“You too.” There is no smile on my face. I feel like I might throw up or pass out.
Hole one is a par five at five hundred and five yards. Yesterday, I parred it both rounds, but if I want a chance at placing, I need to do better.
Mia tees off first. A nice start with a drive around two hundred and fifty yards. Not all that long, but it left her in a good position on the fairway.
When my name is announced, I step up and position my teed ball just right of the center of the box. I do a quick glance for Coach, but don’t find him. It shouldn’t surprise me, but it still does. I bet he’ll be here to watch the others tee off.
There isn’t time to be disappointed or to wish things were different. This is my moment, my time to prove I don’t just belong here, I’m here to win.
Lincoln lingers on the sideline with a few other spectators. His eyes bore into me, silently communicating everything I need to hear. Relax, have fun, you can do this.
I can do this.
The hole fits my strengths perfectly. It has a wide fairway and a gentle right to left dogleg. I take aim dead center with the intention of letting my draw move the ball toward the left edge of the fairway, which will setup a perfect approach. I take a breath and swing hard.
The ball screams down the center of the fairway with a hint of a draw. Holy crap.
I’m stunned for a moment as the crowd claps enthusiastically because not only did it go exactly where I wanted but also ended up sixty yards past Mia’s.
20
Lincoln
The crowd at the fourteenth hole is twice as big as the one that was at the ninth hole. And it’s all because of the amazing show Keira is putting on. With each hole, she finds a little more confidence, and people are getting to see the version of Keira that only I’ve been privy to. Well, me and her dickhead coach who wouldn’t know talent if it slapped him upside the head.
Speaking of, Potter walks up from wherever the fuck he’s been, a big, proud smile on his face. Hands on hips, he hangs back while Keira takes her turn. It’s another beautiful shot on the short par four, putting her in a great position close to the pin and beating Mia Arnold’s drive by a good thirty yards.
The crowd claps and starts to walk, but I hang back, watching as Potter approaches her. A hesitant smile pulls her lips apart like she’s afraid to believe he’s actually there and praising her.
They walk toward her ball together, all the while he’s talking to her, waving his hands and suddenly super involved. Trying to temper my annoyance, I move with the rest of the spectators.
Mia Arnold’s coach smiles reassuringly and gives her a few small claps to get her going. Keira’s intimidated her, out driving her on every single hole and flying by her on the leaderboard as if she’s on a do-or-die mission.
My girl is focused but relaxed, having fun and kicking ass. It’s a real pleasure just to be watching. And the energy of the crowd tells me it isn’t my own personal bias speaking.
I bring my index finger to my mouth and bite my knuckle while I wait for her turn. After Mia takes her second shot, Keira goes to grab her wedge. Potter stops her, talks to her for a second, and then backs away as she switches her club to a nine iron, looking a bit hesitant.
It isn’t a good move. The hole sits on a slope. Keira is longer than the average female player, and if she goes long, she’s not going to have any green to work with. No coach I know would play this hole like he’s instructing Keira to do.
Shit. I don’t wanna watch, but I do because if there’s a chance Keira’s going to look over for support, I need to make sure she sees whatever reassurance she needs on my face.
The crowd is none the wiser. They watch with hope that they’re going to see her move up another spot on the scoreboard. She’s six under par for the day putting her in third place overall, but at the rate she’s dropping birdies, she has a shot to win the whole dang thing.
As she gets into position, her demeanor is less confident than it’s been all day. She doesn’t glance at the crowd or her coach before she draws back.
I can tell as soon as she gets to the top of her swing that it’s going to be long. I tense as it sails through the air, and stop tracking the ball and watch her instead. She knows it too and her eyes fall to the ground at her feet.
The heartbroken sigh of the crowd puts a voice to the pain in my gut. Potter doesn’t show any sign of understanding the magnitude of his fuck up. His face settles into a serious expression that gives nothing away. He should be kicking himself for his utter stupidity.
He gives Keira a nod and a go-ahead signal to take her next shot, clearly not sensing her mood. She’s freaked. It may only be one mistake, but an unforced error like that can mess with your head. Lifting my hat, I rake my hands through my hair.
“Look at me, Keira. Look up. Come on,” I mumble under my breath, willing her to look at me. “Take a breath. You’re okay.”
The guy next to me furrows his brow, and I feel him staring, but fuck if I can give him a second thought. If I thought it wouldn’t throw her off more, I’d be shouting it to her. Screw the rules, screw the man holding the quiet sign.
Everything inside me screams that this is all wrong. She’s off, spiraling inside, and I can’t stop it.
I cross my arms and squeeze them into my body to keep myself still.
The next shot isn’t awful, but it doesn’t redeem her, and she ends up one over for bogey.
Coach Potter visibly withdraws from her and even the crowd senses the shift in their favorite new underdog. Still, they hang around through fifteen and part of sixteen. But with each shot, they lose a little more hope, and so does she.
Potter leaves her at the start of seventeen. She’s in eighth place and solidly out of the running for placing today.
She doesn’t so much as side-eye anyone on those last two holes. Retreating deeper into herself until all signs of the confident, capable woman I know are gone.
I wait for her in the clubhouse. Two of her teammates flank her on each side. They offer hugs and high-fives, but Keira’s grim expression doesn’t change.
When she finally approaches me, she looks completely broken. I rub at the sharp pain in the middle of my chest and force a pep in my step as I close the distance between us.
Instead of speaking, I wrap my arms around her and cradle her head against my chest. Any anger she was holding on to turns to sadness, and she buries her face into my shirt and cries. My hands tremble as I run my fingers down her hair and caress the back of her neck.
“Hey, you’re good,” I whisper so only she can hear. “I’ve got you.”
Her hold on my waist tightens and her entire body leans into me like I’m the only thing keeping her upright. She’s a fragile, beautiful thing in my arms and I’ve never felt more helpless or more needed.
“I’ve got you,” I repeat. “I’ve got you.”
Keira is at dinner with the team, and I’m in my hotel room, shifting around my meetings for tomorrow morning. Originally, I planned to head out tonight, but there’s no way I’m leaving now.
There will be other tournaments; she’ll get more chances. I know it, she knows it, but that isn’t the point.
It’s after eight and my eyes are crossing from staring at financial reports when my phone pings.
Keira: Thanks for coming today. We just got back from dinner, and I’m gonna crash. You’re probably already on a plane back to Arizona. Anyway, I’m sure you have notes for me from today’s performance. I know I fell into some of my bad habits at the end. I can fix it. Please don’t give up on me yet.
Jesus. What the hell did Potter say to her? She spent the last three hours with her teammates and coach, I assumed that was for the best. They could girl talk or whatever, maybe Potter would have some encouraging words. She sounds just as defeated as when I left her.
Me: I’m still here. Can you come down for a few minutes?
Keira: You’re still here?
Me: Yes.
I’m hold
ing my phone, waiting for her response, tapping my thumb against the device, when someone knocks lightly on my door.
I pull it open without checking, already figuring that it’s her, and damn, maybe I should have. She looks every bit the young, beautiful college girl she is wearing cut-off denim shorts, a gray T-shirt, and orange flip-flops. Her hair is down, and her face is free of makeup. She steps inside and the door closes behind her.
The determination and focus she wears like armor on most days is totally stripped away. She walks to the center of the room and then turns to me. Her brown eyes glisten as if she’s on the verge of tears. “If you’re going to drop me as a client, just tell me now.”
Um, what? My face contorts with confusion, but she doesn’t allow me to get a word in.
“I get it. I screwed up today.” She squeezes her eyes shut, and one tear slips from the corner. She swipes it away with the palm of her hand and then tilts her head up and bats her eyelashes as if she’s annoyed that she’s crying and trying to stop. “I embarrassed you, my team, my coa—”
My mouth is on hers, silencing the nonsense spilling out before I’ve decided I wanted to act. Though, it feels like the best decision I’ve made in a long time.
Her lips soften and mold to mine before responding. When she kisses me back, it’s with her whole body. She steps against me and places her hands on my chest before breaking the kiss and looking up at me.
It’s an unspoken question, a dare to do it again, or maybe a chance to change my mind. Fuck that. As hard as I’ve tried to keep her at arms-length, Keira has always been more than some client.
This time when I take her lips, there’s no hesitation from either of us. My hands thread through her hair and tilt her head back. Deepening the kiss, my hands fall to her waist and around to cup her ass. She pulls her head back and peers up at me but doesn’t break the contact of our bodies. I take a moment to drink her in. Lips wet, face flushed, her chest rises and falls with breathless excitement. She’s stunning.
“You kissed me.” Her voice hides none of the shock or want I can see on her face.
“Correction. I’m kissing you. I’m not even close to done.”
21
Keira
“So, you aren’t dropping me?” I ask, gliding my hands up and down his forearms, tracing the veins and enjoying his warmth and strength.
His back leans against the headboard, and I’m straddling him, knees bent underneath me.
A rough chuckle shakes his upper body, and he cradles my head and runs his hands down to rest lightly on my neck. “For what? You were amazing today.”
One eyebrow cocks with disbelief. He can’t be serious.
“Did you know you had the longest drive on every single hole today? Every single one. Not just against Mia, but in the entire tournament.”
“I didn’t, but even so, I lost. I totally fell apart. I should have placed.”
“You stopped trusting yourself. You let Potter throw you off when he told you to switch to the nine, which was a garbage call, and then you couldn’t recover. You should have trusted your instincts and smoked the wedge. You’re comfortable playing power golf and when the situations get tight you need to play to your strength. Potter should know that. It’s his whole job. Today’s loss was a coaching catastrophe. You were the best player out there.”
His words comfort me and light the fire of determination I lost earlier today. Lincoln has never fed me compliments when they weren’t deserved.
“You mean that? It isn’t just because you suddenly want to kiss me that you’re saying that?”
“Suddenly?” His brows rise as a teasing smile plays on his lips. Slowly, he shakes his head. “I’ve thought about kissing you since you all but called me a creep and tossed tequila on me.”
“Why didn’t you?”
The playfulness falls away, and I wish I could suck in the question and keep it to myself.
“The business takes a hundred percent of my time and is my top priority. Yeah, I’ve thought about kissing you, but I also considered what that would mean for the relationship we’ve built. I don’t want to mess with that or hurt you.”
“I appreciate the honesty, but I just stopped plotting your death for making me run a thousand miles, so you can stop worrying. I’m not expecting anything. I have my own life.”
Some of the tension in his body relaxes, but I can tell he isn’t convinced. I look into his dark eyes. From far away, they look brown, but up close, they’re more hazel. A myriad of beautiful, complicated colors that’s fitting for this man.
I move my hands from his arms to his amazing pecs and the steady thump of his heart under the cotton shirt to the nape of his neck. I curl my fingers into his thick hair. “Tell me again how good I was.”
His teeth glide along his bottom lip before he smirks. Slowly, he inches closer until his mouth hovers over mine. His breath tickles and heats my skin as he says, “You really have no idea how good you are, do you?” He searches my face for an answer. “Watching you play is inspiring. Being your coach and watching you see the rewards of working your ass off . . . it’s a privilege. You’re the most incredible person I know, Keira Brooks.”
I close my eyes and smile, letting those words and his nearness heal the embarrassment and frustration of my loss. They become my truth, and I cling to them.
Removing the millimeter of distance between us, I kiss him. I pour all the passion of my hopes and dreams into him, knowing that, whatever else happens between us, he’ll be the protector of those things.
Large fingers wrap around my waist on both sides. His thumbs circle at the hem of my shirt and slip under so the calloused pads run along bare skin. Those full lips leave mine only to find my neck and collarbone. His touch brings goose bumps to the surface, and we make out like two people who need connection more than air.
Moaning and tilting my head to give him better access, I’m not prepared for his words. “We should stop.”
“What?” My eyes fly open. “Why?”
“Because I don’t want to wreck what we have. I like you.” His head rises slowly, kissing the sensitive skin on the way, as if he’s convincing himself with his own words while enjoying a final taste.
“Turning down sex because you like me? Well, that’s a first.”
He lifts me from his lap with a groan and places me next to him where our legs still rest against each other. “I meant what I said earlier. That wasn’t me feeding you a line or giving some bullshit excuse. I don’t have a lot to offer. I can’t be a boyfriend or even promise to be what you need tomorrow. I like and respect you too much to lead you on. I enjoy helping you and being around you. I’m not going anywhere, but there are limits to what I have to give outside of coaching.”
“I get it,” I reaffirm him. “But it’s really cruel to offer all this up”—I gesture to him and his hotness—“and then take it away. Will you at least take your shirt off?”
He chuckles and brushes my hair back from my face. I can see his resolve to take this back to G-rated. No matter what he says, I know the lines he just drew are about him, not me. I’m perfectly capable of separating sex with Lincoln from our working relationship. But fine. I mean there are lots of things Lincoln and I can do fully clothed and not touching.
I enjoy him. Our connection with golf and our desire to push ourselves gives us a lot to talk about. Though talking naked is obviously my preference.
“Fine, but can I stay in here tonight?”
He tilts his head, and I raise both hands innocently. “I only want to talk golf. I’ll keep my hands to myself.”
And I do. Mostly.
I barrage him with questions. Silly things that don’t touch on serious topics because tonight is about pulling back the curtain, getting to know him in a way that he’s kept off-limits.
His favorite color is green, favorite food is tamales followed closely by Chicago style pizza, he doesn’t care for sweets, he still uses a putter his grandfather gave him for his high s
chool graduation, and so many more things that I file away for safekeeping. I know I’ll never forget a single thing he tells me, no matter how small or insignificant he thinks it might be.
He lies on his back, an arm around me as I snuggle into his side. My head rests on his chest and I run my fingers across his stomach. Even through the soft material of his shirt I can make out the lines and dips of muscle.
My eyes are heavy from the physical and emotional toll of the past few days. I fight to keep them open so I can savor this moment. In his arms I feel invincible.
“Got any Red Bull?” I ask, stifling a yawn.
“For what?”
“To keep me awake.”
His chest shakes with a silent laugh. “Go to sleep. It’s been a long day.”
“I don’t want to sleep.” I’m bolder with my exploration of his body this time and dip my hand lower on his stomach.
He makes a strangled groan of a sound, captures my hand in his, and rests them on his chest. “Sleep.”
I try to keep my eyes open despite his bossy command, but his thumb moves in a slow circle on the top of my hand, and my lids droop.
“I’m staying up all night,” I threaten, but even as I say it, I start drifting off.
The next morning as I’m getting ready to leave his room to catch the team van to the airport, Lincoln brushes his teeth in the open bathroom. He slept in a T-shirt and gym shorts, but that shirt is gone now, and I’m not shy about getting a good look at his chiseled upper body while he’s showing it off.
He has a great chest. Not so muscular that he’s beefy, but defined enough that it lifts and falls in all the right places, a light smattering of dark hair trimmed close.
“Talk to you later?”
He nods, leans over the sink, spits, and rinses his mouth out before standing and wiping his face with a towel. I watch the whole thing completely entranced. He’s so comfortable in his skin, and that skin . . . well, it’s sensational.
Sweet Spot Page 13