Page 70 of Sweet Spot
She picks up an empty Pop-Tart wrapper and raises a brow.
“No judgment. I’m eating my feelings.”
“Well, stop because you’re playing this weekend.” Abby sits on the edge of my bed.
“No, I’m not. Coach made it very clear that I was not in the lineup.”
“That was before I quit.”
She smiles at my reaction–jaw dropped and eyes wide. “What? Why?”
“I’ve been thinking about it for a while.” She shrugs.
“But you’re playing so well. Don’t quit just because of me. You’ve earned that spot.”
“I know I did. To be honest, standing up for you is only part of the reason I did it. Golf isn’t fun anymore. It’s become just part of my routine. I spend practices wishing I were doing just about anything else. Seeing how much you love it, I don’t know, it made me realize how much I don’t. I want to enjoy my last year of college without running to practice every afternoon or travelling to tournaments I don’t want to play in.”
“You could see the season out. Quit before fall semester.”
“I could, but it felt much sweeter to do it this way.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“Say that you’ll spend tonight hanging out with me, watching cheesy romantic comedies, eating Pop-Tarts or whatever other junk food you have stashed, and tomorrow morning, you’ll get up and be ready to kick some ass in that tournament. Unicorn-scrunchie-wearing badass, remember?”
I laugh and glance down at my wrist. “Deal.”
* * *
On Friday, the sun finally comes out from behind the clouds, drying out the course as teams start to arrive. Lincoln calls as I’m leaving my dorm to head over to the course.
“Hey,” I answer with the phone between my shoulder and ear.
“Did I wake you?”
“No, I’m on my way out now. I want to get some extra swings in this morning.”
“Don’t tire yourself out before it starts,” he warns. “Go through your usual routine, and if you still feel like you need more time, do some visualization and drills without the club.”
“Okay.”
He chuckles. “I’m serious. There’s such a thing as being over prepared, and it usually goes hand in hand with too little rest. Remember, it’s supposed to be fun.”
“It’ll be fun when I’m on the leaderboard.”
We continue to talk as I drive over, and when I pull into a parking spot, I linger in my car because I’m not ready to say bye to Lincoln yet. Even though he’s always miles away, it feels weird knowing he’s boarding a plane and won’t be within driving distance.
“When do you fly to Los Angeles?”
“This afternoon. I land around five, but text me when you’re done with the practice round and let me know how hard you kicked ass today, all right?”
“Yeah, okay.” I inhale a deep breath and let it out. “Will you be back tomorrow or Sunday?”
“I’m not sure yet what Kenton and my parents have planned for me this weekend. I’ll do my best. Listen, I gotta go, my IT guy is calling. Give ’em hell today.”
* * *
The first eighteen holes are a blur. I’m in a zone. A mixture of determination and anger. I only get a short break before I’m teeing off for my second round.
