1
Keira
I’m not good at very many things.
I never learned to play a musical instrument. I can’t draw. I’m messy, unorganized, and hot-headed. Pop-Tarts are a staple in my diet so, obviously, maintaining a balanced diet isn’t a talent of mine either. I don’t understand classic literature, and I’m hopeless at video games. None of it ever mattered to me. Nothing but golf.
Wedge in hand, I bounce the ball off the clubface as if it’s a paddle. Each time, the ball lands squarely in the center—right on the sweet spot—with a light tap.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
The noise soothes and excites me. Body poised, right forearm extended slightly in front of me, the tip of my tongue between my teeth. That last part isn’t strictly necessary, but it’s a habit any time I’m concentrating this hard.
My teammates stand to the side, watching my every move. I’ve done this trick a hundred times, but I know better than to look anywhere except at the ball. Even the trickle of sweat at the nape of my neck and the stray hair that’s fallen in my face won’t distract me.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
I move the club behind my back.
Tap. Between my legs. Tap. Club forward. Tap. Tap. Tap. Right foot hop and kick, letting the ball bounce off the sole of my shoe before catching it. Tap. Tap. Tap. Deep breath as I track the ball, move into my final position, and swing.
A shot of pride zips through me as the ball sails through the air, a white dot in the bright blue sky. My teammates cheer, finally breaking their silence.
“That’s incredible,” Abby says, offering me a high-five. “And on the first try. Is this how you spent all of winter break?”
I shrug. “It didn’t take that long to perfect it.”
Erica stares at her phone, thumbs moving rapidly over the screen. “I’m posting it. Your trick shots get more likes and comments than anything else I post.” She looks up at me. “You’re more popular than I am on my own account. That’s screwed up.” She snickers and goes back to her phone.
The other girls are giving me the appropriate props when Coach’s voice bellows from the clubhouse. “Ladies, hit the bunkers.”
I swear he glares right at me as if I’m the only one standing here. I glare back, refusing to cower. He looks away first, and I call that a victory until he adds, “You too, Keira. Your fancy trick shots won’t help you in a tournament.”
I open my mouth to argue that we were on a water break, so it wasn’t as if I had been wasting practice time, but Abby steps in front of me, blocking him from view. “Come on.”
I grab my bag, and we head for the sand traps with the rest of the team.
“You have to stop letting him rile you. It throws you off all practice.”
“He hates me.”
“He hates everyone.” Abby and I walk a few paces behind our teammates. She finger combs her silky, black hair into a ponytail and adjusts her visor. “He just picks on you the most because he knows he can get a rise out of you. Stop giving him what he wants.”
I mumble my acknowledgment. It isn’t that I’m argumentative by default, but Coach Potter pushes all my buttons. If the man were a Pop-Tart, he’d be the unfrosted kind—a total disgrace to the Pop-Tart brand.
“How was break?” she asks as we reach the group and set our bags on the ground.
“It was fine. Yours?”
“Good. What’d your dad get you this year?”
My dad’s Christmas gifts are . . . entertaining. I raise my arm to show off the bright neon-pink unicorn scrunchie, which is one of twelve of varying colors he gave me this year. Last year, I got a pair of cat ear headphones. I’m convinced he thinks I will forever be thirteen years old.
Abby laughs. “Why doesn’t he just get you a gift card or golf stuff?”
“Oh no, he never goes the gift-card route. And I have so much golf stuff that I’m sure he would have no idea what to buy.”
“Let me guess, you told him you loved it?”
“He’s always so proud of what he picks, how could I not? Besides, I could be into unicorns.”
She snorts. “It’s actually pretty cute. Maybe I need to get on the Christmas list next year.”
We spend the next half hour hitting shots from the bunker and then Coach lays the pin down behind the hole and instructs us to keep going until we’ve each hit it three times in a row.
It takes a few minutes to stop overthinking it, but soon, I have two consecutive hits and am lining up for my third.
“Open the clubface a little more. Address it off the toe. You’re looking rusty. Come on ladies, focus,” he barks loud enough that I know it’s advice meant for the entire team, but Coach’s presence directly behind me makes me grip the club tighter. The man sets my every nerve on edge. His personality is completely abrasive, making me firmly believe either he hates coaching, golf, or maybe both. He certainly doesn’t like me.
I’d rather swing the wedge at his head, but I breathe and refocus. Unfortunately, as soon as I make contact with the ball, I know it’s going right. Coach walks off without a word.
I’m the last to finish and head back up to the putting green. The boys’ team has already arrived. They practice right after us, but a quick glance at my phone tells me we still have more than thirty minutes left. They’re never this early.
Abby’s holding her putter, leaned over as if she’s eyeing the line, but the only thing she’s eyeing is her boyfriend Smith. He’s on the driving range, staring right back at her.
“You two are ridiculous, sneaking glances at one another like you’re in middle school,” I say, dropping a few balls onto the green and joining her.
My friend blushes. “What? He’s cute. Let me stare without your judgment.”
I shake my head. “What are they doing here so early, anyway?”
“They have a clinic today with some big shot swing coach.”
“Figures. Why do they always have people coming in to offer extra coaching? We’ve had a better record for the past two years, but do fancy swing coaches come to see us?” I don’t wait for her answer. “No, they do not.”
She shrugs, not the least bit bothered by it, and honestly, I don’t know if I’d be upset if it weren’t for the fact our coach barely speaks to me, let alone coaches me.
We’ve never seen eye to eye, but when I was holding my own in tournaments, he didn’t seem to loathe me quite so much.
While we finish putting, Coach strolls over to review this week’s schedule. We have a tournament upstate this weekend but only five will travel and play.
I keep my eyes glued to the ground as he says the first four names. Our top three rarely changes. Erica, Kim, and Cassidy are our most senior members and have earned their spots by consistently placing well in tournaments. Then there’s Abby. She’s streaky, but as of our last tournament in December, that streak is holding. That leaves only one spot. My spot. Or it was. One bad tournament last October and Coach was all too eager to replace me. I’ve been trying to claw my way back to his good graces ever since. Unsuccessfully, I might add.
“And finally, Brittany will join us.”
I glance up in time to see his cold, gray eyes sweep over the team and lock on to me, waiting for a reaction. It’s as if the man gets off on my anger. I plaster on a congratulatory smile and clap for my teammates. I will not let him see how much it hurts.