Page 26 of Sweet Spot
The time stamp is from ten minutes ago. I read it several times before I notice the messages above his from me, sent early this morning. I scroll up, heat making my face burn. There are three of them just after four a.m.
Me: What do I have to do to convince you?
Me: I’ll work harder than any of your clients. You say, “Jump,” I’ll ask, “How high?” Or in this case, you say, “Swing,” and I’ll ask, “How many times?”
Me: Please? This is important to me. It’s all I’ve ever wanted.
Oh God. I throw an arm over my face to shield me from the blast of embarrassment. My head is pounding, and I squeeze my eyes shut.
“You okay?”
I moan in response, but then his text sinks into my foggy brain.
“He said yes.” I sit up fast, too fast, and gag.
Abby sits on her bed folding the pile of clothes, mostly mine. “Who said yes?”
I check my email but don’t see the training plan that Lincoln mentioned. My laptop is on my desk, so I swing my legs off the side of the bed and stumble the few steps to get it and bring it back to bed with me. Abby grabs her mug off the Keurig and joins me.
“You’re acting weirder than normal. What’s going on?” She crosses her legs and takes a sip of the coffee.
“Ugh. The smell of that coffee is making me want to gag.”
“Don’t blame the coffee. You’re the one who lost three straight games of beer pong. For someone who deals in small balls, you have shit aim throwing them.”
“I don’t see it.”
“I’m pretty sure I got some video of it if you want to see just how bad you were.”
“Not that. Lincoln said he sent a training plan, but I can’t find it.”
“Lincoln? Lincoln Reeves, the swing coach? The one you threw tequila on?”
“Will no one let me live that down?”
“Why is he emailing you?”
I keep my eyes firmly on the screen as I admit the embarrassing truth. “I drunk dialed him last night. And then drunk texted him.”
“Keira!” She laughs. “What did you say?”
“I asked him—no, I begged him to coach me.”
Her eyes widen. “And he said yes?”
I log into the Reeves Sports website and see I have a message waiting from Lincoln. His profile picture makes me laugh—a stoic expression, ball cap on, blue polo shirt. He’s still gorgeous but far too serious. “Ah, I found it!”
Abby stands. “I gotta get to the van, and you need to get to class.” She picks up her phone. “Keith is texting me now. Will you put that poor boy out of his misery and tell him you’re up and on your way?” She grabs her bag and heads to the door.
I tear my eyes away from the screen. “I will. Good luck this weekend. I put something in the side pocket of your bag.”
She reaches in and pulls out the blue unicorn scrunchie.
“Go be a badass unicorn scrunchie-wearing superstar.”
Her smile is sad. “It matches yours.”
I lift my arm. I still haven’t taken off the pink one. Maybe my dad knows me better than I think.
