Page 11 of Sweet Spot
“Thatwas an accident.”
“Maybe we should start over.” I grin and offer her my hand. “I’m Lincoln. Swing coach, business owner, non-creeper.”
She stares at my hand for a beat before placing her palm in mine. A shot of pleasure races up my arm.
“Keira. Golfer, college student, skeptic.”
A deep chuckle escapes from my chest. “Nice to meet you, Keira.”
We stand smiling at one another, taking the other in, until someone bumps into her again. I motion for her to have a seat so we’re out of the way and then take the chair next to her.
“I think you made a few lifelong fans,” she says, and I follow her slight nod to where Keith and Chapman stand talking.
Chapman lifts his beer in a salute, and I wave before responding to Keira. “Believe it or not, most people were excited to see me today.”
“I thought we were starting over.”
“Fair enough. I won’t mention it again, but just so you know, I did offer my services to your coach.”
Her eyes widen in surprise. “Really?”
“He said no, obviously. My guess is that I’m not the first person he’s said no to, if that helps your hatred toward all mankind any.”
Her jaw clenches and her features go from gorgeous to glower, which also happens to be gorgeous—so long as she isn’t glowering at me. “Why would he do that?”
“Some coaches like things a certain way and think bringing another person in messes with their system.” Do I think it’s bullshit? Yes. But I’m not about to admit that.
“I’m never going to get my spot back.” She meets my gaze. “I was travelling with the team until last fall.”
“What happened?”
“I had a bad tournament, lost my head.” She shrugs. “Coach replaced me, and I’m pretty sure he’s going to punish me indefinitely for it.” Her dark lashes flutter closed as her voice softens. “I miss it. The early morning smell on the course just before the first group tees off and the buzz of energy as the last pair walks onto the green on the final hole.” When she opens her eyes, her face flushes adorably.
I clear my throat and take a sip of my beer. “I’m sorry. That’s tough.”
“Are you speaking from experience or just being nice?”
“I got looked over plenty of times,” I assure her.
“What did you do?”
“Worked harder, proved I belonged out there.”
She rolls her eyes. “I could win the freaking US Open, and it wouldn’t make a difference to Coach Potter. He hates me.”
“So, do it. You don’t need him to go the professional route.”
She scoffs, but I’m not wrong. Playing college golf isn’t the only way to go pro—or even the best way.
“No, but I do need coaching and experience, neither of which I’m getting. And now I know he isn’t letting anyone else come in and help me either. What a prick.”
“He really that bad?”
“He’s a dictator, ruling with fear instead of respect. He makes the game less fun for everyone.” She sits up a little taller and lets out a deep breath. “Anyway, not your problem.”
“Still, he’s managed to have some impressive seasons.”
“That’s because the team is crazy talented. Coach Hanson, the coach before Potter took over, was amazing. Everyone loved him. He’s the reason the team is stacked. He recruited hard, and everyone wanted to play for him. He left to coach at a smaller school closer to family, and Coach Potter took over right before my freshmen year. Really regretting not going to Duke about now,” she mumbles the last part.
