Page 25 of Sweet Spot
“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.
“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, itwillbe a booty call.”
Another deep chuckle tickles my ear. “’Night, Keira.”
9
Keira
I wakewith 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.
My voice is scratchy, throat dry, and head pounding. I close my eyes and feel around for my phone. Wrapping my fingers around it, I turn onto my side and slowly open my lids again.
Curse vodka. Or maybe it was the beer. Maybe it was the mixing. Maybe it was the sheer volume. After Lincoln’s rejection, I softened the blow with a game of flip cup, and then I think there were a few games of quarters. Groan.
I have a dozen texts from people I ran into last night, ranging from concern to laughing emojis at how drunk I was and calling me a lightweight. There are two from Keith—one asking where I am and the next assuring me that he’ll take notes and we can meet up at lunch so he can fill me in.
The newest message, though, makes my already rolling stomach lurch.
Lincoln: I’ve sent over a training plan. We may need to tweak it based on your practices, so I’d like you to detail everything you do in practices for the next week. This morning get the run in and do the weight training. After your practice, we’ll adjust the swing drills as needed.
