Fowl Play (Tuft Swallow)

45. Brian

CHAPTER 45

The poor bird twitches helplessly on the edge of the fairway.

“It’s a Black-bellied Plover,” Harold notes sadly. “They’re hardly ever seen this far inland. What a shame, he’s a beautiful bird.”

“I’m so sorry.” My head hangs in shame.

If I thought this game couldn’t be going any worse, I know now not to tempt fate. We’ve been on the course five hours now: cart after cart of golfers have overtaken us as we limp along at my soul-crushingly slow pace. I’ve had to accept a double-par on every hole just to keep us moving forward, and even that is a more forgiving score than I deserve.

Even worse, Marty and I have hardly spoken the entire time. Whenever I try to ask him about his interests or bring up Kodi, “Coach” Lyle Blevins cuts in with some critique of my form, or launching into an old glory days story about when he led this team or that one to States. He makes more than a few comments about how he can’t imagine Kodi falling for someone who is so “clearly uncoordinated,” and it’s all I can do to keep from snapping Mr. Woodcock’s nine iron in half.

The avian casualty is the result of my third attempt at landing a swing in-bounds on the ninth hole, but in my focus on freeing the ball from the woods, I missed the small gray bird nesting twelve feet above us at the edge of the trees. Using the angled wedge-shaped club that Coach Blevins “helpfully” suggested, I pitched the ball high into the branches, and plowed the plover perfectly in the pecs.

Its feathers spill out in a ruffly impact wound that only partially hide the blood spilling onto the edge of the fairway.

Harold removes his hat. “Shall we say a few words?”

“Oh come off it, Woodcock,” Coach gruffs. “This is simply natural selection at work.” Harold’s jaw drops in horror. “You got power, Gosling, but your aim is shit. I can offer you lessons, if you like, to get your swing in better shape?—”

Just as he launches into his pitch, a giant hawk dives from the sky and snatches up the plover in its claws. We all jump back. Harold gasps, whipping out his phone to snap a picture of the scavenger, muttering “how majestic!” as Coach jumps back in horror of his “natural selection” at work. I sneak a glance to Marty, who I see with a shudder is drowning himself in his upturned flask.

Great. Just great. So much for making a good impression on the parents.

He lets out a sharp sigh as the alcohol disappears down his throat. “Well, men, whaddya say we call today at nine holes? I don’t know if I have another six hours in me.”

“It’s all in the position of your arms, you see…” Coach continues to prattle on about technique the entire cart ride back to the clubhouse. His arm is twined around my shoulder in a far too familiar gesture, and his lukewarm breath fans across my face in labored puffs between words. He smells chronically dehydrated. Both Harold and Marty are engaged in their own conversation in the front seat, which leaves me hostage to the fetid conversation.

The last thing I want is this hack coaching me on my least favorite game of all time. Seriously. Who invented golf? What kind of miserable twat would come up with this idea and want to share it with others? Were they a sadist?

Marty interrupts Coach’s monologue and my internal pity party when we park the cart back at the clubhouse lot. “Well, let’s hope Linda and Kodi have at least been cooking up something nice for Sunday dinner, eh, Brian?”

His words remind me of the reason I’m putting up with all of this: Kodi.

“Oh, yeah, tell me Marty,” Coach leans forward, unfortunately pulling me with him since his arm is still gripped around my shoulder. “How is Kodi doing these days?”

“Oh, You know how she gets after a loss. I haven’t spoken to her, but I’m sure she’s hittin’ the books hard today to see where the game went south.”

The tips of my fingers go cold, my heart rate slowing at their conversation. What does he mean, hitting the books?

“She’s probably not working the team enough. Maybe you oughta talk to her, see if she’s running the drills like I?—”

“Excuse me.” I really don’t give a shit if they excuse me or not. “Are you blaming Kodi for yesterday’s loss?”

“Well, a team is only as good as its star player,” Coach huffs. I finally wedge myself free of his sweaty arm. “If she’s not pushing them–”

Pressure starts to build in my chest as I get pulled into defending her. “First of all, she’s not playing right now. She’s injured. And second, no one needs to push harder. It’s cornhole!”

“Doesn’t matter what it is, it’s the game!” Coach bellows, chuckling a bit. “Son, lemme tell you a thing about–”

“Don’t call me son.”

My voice is low, and barely above a whisper, but the cart goes deadly quiet. Coach’s eyes narrow, and he tilts his head in a gesture that either insinuates he isn’t used to being challenged, or he doesn’t like to be.

Or both.

When he responds, his voice is toxic. “I think I’d be a little more careful about whose toes you start stepping on when you can’t even swing a golf club, boy.”

I square my shoulders and swing my leg out of the parked cart. “I think I don’t care enough about your opinion to worry about stepping on your toes.” I can’t even see his reaction to my words, because my view is turning red. Since moving to Tuft Swallow, I’ve never been so angry at someone, except maybe Logan—but he’s practically still a kid. I can understand why he’s such an idiot.

But this guy? How on earth did a man get to his age and never grow out of that peacock posturing? Never realize how many people he’s hurt with it?

It doesn’t matter how many people he’s hurt. It only matters that he hurt one person.

Kodi.

And he’s still trying to hurt her, through his connection to her dad and his misguided opinions.

Marty rises from the driver's seat reluctantly, and Harold follows suit. Neither of them have said a word since I first challenged Coach, and I wonder if maybe I went a step too far. I’m angry, sure, and I’m not going to stand by as someone talks trash about Kodi—but I’m also supposed to be making a good impression on her dad. Is he insulted by what I said?

Harold leans into me as he’s getting up, almost as if he needs to borrow my arm for support, and I hear his voice low in my ear.

“‘Bout time someone take him down a peg.”

He winks at me, before leaning back and stretching his lower back. “Same time next week, Marty? Maybe we can pair up with Jonah and Finn.”

I silently thank him for not including me in the foursome, but pay close attention to Marty’s response.

“Yeah, yeah, sounds good, Harry,” Marty says. He avoids my eyes, instead turning his head right past me. “Coach, let’s do lunch at the clubhouse this week?”

“Sure, sure.” Coach hasn’t taken his hazy eyes off of me. He pins me with his watery glare even as he responds to the man beside him. “It’ll be nice to have some time away from the kids.”

My fingers curl into fists at my side. Don’t let him get to you. Don’t let him get to you.

As I walk back to my car to follow Marty to the Gander house, anger swirling in my gut, no amount of self-talk can force me away from the truth.

Coach Blevins absolutely got to me.

And even worse, he got to the woman I love. And even with all my skills and education, I don’t know if I’ll be able to undo all the damage he left behind.