Page 34 of Sweet Spot
I chuckle as I respond.
Me: Sunday’s are a recovery day. Stretch out, get a few turns in, and spend the rest of the day preparing for the week.
Me: And eat something besides a Hungry Man frozen dinner.
Keira: No worries on that. If I never eat another, it’ll be too soon. How was your date?
It takes me a second to realize she misinterpreted my words earlier today when I told her I had dinner plans. I know I didn’t say date, but seeing as how it ended up sort of being a date, I don’t bother correcting her.
Me: It was fine.
Keira: Fine? *snort* Wow, lucky lady.
Me: If you go out tonight, take it easy on the alcohol and make sure you still get enough sleep. Don’t derail all your progress.
Keira: Wow, you’re a real conversation buzz kill. Do you ever stop thinking about training?
Me: It’s my job to think about it. Every decision, no matter how minor you may think it is, plays a part in your success or failure.
Shit, I do sound like a buzz kill. It’s true, though.
Keira: I have no plans to go out tonight, and I’m already lying in bed. Happy?
Well, no. Now I’m picturing her lying in bed. So, I’m not happy at all.
My thoughts run away from me for long enough that I picture her bare legs and that gorgeous sun-kissed hair splayed out begging for me to run my fingers through it. Perving on a client—super douche move.
Me: Good. Enjoy your day off.
I log out of the chat before she can respond and spend the next two hours working on her training plan for next week and trying hard not to be the creeper she accused me of being the first time we met.
12
Lincoln
Over the next week,I push her harder than I have pushed any other athlete I’ve ever coached. Ever. I need to know she’s serious. That she’ll work as hard as I will.
Adding another client might seem like a small thing, but I spend a minimum of fourteen hours a week on a client. That’s an average client. I’m spending double that with Keira because of how much I believe in her. And if I’m spreading myself this thin and putting myhopein her, then I have to know that we’re in this together.
On Tuesday night, I fly out to L.A. to see my brother and interview a woman to manage my tennis coaches. Kenton plays soccer for the L.A. Stars. Despite—or maybe because of—our family history with golf, he was never interested in it.
He’s waiting at the bar near my gate. Turned in his seat so he can watch the passengers walking by, his hat is pulled low so he’s hard to recognize. Not that it fools me; I’d recognize his tall, lanky ass anywhere. The slight tilt of his shoulders and the way he sits on the stool with one foot resting on the top rung and the other on the floor is all so familiar.
He stands as I weave through people to get to him.
“Linc.” He embraces me and gives me a couple of good slaps before stepping back. “Been too long, brother.”
Smiling, I nod and look him over. He’s taller than I am by an inch, but his build is smaller—leaner from all the conditioning he does. I’m damn proud of him even if it means the time between seeing him seems to get longer each visit.
“You look good. Nice game last night.”
We each take a seat, and he slides a beer toward me. “Thanks. You catch it or watch the highlights?”
I take a sip before I reply, “Come on, you really think I’d miss my little bro in action?”
He raises a brow.
“Fine, I caught the last twenty minutes or so.”
