Page 41 of Sweet Spot
“No, I’m sure it’s fine. Can’t be too careful this close to a tournament.”
“Right.” I try to smile reassuringly, but the reminder that she’s playing and I’m not hurts, and I’m not good at faking anything It’s one of the many things Coach Potter dislikes about me.
Golf is a country club sport where players are supposed to school their features and always appear completely dignified. But I’ve always felt too strongly about the sport to pretend to be unfazed by how I’m playing. If I’m happy with a shot, I’m going to show it. And if I’m so mad I want to throw a club...well, I throw a club.
“What’s up with Brittany?” Abby asks as we head to the next hole without her. A par three with a wicked sand trap on the right side.
“Wrist is bothering her. She decided to call it so she’s ready this weekend.” I really try to keep my voice from sounding bitter, but I fail. Bad at fakingeverything.
Abby and I play better when it’s just the two of us. We’re comfortable, we joke, and we egg each other on. We still play hard, our competitive spirits making everything a game, but it’s way more fun. I miss her, spending time just the two of us. Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy for her and Smith, but selfishly I want more moments like this.
We’re laughing, and I’m lighter than I’ve been in weeks when we finish the ninth hole and walk back to the clubhouse.
A group of our teammates are standing outside the door, and when they spot us, they go quiet.
Erica smiles at me as we approach. “Looks like you’re up.”
Abby and I share a confused look.
“Brittany has tendinitis in her wrist. She’s out, which means . . .”
My heart races. “I’m in.”
14
Keira
“When do you leave?”His brows draw together in hard concentration, and his face shows none of the excitement I expected after telling him the good news.
“Thursday afternoon. The practice round is Friday and the tournament takes place Saturday and Sunday.”
He stands and brings me with him to another room via the laptop in his hand. He sets me down and sits in a big office chair. There’s a picture behind him—the first evidence of personalization I’ve seen in his house.
I stare at it, trying to make out more of the photograph while he does whatever it is he’s doing and not paying attention to me. It’s a picture of two people standing on a golf course. One is definitely Lincoln. There’s no mistaking that dark hair and build. The man next to him looks like he could be his father or grandfather. I’m guessing the latter since he told me that’s who taught him to play.
“I can move some things around, but I wouldn’t be able to get to Valley until late Wednesday night.” He frowns. “I’d really like to see you before the tournament. I suppose video will have to do. Can you clear Wednesday night to get a long session in?”
“Sure. I’m free after class on Wednesday. I’m done around ten.”
He nods his approval but still looks disappointed and not directly at me.
“I could come to you.”
His focus finally snaps to me. “To Scottsdale?”
“That’s where you live, right?” I shrug. “If it’s easier, then sure.”
He considers it for a few quiet seconds, but slowly, I see the agreement in the relaxing of his shoulders. “I’ll send you the address. I have another client at three, but if you can get here early then we can get time in before and after.”
A whole day of golf and Lincoln? “I’ll be there,” I say too eagerly.
* * *
I spent the morning in the hot seat while he watched my swing and offered critiques. It felt good, as if we were finally making real progress.
While I sit in the golf cart and eat a sandwich from the country club restaurant, Lincoln chats with Tommy, a local high school kid. He’s different with Tommy than he is with me. More hands-on, nicer even.
Lincoln is hard to get to know. He’s all business all the time. We’ve only had a few small moments where we’ve shared that personal connection, but I want more of it. And I want more of this shiny, fun Lincoln in front of me. I mean, the guy just laughed. Full-on, head back, laughed.
