24. Ellie Hart
“So after nine holes does it turn into a new game where you hit it into the woods and have to find it?” I ask and Miles shoots me a glare.
We’re on hole eleven, and this is the second time he’s hit it into the woods. Not very far, but enough to make us detour.
“Do you think you’re funny?” he asks as he grabs a club out of the back. I have no idea what kind it is–I didn’t even know there were different ones until today–and he doesn’t tell me which it is. Probably because he’s mad at me for making fun of him.
The thing is, I’m not teasing him just for the sake of it. He’s gotten more and more tense as time has gone on. It seems like golf is a sport that requires a lot of focus, but I can tell he’s too in his head. Maybe it’s presumptuous of me to think that my teasing could help, but he was a lot better earlier today when he was relaxed and joking about how little I knew.
“I don’t know how golf works. You’re the professional here. I figured you were hitting it into the woods on purpose.”
“You thought I was botching my score on purpose.” His tone is dry as he steps up to the ball. He taught me how to keep score in the little leather booklet he carries around. I’ve been doodling little flowers on all the pages when he’s not looking. Hopefully, they’ll make him smile during his next round.
“No, I thought the game had changed and you forgot to mention it. Like how you grabbed that club and didn’t tell me what it was.”
He runs a hand over his face. “The game has not changed. And I’m using a 7-iron, the same I used last time I hit it out of the woods.”
“Oh! So they make a special club for hitting it out of here. That seems strange if you’re not supposed to hit it into the woods in the first place.”
“It’s not–” he cuts himself off with a sigh. “Give me a second to hit this. The faster I finish, the faster we can get out of here. I know you’re bored.” He pulls the club back.
I frown. “I’m not bored.”
His club stops in the air. “You’re not?” He lowers the 7-iron and turns to face me head-on. “You’ve been doodling in my scorebook and now you’re clearly messing with me so I’ll get mad enough to take you home.”
“I was drawing in your notebook because I thought it would make you laugh during your next game. And I’m messing with you because you’re wound up tighter than Naomi after Archie hasn’t had a nap all day.”
“You’re really not bored?” Skepticism coats his voice.
“For someone who was so set on proving me wrong, you must think quite poorly of your own sport to assume I’m bored halfway through.”
He gives me an unamused look. I give him a pointed one right back.
“It’s not the most exciting thing in the world, but I’ve enjoyed learning about it. And it’s impressive how precise you are–well have been, I suppose. So, I’m having as much fun as a person could while watching one guy hit a ball around. I think it will be more entertaining at the tournament when you have some competition.”
There. I was as honest as I could be. I think we both came in knowing I’m not likely to become a golf fanatic overnight, but the fact that I haven’t asked to go home yet with as hot as it is outside is saying something. It has to be pretty great to get me to forfeit AC. Though, my perseverance may say more about my feelings for Miles than it does about my feelings toward golf.
“I’m sorry.” He leans his club against the cart, then pulls his Titleist ball cap off his head and rakes a hand through his hair. “I wanted you to enjoy yourself and when it started to feel like you weren’t, I got frustrated. Not with you, but with myself for expecting you to love it.”
“You don’t have to apologize. I was more worried for you than anything. I didn’t want you to start whacking a tree with your club.”
He chuckles. “I was tempted when we drove over here. I knew I needed to relax, but I just couldn’t. That’s the thing about golf: if you mess up once, it’s easy to get in your head and ruin a whole day of it.”
“Has that happened to you before?”
“Oh yeah.” He grimaces. “It happened at the PGA Championship last month. I was doing great. Several strokes ahead of everyone, but then I hit a slice on hole four the last day of the tournament. After that, I struggled and had to fight to keep even second place. Zane overtook my score and then the trophy, and my position as number one in the world.”
“That must have been terrible.” If he was closer, I might place a hand on his arm to comfort him. It’s probably best that he’s not.
“It was, but it’s only made me more determined to win this next one and reclaim my title.”
“Do you think you’re putting too much pressure on yourself?”
He shrugs. “The pressure is there no matter what. I want to be number one, so I have to fight for it.” He sets up in front of the ball again. “All I have to do is play moment to moment. I can’t think too far ahead, or else I’ll freeze up.”
I stay silent as he prepares to hit. Something tells me his moment-by-moment philosophy applies to more than just golf. There’s good in that, I think, living moment to moment. But if you never think about the future, then you might spend your days going in circles without even realizing it. Miles has this aversion to commitment–whatever the reason may be–but maybe he wouldn’t be so against it if he let himself think about it for more than a second. If he took the time to reassess how he felt. I’m not sure how to get him to do that though.
He hits the ball and makes it onto the green. The smile that overtakes his face warms my heart. It’s clear that he loves this game, and I’m glad I came along to witness that love firsthand.
“Looks like you can still make par,” I say and the proud expression he wears in response makes my heart skip.
“Looks like it.” He puts his 7-iron into the bag, then slides into the seat next to me. “I’m glad you’re here, Red.” His smile is soft and sincere.
I return his smile. “Me too.”
We’re at the 18th hole. After telling Miles that I wasn’t bored like he thought, his game got considerably better. He hasn’t been perfect–according to him–but he also hasn’t hit it into the woods anymore. Now he’s about to putt for birdie, which I finally learned the definition of. If he has to make it in the hole in four to get par, but he makes it in three, that’s a birdie.
Apparently whoever invented golf likes bird names, because if you go two under par that’s an eagle. Three under par is an albatross or double eagle, and four under par is a condor. If you make a hole in one though, they abandon the bird names and call it an ace. Unless…
“Is an ace a bird?” I ask Miles as he’s lining up to putt.
“I don’t know.” He sounds exasperated, but in an amused sort of way that lets me know he’s not mad at my questions.
“It just seems weird to me that there are all these bird names and then ace. Why ace?”
“I didn’t invent the game, I just play it.”
“And you said a bogey isn’t a bird either?”
“As far as I know, no.”
I scrunch my brows together. “I can’t take this game seriously. The lowest score wins, there are bird names for half the terms but not others. It’s weird.”
He chuckles. “Come here, Red.”
I stiffen on the cart seat. “What?”
“Come here.” He gestures for me to walk over.
I listen to him, though I’m confused. Once I’m beside him, he holds out his club for me to grab. A putter, which is the only one I’ve been able to remember today.
“Take this and stand right there,” he says, then backs up and points at the spot he was just in.
“Why?” I ask.
“Because you’re going to make this shot for me.”
I take the putter from him, shooting him a wary look. “You want me to make your last putt of the day?”
“I’m going to help, don’t worry.”
I look at the club. It’s somehow both heavier and lighter than I thought it would be. Never in my life did I think I’d be willingly holding one of these things.
“How much does this thing cost?” I ask, looking up at him.
“You’re not going to break it.”
I could. It might sense that I’ve trash talked the sport it’s used for and just break in half rather than let me use it. Or I could go to swing and watch it fly out of my hands and right into a tree. Either of those seem more plausible than me actually sinking this putt.
“Are you sure you want me to do this?” I ask him and he gives me an encouraging smile.
“Yes, I’m sure.”
“Okay, it’s your score card at stake.”
I stand where he told me to, awkwardly holding the club in front of me.
“Now what?”
I look down at the club, trying to mimic what I’ve seen him do while I wait on him to instruct me. I’m about to ask him why he’s not saying anything when warmth covers my back. I suck in a breath. Miles” arms slide around me, and I’m so caught off guard that I almost drop the club.
“First, you need to adjust your grip,” he says against my ear. His hands maneuver mine into the correct position. I think I’ve forgotten how to breathe.
“Don’t hold on too tight.” He runs his finger tips over the backs of my hands. “Relax.”
I take in a shuddery breath and try to do as he says. It feels impossible to relax when he’s all over me like this. My whole body is on fire and my heart is beating out of my chest. But I find it within me to loosen my grip.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, his breath hot against my ear. “Now close your eyes.”
My eyes flutter shut. The darkness doesn’t calm my nerves though. It only heightens everything I’m experiencing. The salty breeze in my hair, Miles’ hands settling on top of mine, his strong chest pressed against my back. I’m enveloped in him. I want to drop this club, turn around in his arms and kiss him. The longing is so strong it almost hurts. But I stay where I am, too scared to make a move and too intoxicated to pull away.
“Imagine it’s the last day of the tournament. All your hard work is about to pay off. All you have to do is sink this putt, and then you go home with the trophy.”
“And a boatload of cash,” I add.
His laugh is low and raspy in my ear. “Everyone is watching, waiting. The crowd goes dead silent as you line up to putt. They’re all holding their breath. The wind stills. Everything you’ve been working for is riding on this moment.”
I feel the undercurrent of passion beneath his words. He wants me to know how it feels to be in his shoes. How much it matters. I sink into the moment, settling against his chest and adjusting my grip the way I’ve seen him do all day.
“You take a deep breath.” I follow his words, drinking in the summer air. “Pull back the club.” He guides my hands. “And swing.” I hear the tap of the ball and open my eyes just in time to watch it roll into the hole. I gasp in surprise. I can’t believe it went in.
“Now you know how it feels to win a major,” Miles says, a smile in his voice as he steps back.
Before I can overthink it, I drop the club and turn, then throw my arms around Miles’ neck.
“Thank you,” I say. After a moment, his arms wrap around my waist.
“For teaching you about golf?” He huffs a laugh into my hair.
“For sharing what you love with me.”
He hugs me tighter. There’s a feeling of rightness that overcomes me. It’s like when I’m in my garden, or on the beach with my toes in the water. Something just clicks and I know down to my marrow that this is good.
When we pull apart, that feeling fades and is replaced with anxiety.
Not long after moving to Coastal Cove, I went down to the beach by myself to relax and collect some shells for a craft I was doing. I hadn’t been on the shore long before I saw a dark storm cloud on the horizon. It was far off, but it looked ominous compared to the bright sunshine I was standing in. I didn’t want my beach day to be over, but I also didn’t want to get caught in a terrible storm walking home. I had to decide whether to stay and risk the rain, hoping it would pass, or play it safe and leave early.
Looking into Miles’ eyes is like seeing a dark cloud on the horizon. If I stay on the track I’m on, I’m risking heartbreak. But if I leave, I’ll be heartbroken, losing the opportunity for something beautiful. Miles smiles down at me. I make the same decision I did that day on the beach. To stay. I just have to hope that the storm will pass, or that we’ll at least be strong enough to weather it.