Page 17 of Sweet Spot
He’s blindfolded and stands in front of five golf balls teed up about a foot apart. He goes down the line, hitting each one dead on. It’s impressive, and his young face beams as he removes his mask.
His love and joy for the sport leaves an uncomfortable ache in my chest. Coach Potter makes it easy to forget how much I love golf, but today was a good day, and I want to savor it before he ruins it tomorrow.
* * *
I loaded my schedule to take most of my classes on Tuesdays and Thursdays so that I can get in more practice time on my light days and so I can check in on Dad and take him to doctor appointments, as needed.
I’m eating a bowl of noodles for lunch when I finally check my email and see that Lincoln responded. I open it with a giddy smile.
You’re welcome. I hope you aren’t in more trouble with your coach. Working on the drills?
Lincoln
Still chewing, I type out a quick response.
Headed to the course early to practice. I’ll find out what sort of punishment Coach has in store for me in a couple of hours. Whatever it is, it will be worth it. Are you still in town, maybe going around door to door to see if there’s anyone else you can help?
Keira
* * *
“Dad,” I call out as I come through the front door later that evening.
The television is on, but he isn’t in his favorite recliner. I stop at the dining room table and strip off my jacket and place it on the back of a chair.
The floor creaks, and his cane knocks on the hardwood before he shuffles into view.
“Hey, kiddo. Wasn’t expecting you.”
He hobbles the rest of the way to drop a kiss on my forehead, pausing before his lips press to my skin. “You smell like golf.”
I snort. “Like golf?”
“Yeah. Fresh-cut grass and sweat with a dab of Hawaiian Tropic.” He drops the kiss, and I smile into his quick embrace. “How was practice?”
“Shot seventy-two.” I smile for the first time in a long time when thinking about practice. Even Coach ignoring me all afternoon can’t take away my excitement. “Best score on the team today.”
He takes a seat in his chair and mutes the basketball game. “Proud of you.”
“I thought I’d make dinner for us.”
“Already ate,” he says, not quite meeting my gaze.
“You didn’t?” I ask and move toward the pantry. When I see the empty frozen meal box in the trash, I groan. “Dad, no one should eat those. Ever. Ever, ever.”
“The Suns are playing. I didn’t want to bother with cooking. Besides, they really aren’t that bad. Tell me about golf. When’s your next tournament?”
He’s deflecting, but golf is always a good way to distract me. I tell him about the upcoming tournament. “I’m not going. Coach still hasn’t moved me back to top five.”
“You’ll get there.”
I shrug, not wanting to think too hard on what it’ll take to get Coach to see that I deserve another chance. I change the conversation to school and fill him in on my class schedule this semester. He pretends to be interested while I take out ingredients for his favorite casserole.
My schedule, outside of golf is pretty short and uninteresting, and within a few minutes, we fall silent. With the exception of the occasional outburst at the television, neither of us speaks again until I cover the top of the dish in tin foil and set it in the fridge.
“Put it in the oven at three hundred fifty degrees for about thirty minutes. I’ll be by later this week to take you to your doctor appointment.”
He makes a dismissive grunt of acknowledgment. He hates feeling like he can’t do stuff for himself, but since his accident, he needs me more than he’s willing to admit.
