Sweet Spot

by Rebecca Jenshak

  A lump the size of a golf ball lodges in my throat. I don’t have to ask if he means it, I heard the sincerity of his tone and Lincoln has never, not once, tried to pad my ego. It’s one of the many reasons I like working with him. But he fails if I fail? That seems like a lot of pressure for him to put on himself and on me.

  Suddenly, my grumblings about his methods and how tired I am feel bratty. Although . . .

  “I heard a rumor tonight that your usual training only includes a one-mile run and three days of weights per week.”

  He curses quietly away from the phone. “Heath has a big mouth.”

  I don’t argue that.

  “None of my clients ever have the same regimen. It isn’t some generic thing I pass from player to player. You get what I think you need.”

  “And I need to do twice as much as the others?” I can’t hide the note of hurt in my voice. Am I really that awful?

  “The better the player, the harder they need to work.”

  I scoff. Really, that’s the best he’s got?

  “I’ll never ask you to do anything that isn’t necessary to get you where you want to be. You’re capable of so much more than you think. Get out of your own way. Can you do that? Can you just trust that I only want what’s best for you?”

  I’m nodding again like he can see me. “Yes, I trust you. Tell me what to do.”

  He lets out a sigh of relief. “Tonight, have fun with your friends. We’ll get back to it tomorrow.”

  The next day at practice we split up into groups to play nine holes. I’m grouped with Abby and Brittany.

  “You’re quiet today. Everything okay?” Abby whispers as we stand back and wait for Brittany to tee off on the third hole.

  “Yeah, I’m all right.” I meet her gaze and find her staring back unbelieving. We may not spend as much time together as we once did, but she still knows me better than anyone. “I’m disappointed about the tournament and starting to wonder if I’ll ever get back to the top five.”

  “You will.”

  “I don’t know.” Brittany swings, and the ball sails high and drifts slightly from left to right, leaving her in good position on the green. “She’s good.”

  “So are you.”

  We make our way down the par five. Abby is lining up a five-footer while Brittany and I wait. She rests the club against her leg and grabs her right wrist with her left hand and winces. “Shit.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “My wrist is achy today. I think I’m gonna walk back and see if I can ice it.”

  “Do you want us to come with you?” I offer.

  “No, I’m sure it’s fine. Can’t be too careful this close to a tournament.”

  “Right.” I try to smile reassuringly, but the reminder that she’s playing and I’m not hurts, and I’m not good at faking anything It’s one of the many things Coach Potter dislikes about me.

  Golf is a country club sport where players are supposed to school their features and always appear completely dignified. But I’ve always felt too strongly about the sport to pretend to be unfazed by how I’m playing. If I’m happy with a shot, I’m going to show it. And if I’m so mad I want to throw a club . . . well, I throw a club.

  “What’s up with Brittany?” Abby asks as we head to the next hole without her. A par three with a wicked sand trap on the right side.

  “Wrist is bothering her. She decided to call it so she’s ready this weekend.” I really try to keep my voice from sounding bitter, but I fail. Bad at faking everything.

  Abby and I play better when it’s just the two of us. We’re comfortable, we joke, and we egg each other on. We still play hard, our competitive spirits making everything a game, but it’s way more fun. I miss her, spending time just the two of us. Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy for her and Smith, but selfishly I want more moments like this.

  We’re laughing, and I’m lighter than I’ve been in weeks when we finish the ninth hole and walk back to the clubhouse.

  A group of our teammates are standing outside the door, and when they spot us, they go quiet.

  Erica smiles at me as we approach. “Looks like you’re up.”

  Abby and I share a confused look.

  “Brittany has tendinitis in her wrist. She’s out, which means . . .”

  My heart races. “I’m in.”

  14

  Keira

  “When do you leave?” His brows draw together in hard concentration, and his face shows none of the excitement I expected after telling him the good news.

  “Thursday afternoon. The practice round is Friday and the tournament takes place Saturday and Sunday.”

  He stands and brings me with him to another room via the laptop in his hand. He sets me down and sits in a big office chair. There’s a picture behind him—the first evidence of personalization I’ve seen in his house.

  I stare at it, trying to make out more of the photograph while he does whatever it is he’s doing and not paying attention to me. It’s a picture of two people standing on a golf course. One is definitely Lincoln. There’s no mistaking that dark hair and build. The man next to him looks like he could be his father or grandfather. I’m guessing the latter since he told me that’s who taught him to play.

  “I can move some things around, but I wouldn’t be able to get to Valley until late Wednesday night.” He frowns. “I’d really like to see you before the tournament. I suppose video will have to do. Can you clear Wednesday night to get a long session in?”

  “Sure. I’m free after class on Wednesday. I’m done around ten.”

  He nods his approval but still looks disappointed and not directly at me.

  “I could come to you.”

  His focus finally snaps to me. “To Scottsdale?”

  “That’s where you live, right?” I shrug. “If it’s easier, then sure.”

  He considers it for a few quiet seconds, but slowly, I see the agreement in the relaxing of his shoulders. “I’ll send you the address. I have another client at three, but if you can get here early then we can get time in before and after.”

  A whole day of golf and Lincoln? “I’ll be there,” I say too eagerly.

  I spent the morning in the hot seat while he watched my swing and offered critiques. It felt good, as if we were finally making real progress.

  While I sit in the golf cart and eat a sandwich from the country club restaurant, Lincoln chats with Tommy, a local high school kid. He’s different with Tommy than he is with me. More hands-on, nicer even.

  Lincoln is hard to get to know. He’s all business all the time. We’ve only had a few small moments where we’ve shared that personal connection, but I want more of it. And I want more of this shiny, fun Lincoln in front of me. I mean, the guy just laughed. Full-on, head back, laughed.

  He left his phone in the cart with me. Light music he turned on earlier still plays and I’m starting to get an idea of his taste in music—mostly rock, like dudes with big hair screaming about drugs and rock and roll. It makes me giggle.

  I’m enjoying being in his world and learning these small things about him. When he finally walks over to me, his demeanor changes with each step as if he’s retreating back into himself and only allowing me to see the serious and professional side of him.

  “I’m just gonna grab some water, and then I’ll be ready.”

  “There’s no rush if you want to get lunch.” He made sure I ate but I haven’t seen him eat anything all day.

  “I’ll grab something later.”

  He returns from the clubhouse with two waters and gets into the driver’s seat of the golf cart. When we pull up to the tee box at the first hole, there’s a hint of a smile on his face. “Let’s see what you got.”

  “I get to play?” I’m giddy as I step out and grab my driver before he can change his mind.

  This course, what I can see of it anyway, is breathtaking. Nicer than any other I’ve played.

  Lincoln gets out of the cart but stays off to the s
ide as I set up. For some reason, this is more nerve-wracking than having him pick apart my swing all day, every day. All our work will be graded here on the course.

  “Just relax. It’s going to take time to translate everything from practice to playing. There are more distractions and your old tendencies are still going to show up. Relax, focus on only one swing at a time.”

  I close my eyes and take a deep breath. When I open them, he’s standing closer. His masculine scent and the smell of grass wrap around me, adding another distraction I should ignore.

  “Let me see you at the top of the backswing.”

  Once in position, he walks a circle around me. “Good. Now pull with your lead leg. Focus here.” He places a hand on my left thigh. “Here,” he says again. “Got it?”

  I’m holding my breath, the skin-to-skin contact doing funny things to me while he seems totally unaware and completely focused on golf. He removes his hand and stands tall. I realize I still haven’t answered when he steps into my line of vision.

  “I got it.”

  “All right.” He steps back. “Show me what you got.”

  By the third hole, I finally relax, and by the sixth, I’m smiling at how much more consistent my drives are. I still have work to do, but I’m playing the best round of golf in my life.

  We catch up to a couple of guys just ready to tee off at the seventh.

  “Lincoln?” An old man in the standard-issued country-club getup of polo with khakis walks toward us. “I thought that was you.” He flashes a smile under his Sam Elliott style mustache.

  “Hey, Bob. Nice to see you.”

  “Are you playing today? Hank and I could use a little friendly competition.”

  “Nah, just working with a client. Bob, Hank, this is Keira.”

  “Pleasure to meet you, young lady.” Bob’s brown eyes twinkle as he smiles at me. Based on first impressions, he’s impossible not to like.

  “You too.”

  Hank shakes Lincoln’s hand and then nods to me. “You two go ahead and play through. If I get back to the clubhouse before five, I’ll have to go to dinner with my wife and her sister. That woman sends back everything. The water is too warm. The burger is too rare. The vegetables are touching the rice.” He rolls his eyes and puts the cigar in his left hand to his mouth.

  I look to Lincoln for my cue on whether I should go ahead. He smiles, a crooked grin that makes my stomach flutter. “Go ahead, Keira.”

  As I’m grabbing my driver, I overhear Bob ask Lincoln, “How come you aren’t playing today?”

  “It’s been a while. Maybe he can’t hack it anymore, Bob,” Hank says on an exhale of smoke.

  I fight to keep my lips pressed together and laughter inside.

  Lincoln shakes his head. “Today is just about Keira. She has a tournament coming up this weekend.”

  “Sounds likes she could use some competition then.” Hank nods toward where I walk to the front tees.

  Lincoln smiles but doesn’t move. His clubs are in the back of the cart, so I know he doesn’t have that as an excuse not to take the guys up on their offer. “I’m just here for some last-minute instruction.”

  “I think I’d feel better supported if a pro came up here and showed me how it was done.”

  Bob and Hank whistle and chuckle.

  “I like her,” Hank says.

  I stare at Lincoln with a smug, challenging set to my jaw, but I don’t really expect him to grab a club from his bag. He carries it under his arm and walks toward me as he puts on his glove.

  The tiny victory I feel at goading him into showing me his swing disappears when he leans over to place a tee on the ground and then again to place a ball on top. It’s hard not to check out his ass. Some women love football pants, some love baseball pants, but a man in dress pants swinging a golf club—that’s my weakness.

  With his eye on the fairway, he swings the club lightly just in front of him. “See that tree on the left side just before the sand trap?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Closest ball wins.”

  “Wins what?”

  A cocky smirk twists his lips. “When I win, we’re going to finish nine and then head back to the driving range so you can do two-hundred more solid swings.”

  “What about if I win?”

  “If you win, then you’re done for the day. You can drive back to Valley in time to hang out with your friends or whatever it is you do when you aren’t practicing.”

  As if there’s time for anything else. Also, I don’t want to go back. I want to stay here and play until it’s too dark to see the ball.

  And I want him to keep smiling at me like he is right now.

  “All right. You’re on, but if I win, you have to buy me dinner first.”

  A rough huff of a laugh rolls out of him. “I have dinner plans.”

  “Not if I win you don’t.”

  “Ladies first.” He raises both brows in a friendly challenge.

  I step back. “Oh no, age before beauty.”

  Hank and Bob stand off to the side. It sounds like they’re placing bets, but I focus only on the man next to me as he steps up to the ball.

  His chest rises and falls with a long breath. He shifts his weight around until he’s comfortable, and then he stills. I hold my breath as he pulls back and hits the prettiest shot I’ve ever seen in person.

  My mouth is wide open when the ball drops near the tree and he turns to face me.

  “That was . . . beautiful.” I’m too impressed to be embarrassed by the awe in my voice.

  He seems a little taken aback by my compliment, and there’s an awkward beat of silence as he grabs his tee and pockets it. “You’re up.”

  More so than any time he’s watched me, I feel his gaze like a weighted blanket—though, not at all as comforting as people claim. I do my best to ignore everything but the club in my hands and the tree I’m aiming for, take a deep breath, and swing.

  For the first time, I feel it. That elusive sensation that only comes from hitting the ball pure and exactly where I intended.

  “Wooooweee,” one of the guys—Hank, I think—calls as my ball sails through the air.

  Chills run up my right arm, and Lincoln steps up beside me, driver held loosely in his right hand. “Nice shot.” He rests the clubface on the top of his shoe. “It’s gonna be close.”

  “She won. Pay up,” Hank says to Bob as the two head for their cart.

  “You can’t see that far.” Hank rolls his eyes and hops in next to Bob.

  Lincoln and I exchange an amused smile and follow them. Even as the balls come into view, it’s impossible to tell whose is closer.

  I’m about to ask how we’re going to determine the winner when Bob grabs a laser rangefinder from his bag.

  “That thing won’t work, it’s too close. I’m going to walk it out,” Hank starts counting his steps from Lincoln’s ball to the tree while Bob continues pressing buttons on his rangefinder.

  “That was the best drive I’ve seen from you yet,” Lincoln says as we stand back and await the results.

  “Thanks. Yours was really good too. I saw it on some videos, but they didn’t do it justice. You have a great swing.”

  “I’m rusty,” he says with a small chuckle. “I don’t get a chance to play much anymore.”

  “Five steps on Lincoln’s,” Hank calls and moves to do the same for mine.

  “I can’t imagine not playing.” I breathe in the smell and lift my head to the sky enjoying the way the late sun beats down on my face.

  He’s quiet, and when I look over, he’s staring at me with a strange expression. Sometime this afternoon he’s developed a five o’clock shadow that I find myself wanting to reach out and touch, see if it feels and sounds the way I imagine as I lightly run my nails along his jaw.

  “She won! Four and a half steps!” Hank exclaims, breaking the moment. He walks over to me with extra pep in his step and hugs me and bounces us around, shaking laughter out of me. Lincoln watches,
looking happy and young, and I think I fall a little in love with him.

  “Where are we going? I’m starving.” I sit in the passenger seat of Lincoln’s SUV. It’s nice; sparkling leather without a trace of dust, floors and compartments clean and tidy. He has one of those center console organizers where everything is put in its perfect place. It’s so very Lincoln.

  We left my car at the country club and I’m collecting my winnings before I head back to Valley.

  He turns into a subdivision where the lawns are green, and the houses get bigger with each one we pass. “Wherever you want, but I need to make a stop first.”

  He slows in front of a beautiful tan-colored home with a large rose bush out front. It isn’t the type of place I expected him to live. “Is this your house?”

  “No.” He laughs and pulls up behind a silver Mercedes. He puts it in park and sits back in the seat, making no move to turn it off. “Shit.”

  “What?”

  “Gram did it again.”

  Knowing this is his grandmother’s house makes more sense. “Did what again?”

  He rakes a hand through his hair and squeezes his eyes shut. Seeing Lincoln irritated at something that isn’t me is new and much better for appreciating how hot he looks when he’s grumpy.

  “Is that her?” I point to the woman coming out the front of the house. She’s wearing a floral apron and looks an awful lot like Betty White with a head of big, white hair and bright pink lips.

  Lincoln shuts the engine off and opens his door. “I’ll be right back.”

  He embraces the woman, and they exchange words I can’t hear. She looks past him to me, and a big smile lifts her lips up even higher and then falls. She focuses back on Lincoln and there’s more back and forth.

  Obviously, they’re talking about me, and even though he told me he would be right back, it’s completely rude of me to just sit here and not even say hello. Also, I kind of want to meet her.