you that if I call anyone else, it will be a booty call.”

  Another deep chuckle tickles my ear. “’Night, Keira.”

  9

  Keira

  I wake with a groan and find Abby standing at the side of my bed. “Wake up, sleeping beauty.”

  I groan louder.

  “Your phone has been going off nonstop.” She tosses it on top of the comforter. “You missed your eight o’clock. If you get up now, you can still make your next one. I’d suggest a shower first, though, you smell awful.”

  I hurl my pillow at her, but it misses by several feet.

  Laughing, she hands me my water bottle from my desk. “Do you still have the black Adidas jacket I loaned you before break? I want to take it with me.”

  “On the bed,” I croak out, ignoring the pang of disappointment that I’m not going.