The Sweet Spot

1. Chapter 1

If there’s one thing the world knows about me, it’s that I can handle balls.

Under pressure... In front of crowds... Occasionally while being screamed at by middle-aged men in visors...

It’s my thing, and I’ve been lucky enough to build an entire career on it.

Probably because I am, only I have a lot more to lose because I’m an actual athlete.

I look to the side and see my LPGA tour mates standing by first base smiling at me for encouragement. It’s easy for them to be happy. They aren’t the ones standing next to a mound about to throw a pitch in front of thirty thousand people while wearing a hat that smells a lot like Funyuns.

For the record, I hate Funyuns.

“Please give a Catfish welcome to Whit Marlow.”

Get it together, Marlow.

I tip on my toes and do a little spin for the crowd because I’m a professional and although I might be freaking out on the inside, I don’t show it.

“Two-time LPGA Championship winner, Charlotte native, and the number one ranked female golfer in the world.”

The crowd erupts into applause, and I soak it in, using every bit to hype me up for this throw.

Gripping the ball tightly, I glance toward the dugout and catch my dad wiping tears from beneath the brim of his baseball cap. He looks almost as proud as he did when I won my first professional tournament, which isn’t surprising. My dad loves the Fish.

When I was a kid, he turned our basement into a replica of The Tipsy Tackle, the bar beside the dugout, and the second he retired from his very corporate job, he decided to become the official maintenance man of the Carolina Catfish’s park—or as it’s affectionately known, The Tank.

So yeah, seeing his only child standing on the mound about to deliver a pitch to one of the best players in the league is probably one of the best moments of his life.

I catch his eye and wink.

This is for you, Dad.

Then, one at a time, I wipe my hands on my jeans before taking my first step onto the mound. The second my shoes hit the sand, I’m immediately aware of how different it feels from any bunker I’ve ever stepped into. It’s packed and gritty. Nothing like the soft texture I’m used to.

I twist my foot and then swipe it back, earning a collective gasp from the crowd.

Was I.... not supposed to do that?

I swear I've seen Grayson Hawk swipe the mound with his foot before.

“You’re throwing a ceremonial first pitch, not trying to strike out Holden Fox,” the batboy mutters beside me.

I roll my eyes before throwing a smile at him and then toss the ball in the air, attempting to play it off.

Shit.

I catch the ball. Just barely. It’s too big, and not the right texture. I might’ve practiced throwing this ball with my dad in the yard yesterday, but this is not the same.

I’m used to silence and pimento sandwiches, not the smell of hot dogs and a verbally reacting crowd.

Come on, Marlow. You’ve played the back nine at Pinehurst with a blister the size of a nickel on your pinky finger. Throwing a pitch to Tate Sorenson is nothing in comparison.

There’s another cheer as Tate walks out from the dugout...wearing catcher’s gear? Baseball might not be my sport of choice, but I know enough to know that Tate is a shortstop, ergo he doesn’t wear all that extra padding.

Does that mean he’s wearing it because of me?

Is Tate worried that I’m going to throttle him with my throw?

I glance back at my father for comfort.

Wait, what the—

Blue eyes. Blond hair. Extremely tall.

There is no one in this world who looks like Tate Sorenson, let alone any player on this team. So, why’s he standing next to my dad and watching instead of participating?

“We’ve got to start the game before it gets dark.” It’s another muttering from the batboy, which I ignore.

So who’s this guy in front of me?

The catcher is already crouched in position with his cage mask down. He punches his glove a few times, then holds out the mitt in my direction.

Oh. He wants me to toss the ball, just like that? I haven't even had time to center myself.

The jumbotron is showing my face at roughly the size of a billboard, and I look calm, which is a testament to years of being perceived while internally screaming.

In all honesty, I'm sweating. A lot. Thankfully, it's mostly hidden by the stinky ball cap so the crowd can't see it.

Bash. Bash. Bash.

The catcher punches his glove, and I swear it echoes across the ballpark.

All right, dude. I get it.

Then, without really thinking about it, I throw the ball.

And—

Let’s just say, the ball leaves my hand with ambition but arrives at home plate apologizing.

Somewhere in between, my wrist stages a mutiny, the release point goes to a place that can only be described as wrong, and the ball bounces.

In the dirt. A full body length in front of the plate.

Then it sort of... rolls. Pathetically. Onto the ground.

The sound the crowd makes.

Oh, the sound.

It's a collective, sympathetic, deeply patronizing aww of thirty thousand people who expected nothing and still managed to be disappointed. It's the worst sound in all professional sports and the first time I've heard it in my career.

“Smile, Whit,” Jess, my best friend and tour mate, says from somewhere around first base. She’s standing with the other four LPGA players who are here for the charity tournament weekend, and they all just witnessed me fail. Any one of them would’ve done better than me.

Great.

I don’t have time to wallow, though, because she’s right. Somewhere in this stadium, I'm being recorded, and a GIF is being made as we speak.

I will not make this a thing I’m remembered for.

So I pull my lips into a tight smile even though I feel like my body is caving in on itself, and wave to the crowd.

The catcher scoops the ball out of the dirt and stands, making his way toward me.

Oh. Oh.

I shuffle back, forgetting I'm on the mound, and nearly fall. Thankfully, I manage to self-correct before I embarrass myself further. Everyone here knows I've suffered enough already.

Who is that?

I swallow, taking him in. The guy is... huge. Big, thick thighs, large, square, shoulders. Everything about this man screams, ‘I squat for a living.’

The guy pushes the cage of his helmet up with one hand, and that's when any semblance of cool leaves my body.

His deep, dark eyes sparkle under the stadium lights as he makes his way toward me.

My core clenches... literally in front of all these people, I'm getting horny over a man dressed like a violent turtle.

Has it really been that long?

Five years now that I think about it.

The last time I even remotely tried to give my number to someone was Zach Evans, the quarterback for the Rome Raptors. The guy gave my number to his weird teammate who asked me if I wanted to come meet his mom because she was worried he was going to die alone.

So, yeah, that went nowhere.

When I catch his eye, he’s smiling.

My stomach does this annoying little flip, which irritates me immediately. How can I be standing in the middle of my own humiliation, thinking about the man who rushed me into the worst decision I’ve made all week—and wondering if he’d be capable of throwing me around a bedroom?

His smile stretches wider, his dimples cutting into his cheeks, and against all common sense, my brain briefly wonders if maybe he’s looking at me and not the disaster I just created.

It's only when he drops his gaze to the field that the flip in my stomach turns into a slow, horrible sink as though someone pulled a plug at the bottom of my torso and everything warm is draining out.

He's not smiling at me because he likes me. He's smiling because he's been trying to hold back a laugh.

He's laughing... at me. At my terrible throw and just how badly I embarrassed myself.

This absolute linebacker-shaped asshole is enjoying my humiliation.

My cheeks heat, and I clamp my jaw down in anger.

He's enjoying this.

He thinks it's funny?

I am NOT funny.

I am the number-one ranked female golfer in the world, and I did not come to this stadium to be someone's entertainment.

He stops right in front of me, and I have to look up to look him in the eye.

“You done?”

“Sorry?” He looks taken aback, bewildered, even.

I clench my fists, taking a deep breath before reverting to my staged smile as I'm sure there's a camera still on me somewhere.

“You find it funny that a little girl golfer couldn't throw a pitch to save her life?”

His mouth opens, and he blows out a surprised breath. Then he shakes his head as he starts to stutter, “That's not what I think at all.”

“Then why were you laughing all the way over here?”

“No. No. No. I wasn't laughing at you. I was, uh, well, I thought you—” He nods quickly, laughing to himself. “I just—I—wow, you’re much taller in person.”

“Excuse me?”

“You just looked shorter in that golf spread you did for Athlete Illustrated, and I was taken aback. I’m sure a lot of guys are around you.”

Athlete Illustrated? The last time I was on its cover was when I turned pro.

“Are you talking about my bikini spread?”

There’s a beat of silence, and his eyes widen in shock.

“Oh my God, I haven’t been staring at the cover or anything.” He pauses, thinks about it. “I mean, I have, but that sounds—hold on.”

He winces, and behind him, the dugout starts making noises as they watch our interaction.

“You know what? I’d probably stop talking if I were you.”

“Yeah,” he says immediately, looking at the ground. The second he looks up, he keeps going. “It’s just—your dad talks about you all the time.”

That catches me off guard enough that I frown and stop glaring.

“My dad?”

“Larry.” His face brightens instantly at the topic switch. “He fixes the bullpen heater when it acts possessed.”

I blink again, glancing over at the dugout where my father is now talking to Tate and Grayson Hawk, one of the teams starting pitchers. Grayson is making pitching motions with his arm, so they’re definitely critiquing my pitch.

“Possessed?”

“It makes sounds.” He shrugs as I turn to look back at him. Then he waves it off. “I don’t know. I’m not an electrician.”

“What does this have to do with my father?”

“Nothing. Sorry.” He nods again. A lot. “I got distracted, but I do think you’re an awesome player. Watched your Women’s Open highlights last month, and that eagle on sixteen was unreal.”

“Who are you?” I ask, completely confused by the hulking man giving me a sugary-sweet smile. “I thought I was pitching to Tate,” I say more as a statement, but realize it sounds a little like disappointment.

The smile on his face fades slightly. “Ah, yeah. Everyone always wants Tate.” He clears his throat. “I’m Jonathan Brian Callahan, JB for short.”

“Uh, okay.”

“I guess your father hasn’t mentioned me?”

I shake my head, feeling bad since I can hear the eagerness in his voice.

“Tate’s shoulder has been bugging him, and they wanted to make sure he's okay for the All-Star Game this weekend, so you got me instead.”

“Lucky me.”

“You got that right,” he says, completely unaware of my sarcasm.

“Whit, JB, can we get a picture of the two of you?” The photographer waves us together.

Right.

I step into position and force a smile. He moves in, standing so close behind me that I can feel his arm brushing against mine.

I shiver.

Click.

Fantastic. I bet the camera just got a shot of me mid-quiver. As if today couldn’t get any better.

“That was amazing. Thank you so much for letting me catch your ball.”

I take him in and then ask, “Are you always like this?”

“Like what?”

“This.” I gesture at his whole situation. The smile. The posture. The energy of a golden retriever who just brought a ball back to his owner.

He actually takes a second to consider it. “Yeah,” he says. “I guess so.”

Someone from the dugout shouts—”JB!”—two sharp syllables, and his head turns.

“It was nice to meet you, Whit. Looking forward to seeing the matchups for the Pro-Am game this weekend.”

Ah, just the reminder I needed. When I leave here today, it won't be the last time I see these players. I am going to have to spend the next two days with them, replaying my embarrassment over and over again.

Can't fucking wait.

He hands me the ball. “Your dad's going to love this.”

Then he jogs back toward home plate without looking back while the rest of the team watches from the dugout.

The batboy leads me back to the stands where Jess and the other LPGA players have already taken a seat at the side.

She's got her feet up, a beer in hand, and sunglasses on as she apparently sunbathes.

She's the only person on the LPGA tour who can close a bar the night before a tournament round and still shoot four under.

She'll also tell you about it in an immense amount of detail you didn't ask for.

She tilts her sunglasses down and raises a brow.

“On a scale of one to ten,” she starts.

I raise my hand and collapse on the seat next to her. “Please. I've suffered enough. I don't think I'm ever going to be able to look at my dad again.”

“As your best friend, colleague, and a woman who genuinely loves you, I have to—”

“Jessica—”

“Four.”

I whip my head in her direction. “A FOUR?”

“The bounce was costly, but you smiled the whole time, and that's at least two points. Three if we factor in whatever just happened with the catcher.”

“Nothing happened with the catcher.”

“He liked you.”

“No, he didn’t.”

“Please. He was blushing so much, Joe texted me to ask if there was something going on between you two.”

“I’m sorry. I seriously doubt your boyfriend was that bored that he watched that.”

She nods before flashing me her phone. Sure enough, there’s a message from Joe asking about me.

“Don’t worry. It was kind of adorable and at least the flirting took everyone’s mind off your sub-par throw.”

“He wasn’t flirting. He was trying to make me feel better about the pitch,” I say, unconvinced because if I’m being honest, I have no idea what was going on.

“Take this.” She pushes a half-full cup toward me. “You'll need it if you're going to survive the next seven innings.”

I stare down at the liquid and swish it in the cup. It looks warm and off-color, but I need it. “Seven innings? Can't we just leave now?”

I down what’s left of the beer, wincing at the warmth, but I need something after that.

“Nope. We are picking our teammates out of a fishbowl for the crowd during the stretch.”

“Great,” I mutter under my breath, resting my feet on top of the seat in front of me. Not only have I embarrassed myself in front of all these people, I get to make a second appearance. Hopefully, they won’t replay my throw on the screen behind.

My cheeks burn with embarrassment, and I pull the Funyuns hat down so I can’t see anyone. If I’m going back out there, I need to mentally prepare myself.

Next time, stick to the fairway, Marlow.