Page 2 of Sweet Spot
“He’s always so proud of what he picks, how could I not? Besides, I could be into unicorns.”
She snorts. “It’s actually pretty cute. Maybe I need to get on the Christmas list next year.”
We spend the next half hour hitting shots from the bunker and then Coach lays the pin down behind the hole and instructs us to keep going until we’ve each hit it three times in a row.
It takes a few minutes to stop overthinking it, but soon, I have two consecutive hits and am lining up for my third.
“Open the clubface a little more. Address it off the toe. You’re looking rusty. Come on ladies, focus,” he barks loud enough that I know it’s advice meant for the entire team, but Coach’s presence directly behind me makes me grip the club tighter. The man sets my every nerve on edge. His personality is completely abrasive, making me firmly believe either he hates coaching, golf, or maybe both. He certainly doesn’t like me.
I’d rather swing the wedge at his head, but I breathe and refocus. Unfortunately, as soon as I make contact with the ball, I know it’s going right. Coach walks off without a word.
I’m the last to finish and head back up to the putting green. The boys’ team has already arrived. They practice right after us, but a quick glance at my phone tells me we still have more than thirty minutes left. They’re never this early.
Abby’s holding her putter, leaned over as if she’s eyeing the line, but the only thing she’s eyeing is her boyfriend Smith. He’s on the driving range, staring right back at her.
“You two are ridiculous, sneaking glances at one another like you’re in middle school,” I say, dropping a few balls onto the green and joining her.
My friend blushes. “What? He’s cute. Let me stare without your judgment.”
I shake my head. “What are they doing here so early, anyway?”
“They have a clinic today with some big shot swing coach.”
“Figures. Why do they always have people coming in to offer extra coaching? We’ve had a better record for the past two years, but do fancy swing coaches come to see us?” I don’t wait for her answer. “No, they do not.”
She shrugs, not the least bit bothered by it, and honestly, I don’t know if I’d be upset if it weren’t for the fact our coach barely speaks to me, let alone coaches me.
We’ve never seen eye to eye, but when I was holding my own in tournaments, he didn’t seem to loathe me quite so much.
While we finish putting, Coach strolls over to review this week’s schedule. We have a tournament upstate this weekend but only five will travel and play.
I keep my eyes glued to the ground as he says the first four names. Our top three rarely changes. Erica, Kim, and Cassidy are our most senior members and have earned their spots by consistently placing well in tournaments. Then there’s Abby. She’s streaky, but as of our last tournament in December, that streak is holding. That leaves only one spot. My spot. Or it was. One bad tournament last October and Coach was all too eager to replace me. I’ve been trying to claw my way back to his good graces ever since. Unsuccessfully, I might add.
“And finally, Brittany will join us.”
I glance up in time to see his cold, gray eyes sweep over the team and lock on to me, waiting for a reaction. It’s as if the man gets off on my anger. I plaster on a congratulatory smile and clap for my teammates. I will not let him see how much it hurts.
He places both hands on his hips. “Weak practice today, girls. Get your heads right and show up tomorrow ready to work harder.”
After everyone separates, I approach him. “Coach, can I talk to you for a minute?” My big, fake smile is starting to make my cheeks hurt.
“What is it, Keira? I’m not going to change my mind on the girls going to the tournament.”
Oh my God, why is he such a dick?
“I understand. I was just going to ask what I might do to improve so I can have my spot back? Or, at least, a chance to earn it back. Before break, I was consistently scoring with the top three in practice.”
“I can’t give you the answers. You have to prove it out there.” He points toward the course. If it’s some sort of voodoo mind trick, I’m clueless. He’s the coach, the sole decider of who plays. Of course, he has the answer. And Iamproving it out there.
“Right.”
“Put the work in and give your best every time. And your attitude needs a serious adjustment.” His brows raise, and his eyes widen as he waits for me to respond. He’s expecting me to argue, I’m sure.
“Yes, Sir.”
I’m screwed. I’m already the hardest worker on the team, and he knows it. Golf is my passion. I love it. I want to be the best, not just on our team but in the world. I don’t think that’s out of reach for me. I’m good—really good—but I can’t prove that if I’m not playing.
Abby waits for me by our bags. “What did he say?”
