Page 62 of The Sweet Spot

“You want me to be honest about Whit Marlow?” he asks, his grin dropping. When Sienna nods, he continues, “When she wants something, she’s completely locked in. She sees the whole course before she’s on the first tee. She’s the best athlete I’ve ever had the honor of playing with.” He pauses. Looks away for a second, then back to Sienna. “She’s just really good at her job. Like, really good. I got to watch her work for two days and I learned more about focus than I have in a decade of professional baseball.”

“Sounds like you enjoyed working with her?”

“I loved it.”

“Is it true she was coaching your swing?”

He laughs. “Oh, she coached my swing, my grip, my rotation, my setup, my stance. Everything.” He holds up a hand. “In her defense, I needed it. All of it. The woman was correct every time.”

Sienna is laughing. My father is too, and I'm smiling wider than I want to.

“So should we expect a return to protect your title next year?” Sienna asks.

JB doesn't hesitate. “If she'll have me. I know she and Max would make a formidable team, but I’d only want to play with her.”

My father lets out a low whistle. I can’t look at him in fear that I’ll give it all away.

“That's quite an endorsement,” Sienna says. “Anything else you want to say to Whit Marlow?”

JB considers it. He looks right at the camera.

“Hey, Whit,” he says with this cute little boyish grin on his face. “Thanks for fixing my swing and letting me feed your dad hot dogs. I hope you’re watching because every homer I hit tonight is dedicated to you.”

He looks directly at the camera and winks. I feel it all the way down to my little blue panties.

I sink into my seat, refusing to look at my father in fear that I'm blushing so much I’ll give it away.

“Thanks so much for taking the time to talk to us, JB,” Sienna says as the segment ends.

The broadcast cuts back to the live shot of Grayson stretching. A graphic of his stats pops up beside him, and as interesting as I find his 2.86 ERA, I don’t think my father cares. No. He’s now turned fully sideways, looking directly at me with a wide grin.

“Whit?”

“Yes?”

I’m still not looking at him.

“Is there something going on with you and JB?” he asks before taking a swig of his beer, acting casual with the question when deep down inside, I know he's probably jumping for joy. Seriously, my dating a Catfish player might be his biggest dream now that I've won the U.S. Women’s Open twice.

“We’re just golf partners,” I say, brushing it off. There’s no way I want to get his hopes up. “We respect each other.”

“Good to know,” he says.

There’s a small smile playing on his face, but he doesn’t probe. Thankfully, the game starts, diverting my dad’s attention.

The Catfish are up to bat first. Tate starts with a lead-off double, earning a boo from the crowd. Not that he cares, he’s just talking away to Cincy’s second baseman.

I nearly lose all my cool when JB steps up to the plate. It’s the first time I'm really going to watch his at bat. Last time, I was too busy bitching to Jess about my pitch to care. Today, I care. Deeply. More than I'd like to admit.

He does this cute, little routine when he gets to the diamond. Taps the plate with his bat, rolls his shoulders, taps his helmet twice, then sets his feet. Once he's done all that, he lifts his bat and gets into his stance.

His stance.

Well, now it all suddenly makes sense.

It's so wide, and his butt, although magnificent—is pushed so far out that I can't stop looking at how round and perfect it is.

I just want to grab it.