Page 14 of Sweet Spot
“Clarice, go on now,” Potter instructs. “Practice is over for the day.”
I step to him, giving Clarice and the rest of the girls my back, and lower my voice. “I get that you want to be the end all be all to these girls, but you might consider that I have something to offer them, as do a lot of other people.”
He scoffs, shoots me a glare, and then sends one over my shoulder to the girls as well. What a prick.
“My way. My rules,” he grits out and pushes past me, telling his girls to go home and rest up.
One by one, they shuffle away, looking defeated. Once again, I look around for Keira, finally finding her on the driving range. Her gaze follows Coach and her teammates, eyes blazing with hatred I’m finding it hard to blame her for.
She walks toward us with purpose, ponytail swinging side to side with every determined step. She stops and briefly chats with one of the girls, jaw tightens, and then she marches toward me.
Her teammates watch her with something like admiration, and when she reaches the tent, she hesitates for only a second before walking in and taking a seat.
“Are you sure about this?” I ask quietly.
She meets my gaze and then lets it slide to the left so she’s glaring at her coach. “Definitely.”
I try to forget about everything else around us and focus only on Keira, which isn’t really that difficult. Any hope I had that my fascination could be easily expelled by setting things right is shattered when I see her in action again. Everything about the way she moves with a golf club excites me.
It takes maybe two minutes to record her swing from every angle and upload it to my laptop so I can show her. In that time, her coach has disappeared, and her teammates have gathered back around.
I play her video as she sits in the chair on the other side of the table.
“You have a good swing . . . really good, actually. Nice and smooth. A few tweaks, and you’ll be hitting greens all day long.”
Her lips curve up as she laces her fingers together in her lap.
I freeze the video and then turn the screen so I can show her. “Right here, see how you’re extending early? You’re shifting your swing plane. I’ve seen much worse cases, but I think it’s where your inconsistency comes from. It also looks as if you’re holding back a little in a few of these.”
“I’ve had issues in the past with opening my hips too quickly. Coach Potter doesn’t want me swinging as hard as I can because I’m not consistent enough to control it.”
I grind my teeth a little and bite my tongue. “Yeah, it’s all related. But you have power, and you should use it. Let me show you something.”
Standing, I come around the table and walk her through a drill I use on clients with the same issue. She watches, brown eyes following my every move with interest.
“You wanna try it?” I ask when I’m done.
Silently, she stands and gets into position with her club.
“Do a few without the club first to get a feel for it. Bring it back to the basics. Changing motor functions requires breaking it down to the simplest movements.”
She tosses her club to the ground, and I step in front of her and get in position. Sometimes people are self-conscious, so doing the training with them helps remove barriers.
We move together, her mirroring me. I’m so close I can smell the fruity scent of her hair and a hint of sunscreen with each gust of wind.
“Nice, there you go. Can you feel the urge to push off that right leg?”
“Yeah, I really can.” She does it again, mouth set in a determined line and the tip of her tongue between her teeth.
“Do that about a thousand times and then add in your arms.” I extend my hands out in front of me and do the same motion. “And then you can add the club back to your swing.”
She nods again, but this time, it’s with a lot more enthusiasm. “Thank you.”
“I didn’t say anything any guy with a Golf Channel subscription couldn’t have.” I wink and grab a business card off the table. “I’d love to hear how it works for you or if you have any questions. You really do have a beautiful swing. Best I’ve seen in a long time. If I had a swing like that, they’d be fitting me for a green jacket.”
The tips of her fingers brush mine as she reaches for my card. Neither of us makes a move to break the contact right away, and her pale skin dots with pink on her neck and cheeks. “Thanks, Lincoln.”
She pulls away, tucking the card into her pocket and grabbing her club. As she walks backward out of the tent, I find myself holding her gaze. I can’t seem to look away. With the flip of her ponytail, she’s gone and the next girl steps through.
