Page 22 of Sweet Spot
“Lace?”
“I spent our entire relationship taking care of things when you were gone or too busy or maybe just didn’t want to be bothered, so don’t take it the wrong way when I say that it isn’t my job anymore to go through your shit.”
That wasn’t exactly what I meant, but years of guilt gnaw at me and keep me from lashing back. She isn’t completely wrong, a lot of things did fall on her, and I guess I got used to depending on her. It’s easy to slip back into those same roles, even now. “I can’t tomorrow. Is there another day? Next week I’m travelling, but maybe the week after?”
She sighs, and it’s a long, exasperated sound. “Yeah, sure. Give me a call when you’re ready.”
She disconnects first, leaving me with dead air and a thousand regrets. I drop my phone to the desk and stare at my computer screen.
The end of Keira’s video is paused so that she’s frozen in position. I hit play one more time, letting her swing bring a little bit of joy to this shitty night, and then force myself to get to work.
8
Keira
Wednesday’s practiceis nearly identical to Tuesday’s. We break into groups to play eighteen holes and then spend some time with Coach working on individual drills. Well, except for me and a few freshmen he doesn’t get to before time is up. I’m positive that isn’t a coincidence that he somehow didn’t get to me two practices in a row.
After everyone else leaves, I stay at the driving range, working on my swing until it’s too dark to see the ball. I’m trying to incorporate the things Lincoln said, but I can’t feel if I’m getting it right, and it’s beyond frustrating.
I head back to the dorm, checking my text messages as I walk the stairs to the second floor. Abby is at Smith’s apartment, per the usual. Since she started dating him last semester, she rarely sleeps here.
I shower and pick through clothes on Abby’s bed. I’ve taken to using it as a storage area for my clean-ish clothes—the ones I’ve only worn once but am too lazy to hang back up in the closet. Erica and Cassidy texted that they were having people over, and since I’d rather go out than sit here alone, I get ready and call an Uber.
With eleven minutes to kill until my driver picks me up, I open my email. Simon from Reeves Sports has completed my swing review, and the write up has way more details than I expected. He’s even attached a slow-motion video of my swing like the one Lincoln had done, and talks through what he sees. I’d been expecting something much more generic. This is really cool.
I grab my seven iron from my bag and hold it as I listen, pulling back and trying to get the feel of my weight shift like Lincoln had said that first time. Honestly, what Simon says is much the same, so either it’s standard advice they give everyone or Lincoln was right. I don’t know why that continues to surprise me. Everything about him radiates a confidence that can’t be fake.
The thing is that, pro or not, it doesn’t automatically mean he’s qualified to give others advice. The best mentor I ever had was my high school coach, whose only qualification was that he loved golf. He worked hard and genuinely wanted his players to succeed. That, in turn, made us work hard.
The Uber driver calls to say he’s pulling up outside of Freddy, and I grab my purse and hustle downstairs. When we’re on our way, I send Lincoln an email.
Simon was more helpful than I expected. The site is really cool. I like the video feedback.
Keira
His response comes as the driver stops in front of Erica and Cass’s place. I thank him and walk to the front door slowly, reading.
I just saw his feedback. It’s pretty spot on with what I thought after watching it.
I can hear people inside the house, but I pause at the front door and email him back.
You watched it?
Keira
An unexpected thrill shoots through me at the thought of him taking the time to follow up on me. I wait out front for a minute, and when I don’t get a new response, I head inside.
A lot of the guys and girls from the golf teams are here hanging out in the living room watching television and drinking. Erica and Cassidy are sitting at a table in their small dining area with Chapman, Keith, and a sophomore named Han.
“You made it,” Cassidy squeals and hugs me.
“I did.” I squeeze her back and smile at the rest of the group. “I’m surprised you two are drinking the night before a tournament.”
“Tomorrow is just a practice round, plus we can sleep on the ride,” Erica says. “Help yourself, we restocked the booze.”
I’m pouring vodka and Red Bull into a cup when Brittany comes up to me in the kitchen. “Hey, Keira.”
“Hey, Britt.” I offer her the vodka. “Drink?”
