Page 57 of Sweet Spot
And I do. Mostly.
I barrage him with questions. Silly things that don’t touch on serious topics because tonight is about pulling back the curtain, getting to know him in a way that he’s kept off-limits.
His favorite color is green, favorite food is tamales followed closely by Chicago style pizza, he doesn’t care for sweets, he still uses a putter his grandfather gave him for his high school graduation, and so many more things that I file away for safekeeping. I know I’ll never forget a single thing he tells me, no matter how small or insignificant he thinks it might be.
He lies on his back, an arm around me as I snuggle into his side. My head rests on his chest and I run my fingers across his stomach. Even through the soft material of his shirt I can make out the lines and dips of muscle.
My eyes are heavy from the physical and emotional toll of the past few days. I fight to keep them open so I can savor this moment. In his arms I feel invincible.
“Got any Red Bull?” I ask, stifling a yawn.
“For what?”
“To keep me awake.”
His chest shakes with a silent laugh. “Go to sleep. It’s been a long day.”
“I don’t want to sleep.” I’m bolder with my exploration of his body this time and dip my hand lower on his stomach.
He makes a strangled groan of a sound, captures my hand in his, and rests them on his chest. “Sleep.”
I try to keep my eyes open despite his bossy command, but his thumb moves in a slow circle on the top of my hand, and my lids droop.
“I’m staying up all night,” I threaten, but even as I say it, I start drifting off.
The next morning as I’m getting ready to leave his room to catch the team van to the airport, Lincoln brushes his teeth in the open bathroom. He slept in a T-shirt and gym shorts, but that shirt is gone now, and I’m not shy about getting a good look at his chiseled upper body while he’s showing it off.
He has a great chest. Not so muscular that he’s beefy, but defined enough that it lifts and falls in all the right places, a light smattering of dark hair trimmed close.
“Talk to you later?”
He nods, leans over the sink, spits, and rinses his mouth out before standing and wiping his face with a towel. I watch the whole thing completely entranced. He’s so comfortable in his skin, and that skin . . . well, it’s sensational.
“Yeah, I’ll update your training plan sometime today. I have a few meetings first.”
“Okay.”
A beat of awkwardness plays out between us before he strides forward and places a hand at my hip. The warmth and strength of his grip makes my breath catch. I want to go back to twenty minutes ago when we were in bed, every inch of my body touching him in some way, and stay there all day.
“What do you think about doing the sectional qualifier in April?”
“You mean theOpenqualifier?” My voice quivers with excitement or maybe disbelief.
“Yeah.” He pulls me against him. “That gives us a couple of months to work your swing out, and then you can go show everyone what you’re capable of.”
“You think I’m ready?” I hate the way my voice wavers with my lack of confidence.
“I think I’ll make sure you are. You might hate me again. It’s going to mean working twice as hard as before. More running and weights and—”
I stop him by pushing up onto my tiptoes and kissing him. When I step back, the excitement in his eyes matches mine. “Bring it on.”
22
Keira
We havea rare day off practice Tuesday, so I use the time to check on Dad. Over a sausage pizza, he grills me about the tournament.
Normally I’d be all too eager to talk golf, but I’m blushing and squirming in my seat as if Dad can tell by looking at me that I spent the night with my hottie swing coach. So, I give him a lightning speed overview and then ask about his scheduled doctor appointments and physical therapy this week.
