Page 1 of Sweet Spot
1
Keira
I’m notgood 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?”
