Page 12 of The Sweet Spot

“Thanks,” I say, blushing. Biggest compliment in the world from the best maintenance man this team has ever seen.

“Dad.”

“And he's your biggest fan.”

My mouth drops.

“How did you—” I don't finish my sentence because Larry's already pointing over my shoulder.

“Tate mentioned it to me the other day. I always like a man who can appreciate women's sports.”

Tate gives us a small wave when he sees us looking.

Traitor.

I tip my chin, not sure if I'm happy he's been my wingman all night.

It's only when I turn back to Larry and Whit that I realize her attention has completely shifted. Her lips, which have been curling all afternoon, go flat and then curve into something I haven't seen from her once. She's smiling. A real, genuine smile... aimed at Tate Sorenson.

The worst part: Tate smiles back.

Look, I'm not going to make a big deal out of this. I'm not. It's a smile. People smile at each other all the time. It's a normal human interaction and I'm a normal human who is completely fine with it, but she didn't smile at me like that. She smiled at me like she was being audited. And okay, I get we didn't start off on the right foot, but she threw me off my game when she asked me if I was done.

She's still looking at him. Did she forget I'm standing right here? That I just did a whole bit with her dad, and bought him hot dogs, and—

Fine. It's fine.

Tate Sorenson might have cheekbones that would make angels weep, but he also comes with his fiancée, Emma Ross, who has four million followers and once live-streamed herself crying about a candle for forty-five minutes because it reminded her of her grandmother. I watched eleven of those minutes. They are eleven minutes I will never get back, and I think about them at least twice a week. Gotta admire the hustle, though. Girl started with a ring light and ended up with a famous ballplayer and the unshakeable belief that she's the main character of a show nobody else auditioned for.

My mouth moves before my brain signs off on it.

“Larry,” I say, wanting to draw Whit's attention back to me. “The plate's been really consistent today... what'd you do to it?”

Larry's brow furrows, and before he can answer, the golfers are called back to the stands. Whit gives her dad one final hug before turning and glancing at me.

“I'll see you this weekend,” she says flatly.

“Can't wait.” I meet her with my widest smile and open arms.

She walks past, giving me absolutely nothing, and shit, if I don't like it.

I watch her walk up the tunnel, and Larry pats me on the back.

“She's something, JB.”

“Yeah,” I say. “She really is. Now where are our hot dogs?”

If I can't get Whit to hug me, the least I can do is feed her father.

Chapter 3

My father put me in a catfish onesie the second I was born, so I should’ve known this day was coming. It’s a full-circle moment for me, really. A deeply unfortunate one.

Catfish.

That’s all I see when I stare at myself in the mirror. One giant, wide-mouthed Catfish printed on the front panel of my skirt. It’s looking up at me with the same blank expression I’ve been wearing since I unzipped the garment bag and found it waiting inside.

Did I mention that it also has a matching visor?