Fowl Play (Tuft Swallow)

43. Brian

CHAPTER 43

The loss hits Kodi hard. The whole ride home, she’s quiet, but not in a comfortable silence kind of way. More in a my entire world just came crashing down around me and no matter what I try I’m always going to fail kind of way.

Thank God for Nick. If he hadn’t been there to help drag the two of us away from Zeke there at the end, I think Kodi would have actually snapped. As for me, I was just…tired.

Zeke is exhausting. Has he always been so petty? So manipulative?

I shake my head. Out of the corner of my eye, I steal a glance at Kodi in the passenger seat of her Subaru. Silent tears are streaming down her cheeks in skinny little trails, and I want nothing more than to swipe them away.

But this is more than just losing a game to her. This was her first game on the bench, and it ended in one of the worst possible ways it could: disqualification.

“If I’d have been playing, I’d have been able to hold Lily back.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do, though. She wouldn’t have gotten caught off guard like that if she hadn’t been texting and trying to fill my shoes on the field. Her brain was in too many places, and she was stressed out, and then when they insulted her like that, she just–”

“Hey,” I interrupt her, “Lily is an adult. She’s her own person. Everyone on the team is. None of this is your fault.”

“Yeah, tell that to the Nosy Pecker. Tell that to my parents.”

Her face goes white as a sheet then and I almost pull over, thinking she’s about to be sick. “Kodi??”

“Fuck. My parents.” She sinks her face into her hands. “We have dinner with them tomorrow. I have to cook dinner with Mom all day while you’re out golfing with Dad. She’s going to talk about this the whole time.”

“We can cancel,” I suggest. She snorts.

“Yeah, no–that’s not an option. You’ve met my mother.”

I swallow a lump in my throat. Sadly, she was right. Still, I tried to lighten the mood. “Aw, come on. The whole time?”

“Yeah.” Kodi stares sullenly out the window. “Trust me.”

I force out a laugh, but it scrapes my throat on the way out. I know first hand how mad parents can be. Kodi glances at me, concerned.

“So, change the subject.”

“After she’s been hearing about it all morning from all the Tit Peepers at Church?”

I let out a sigh. “Sounds like you’re determined to see this in the worst possible light.”

Her jaw drops. I brake at a stoplight as she stutters at me, and I turn to face her. “Seriously, Kodi. The team lost one game. It’s not the championship. It’s just one silly game, and the other team was basically cheating the whole time. Why would you assume everyone is going to say it’s your fault?”

“Because this town lives for gossip!” The light turns green, and I force myself to break eye contact. “Are you forgetting how the Pecker pounced on your breakup with Zeke like, the day it happened?”

My hands flex on the steering wheel. Truth be told, since the gossip in the paper had shifted to the stories we’d meant to end up there–the mostly positive opinions of Kodi and me getting together–I had kinda forgotten about the early stories of them basically outing me to the whole town.

I guess, since it didn’t end up affecting my business or the friendships I was forming, I assumed it wasn’t a big deal anymore.

They couldn’t have overheard Zeke after the game, could they?

“Look,” she says after taking in a big breath and letting it out in a whoosh, “I want to believe that this town is full of kind, understanding people. But the truth is, everybody’s down for some schadenfreude. And for some reason, I’m always the one that everybody loves to see suffer. And now I’m dragging you down with me.”

“Baby girl–”

“Don’t,” her voice cracks, and I look over to see her wiping a tear from her eye. “I don’t want your pity. It’s even worse than theirs.”

We spend the rest of the drive to Tuft Swallow in silence.

The next morning, my alarm blares to life at 5:30. The first thing I do after I silence my phone is check to see if Kodi’s texted me.

But there’s nothing. I haven’t heard a single thing from her since I dropped her off at her place yesterday afternoon.

The bed feels cold in her absence, even with the sunny July morning dawning bright and humid outside my bedroom window. I’d gotten used to her lithe, athletic body curled next to mine in the mornings. To the sound of her cheesy xylophone alarm ringtone waking us at the crack of dawn so she can get to the clinic. Returning to bed after making her coffee and breakfast, just to breathe in her scent for a few more moments before getting myself ready for work.

Then getting so worked up thinking about her that I end up jerking off to the thought of her sucking my cock while I can still smell her in my sheets…

Since that amazing moment between us after she hurt her knee last weekend, we haven’t done anything more sexual than kissing and cuddling. She’s been focused on her recovery, on work, and the team, and I’ve tried to be understanding of that. I bought condoms to have on hand, but the last thing I want is to push her. Taking the next step would mean a lot more to her than it would to me, seeing as I would be her first, so I’ve been letting her set the timeline.

But now she’s pulling away completely. I know the loss is hitting her hard. I know the injury is, too, even with me helping her out with daily stretches and PT and adjustments whenever she needs.

My feet hang off the side of the bed, and I fist the sheets beneath me. I can’t help her if she isn’t here!

I throw the blankets off and head to the shower. Her shampoo, body wash, and razor are still lined up along the shelf. I wonder if she has extra at home, or if I should drop them off on my way to the country club.

Country Club. Ugh—just the thought of it makes me cringe. I’ve never been one for the hoity-toity hob-knobbing that goes on in those kinds of wealthy circles. From the way Kodi talks about her family, I know they’re not rich-rich, but they certainly seem interested in managing their appearances with a “keeping up with the Joneses” sort of flair. They aren’t rich enough to send their daughter off to an out-of-state college without a scholarship, but don’t want to seem so poor that they let their membership at the local golf course lapse.

I shake my head. I know those are two different things, with two different price tags. But after seeing how hard Kodi works, and how much she’s been let down, it can’t help but feel hypocritical to me. Parents are supposed to support their kids, dammit.

Not that mine ever supported me.

I lean against the shower wall, letting the water pummel my neck and shoulders. Suds circle down the drain, and I will the memories of my own broken home life to float away with them.

I haven’t even thought about my parents in years. In general, I tried not to think about parents at all. I figured if I ignored the idea of golf and dinner with Kodi’s parents for long enough, maybe I wouldn’t have to worry about it. She hardly talks about them. Maybe she wouldn’t really care about the whole “meet the family” thing.

That’s bullshit. This is why you’ve always gone for the emotionally distant ones, Brian. Sure, you might long to be close to someone, and you might pretend to be serious. But really crossing that line? It brings up too many memories.

Clenching my fist, I bang the side of it against the white tile. The slippery thud isn’t nearly as cathartic as I was hoping for, but the answering throb in my wrist is enough to convince me that I let at least some of that anger out.

Hopefully it’ll be enough to release the pressure before I climb into a golf cart with Mr. Gander.

“Brian! Meet the guys!”

Here we go.

Three older men stand around a large golf cart to greet me when I arrive at Swallow Springs Country Club. In the middle is the man who just spoke, a well-built older gentleman with pale skin peeking beneath the halo of thinning hair atop his scalp, who I assume to be Kodi’s dad. He’s about five inches shorter than me, dressed in a salmon-colored polo shirt and khaki shorts, with tall socks pulled over the swell of his calves.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Gander.”

“Please, call me Marty,” he answers as I shake his hand. Then he gestures to an elderly man leaning against one of his clubs next to the backseat of the golf cart in an easy stance. “This is Harold Woodcock. His son is Jonah, the police chief! Good man to know!”

I nod my hello to the familiar man and shake his hand. I remember him from the first cornhole game I attended right after I’d moved to town. Though he’s older, his clear eyes sparkle in his strong-jawed face. He pushes his arm out from his broad shoulders to give mine a shake, and I notice he’s got a surprisingly firm grip for someone his age. “Pleasure, Doc.”

Then I turn to the last man, who looks about the same age as Marty, but isn’t wearing it nearly as well. His hair has long since receded to an awkward ring of long straggly grays that border the base of his skull, which he hides with a ratty-billed cap that reads Eagle View Heavy Hitters, and bears a logo with a baseball and a bat. His polo stretches over his beer belly, and the waistband of his shorts is hidden below the swell. But by far his most disturbing feature is his watery gray eyes, which focus in on me like a wriggling piranha. When he shakes my hand, he squeezes the blood from my fingers as if he’s trying to prove a point.

“Lyle Blevins,” he barks out. “But most people ‘round here call me coach.”

“Coach?” I slip my hand from his, leaving the question dangling.

“He used to run the softball team at the high school!” Marty beams. “Lyle and I were on the team together back when we were in school—he loved it so much, he never left!”

The two men laugh, but I sense a little hesitance in “Coach”’s wheeze. My spine tingles in warning.

This is Kodi’s old coach?

“So, Brian, Marty tells me you don’t have your own clubs,” Mr. Woodcock breaks in. “I brought my old set for ya. The woods are a little beat-up, but they still whack a ball just fine.”

I smile at him, pretending I understood a word of what he just said. “Oh, great! Thank you.”

“Yeah, well, you and I are a bit taller than these two. Chiropractor or not, wouldn’t want to wreck your back swingin’ with Marty’s clubs!”

The three of them laugh, and I grit my teeth in what I hope looks like a grin.

It’s one day. For Kodi, I remind myself.

And then I’ll never have to play this godforsaken game again.

I’m preparing to tee up for the first hole when I start regretting my decision. As I pull a random club out of Mr. Woodcock’s bag, he eyes me with surprise.

“A six-iron, huh? On the first hole? That’s quite the choice!”

“Uh…” A lump forms in my throat. I play off my lack of knowledge. “You know, I’m not familiar with this brand of clubs…what would you recommend?”

“Ah, well this here’s a long par three. I’d go for the 3-wood myself.”

Marty nods in agreement as he picks out his own club: a big-looking monstrosity that I imagine can pack a wallop.

I observe Kodi’s dad walk up to a central spot on the lawn by a white stake and put down a skinny wooden stick with a flared end. Upon that, he places his ball, straightens just behind it, tilts himself back to the left, then twists forward to swing his club (and the ball) off into the far distance.

Woah! What the hell is he launching it for? I screw my jaw tight until I can feel my molars begin to strain with the pressure. As my only experience is mini-golf, I’m a little slow to realize that this game is even more difficult than I imagined. Nick didn’t prepare me for this…

Sure, he and the girls mentioned that the holes in real golf were bigger than mini golf, but I assumed they meant, like, 100 feet bigger. But this guy just swung that tiny ball so far away I can hardly see the white dot sink into the manicured runway across the course.

“Not bad, there, Marty,” Coach hollers. “Remember not to favor your left, though–it’s kicking you to the side. You could have made it another twenty yards down the fairway if you weren’t fighting that ankle.”

Marty lifts the side of his mouth in a practiced tic that could be a smile or a grimace, but it passes before I can suss it out for sure. “Ah, right, right. Why don’t you show me how it’s done?”

“My pleasure,” the watery-eyed man drawls. He selects a slightly smaller club before making a show of selecting a spot near a blue stake on the lawn, about 10 yards behind from where Marty took his swing. He places his tee and ball, takes a good couple of minutes to practice swinging the club back and forth in front of the ball, before backing up half a step, taking in a loud breath, and grunting as he swings for the hills.

Or perhaps I should say trees. As soon as it’s clear the trajectory of his ball is heading straight into the wooded borders of the hole beyond the cart track, he lets out a howl.

“Gahhh–that sun! Got right in my eyes as I looked up. Didn’t realize the glare from back here!”

Marty nods sympathetically as Harold marches up with his club and ball to the white stake and calls over to me. “Brian, my boy, would you place my tee for me? These knees aren’t what they used to be.”

“Sure.” I jog over, a little surprised at his request. From the way he was walking, he didn’t look particularly stiff or uncomfortable.

“The place we’re standing is the white zone– gives us a little handicap on the distance. The red zone up ahead is for women golfers or first timers,” he hisses at me as I kneel before him, leaning on his club. “When you swing, keep your legs straight and your eyes down until you hit the ball, got it? Don’t look where you’re swingin’, it’ll make you go cock-eyed every time. Watch me.”

I straighten, step back, and nod when he locks eyes with me to make sure I understand.

“Thank ya, my boy!”

He slowly adjusts himself to the tee as if his knee is acting up, but now I realize he’s moving slow so I can index his movements and copy them when it’s my turn. His technique is much more relaxed than the other two men in the group: his elbows hanging more naturally and his legs bend only slightly to keep his knees from locking. When he winds back, he keeps his head pointed down, trusting his arm to land where he aims, until–

THWACK!

The wood slams against the little white ball and sends it sailing in a beautiful arc right down the center of the fairway. In fact, it lands just a few yards ahead of Marty’s ball, but in a location that looks to be a little easier of a shot to get to the flag marking the hole.

Then again, none of the shots are easy to someone like me. My brain replays the scene of me on my eleventh putt on one of the holes at mini golf, as a little girl whined to her mom about not being able to get ice cream after because the tall man in front of them was taking too long.

I decide to stay in the white zone for my first swing, so as not to draw out the judgment of Coach Blevins right away, taking my borrowed ball and tee out of my pocket and piercing it into the soft dirt in front of my feet. I try to mimic Harold’s stance, relaxing my legs and shoulders, practicing swinging a few times until I get used to the weight of the club.

I look out into the course, zeroing in on the orange flag of the first hole, squaring my shoulders and feet so that they’re perpendicular to where I’m aiming.

Alright. Keep your head down, and…

THWACK!

As I hit the ball, I flinch–worry consuming me at the last minute that I’d somehow scoop the golf ball directly up into my face at fifty miles an hour. The head of the club kicks to the right, sending my ball even further afield than Coach’s, sailing up, up, and away until it sinks beyond the treeline and into oblivion.

I blink, and the four of us stare for a second. Then Coach cackles behind me.

“Well, Harry, I guess you’re not getting that ball back!”

I sure do hope Kodi’s having a better morning than I am.