Page 49 of Sweet Spot
“Okay, fine. I’ll play this game. Yes, you could go out tomorrow and double bogey every hole.”
The sinking feeling grows in my stomach, making it hard to breathe.
“Oryou could go out there and shoot sixty-two and let everyone know that you mean business. Either way, the plan remains the same.”
“Coach Potter will never let me have another shot if I embarrass the team again.”
“Fuck Potter,” he clips and then his voice softens. “You’re the best player on the team, Keira. Go out there tomorrow and act like it. Own that shit.”
I’m nodding, that rush of excitement before a game finally thrumming through me. “Okay.”
“Yeah?” He sounds surprised.
I nod again, more determined. “Yeah.”
“Good luck tomorrow. Call me after and let me know how it goes.”
A half hour after we get off the phone, my stomach is growling, and I’m considering moving from my spot on the bed to go find something to eat when there are three sharp knocks on my door. I look through the peephole and see a man carrying a tray of food.
I open it, prepared to tell him he has the wrong room, but then he smiles. “Room service for Miss Brooks.”
“I didn’t order anything.”
He looks back at the paper in his hand. “Keira Brooks. Room three thirteen.”
My stomach growls at the smell of something I can’t place.
We’re at an awkward standoff.
“Where would you like it?”
“On the bed, I guess.” I go to my wallet so I can pay him.
“It’s been taken care of.”
“Like on a room charge?”
“No, it was paid for separately over the phone.”
He leaves, and I remove the top off one of the plates. Salad.
I pop a crouton into my mouth, well aware of where the food came from now that I see the boring contents. The second plate has a grilled chicken sandwich with veggies. Still boring, but better.
Me: Thanks for dinner.
He doesn’t respond, so I lift the top off the third plate. The smallest piece of chocolate cake I’ve ever seen makes me laugh. Such a complicated man.
* * *
I’m the first from Valley to tee off. While I warm up on the driving range, Coach Potter stands back, arms crossed, and watches. It feels good, and my accuracy has improved, but I try not to get overly confident.
There is a tenfold stress difference between warm-ups and taking that first swing to start the tournament, and that difference is responsible for talented players falling out of competition by the end of day one. Myself included.
I hit my last ball and turn around for any parting wisdom from Coach.
“I think I’m ready,” I say.
“No one is expecting much, so just go out there, do your best, and try to contribute to the overall team score. No matter what happens, keep your head. You represent us all when you’re on that course. Understood?”
