5. Sophie
Chapter 5
Sophie
" T ell me again why you're watching golf tutorials at eleven p.m.?"
Hours after leaving Julia Daniels’ house, I look up from my laptop to find my roommate Cynthia standing in our kitchen doorway, wrapped in her fluffy pink robe and wearing an expression that suggests she's questioning all her life choices—especially the one about living with me.
Her curly red hair is piled up high on her head, and she's got her, "Sophie's about to do something stupid", face on, which, to be fair, she's had plenty of opportunities to perfect over the years.
"Because," I say, gesturing at my notebook filled with hastily scribbled terms like “bogey” and “mulligan”, "I may have done something stupid."
"More stupid than walking in on Evan Daniels while he was peeing in the bathroom?"
"You promised we'd never speak of that again."
"No, you promised. I made no such commitment." She slides into the chair across from me, stealing my cold coffee. "Besides, that was only yesterday. It hasn't even reached the statute of limitations for teasing yet."
"There's a statute of limitations on humiliation?"
"Sure. About the same length of time as it takes for you to do something even more embarrassing." She takes a sip, grimaces at the temperature, but drinks it anyway. "So, what'd you do this time?"
I groan, letting my head thunk against the table. "I kind of...invited myself to his golf outing tomorrow."
The coffee cup hits the table with a clunk. "I'm sorry, you what?"
"I panicked!" I sit up, running my hands through my hair. "He was leaving Julia's after dinner, and I followed him out to try to talk about the feature again, and he said he couldn't meet tomorrow because he had a golf thing, and my mouth just...moved without consulting my brain."
"As it often does."
"Not helping, Cyn."
"Sorry, sorry." She doesn't look sorry at all. "What exactly did this, um, ‘brain-free mouth’ of yours say?"
"So I said, and I quote, 'Oh, I love golf! Maybe I could join you and we could discuss the feature between holes?'"
Cynthia stares at me for a long moment. "Sophie Bennett. You have never played golf in your life."
"I know!"
"You once called it 'soccer with sticks’."
"I know!"
"You tried to return the golf clubs your dad got you for Christmas because you thought they were weird baseball bats."
"I was twelve! And again, not helping!"
"The closest you've ever come to golf was that time you got kicked out of mini-golf for hitting the ball too hard and breaking the windmill."
"That windmill had it coming." I sink lower in my chair. "And technically, that means I do have golf experience."
"Mini-golf isn't real golf, Soph."
"Tell that to the very angry teenager who had to fish my ball out of the castle moat."
She takes another sip of my coffee, clearly enjoying this. "So, what did Mr. Tall, Dark, and Grumpy say?"
"He said, 'Fine. Tee time is seven a.m. Don't be late.'"
"And you're sure he wasn't being sarcastic?"
“With Evan? Who knows? But I have to go now. I already committed." I pull up another golf tutorial video. "Did you know there are different clubs for different situations? Like, a lot of different clubs. Who needs this many sticks to hit one tiny ball?"
Cynthia snaps her fingers in front of my face to get my attention. “For the love of God, tell me why exactly you’re doing this?"
"Because I need him to approve the feature on Ryland?"
"Try again."
"Because it's my first big assignment and I can't screw it up?"
"One more time, with feeling."
I deflate. "Because I hate that he thinks I'm just another ruthless reporter out to exploit his family."
"And?"
"And nothing! That's it. That's the whole reason."
"Sophie." She fixes me with a look that reminds me way too much of my mother. "You've had his coffee order memorized since the first time he gave it to you."
"That was my job!"
"You still follow his daughter's hockey team on Instagram."
"They post good drills!"
"You have a folder on your phone labeled 'Evan’."
I gasp. "You went through my phone?"
"You asked me to find a photo last week and I got curious." She shrugs, unrepentant. "Also, who saves that many pictures of one guy blocking pucks? I mean, they all look the same."
"They do not! Each save is unique and technically impressive and...oh God." I drop my head into my hands. "I have a crush on him."
"Finally, she admits it!" Cynthia throws her hands up. "I've been watching you pine over this guy since your Blades internship. Remember when you volunteered to stay late just to help him review game tapes?"
"That was professional interest.”
"You color-coded his hydration schedule."
"Athletes need proper fluid intake!"
"You memorized his daughter's favorite snacks and kept them in your desk drawer."
"Kids get hungry after practice.”
"You almost cried when he complimented your stats analysis."
"I did not.” I pause, remembering. "Okay, maybe I teared up a little. But he's not exactly free with the praise! Do you know how hard it is to impress someone whose default expression is mild annoyance at the universe?"
"And yet somehow you managed it." Cynthia's voice softens. "Which is why this whole golf thing matters so much. You don't just want his approval for the feature. You want him to see you as more than just another reporter."
I think about dinner at Julia's earlier.
About how Evan watched me help Natalia with her homework, his expression unreadable but somehow less icy than usual. About how, just for a moment when we were leaving, he actually smiled at something I said.
"It doesn't matter," I say finally. "He's a pro athlete. And fucking gorgeous. Way out of my league. And now I'm about to humiliate myself on a golf course in front of him."
"About that..." Cynthia stands up, heading for her bedroom. "Come with me."
I follow her, curious. She opens her closet and reaches all the way to the back, pulling out...a golf bag?
"You play golf?"
"Dated a golf pro last summer. Lost the man but kept the golf stuff." She starts pulling out clothes too—polo shirts and pleated skorts in various colors. "These should fit you."
I stare at her in amazement. "You're saving my life right now."
"I know. Try these on while I find my copy of Golf For Dummies: Crash Course Edition ."
Twenty minutes later, I'm modeling borrowed golf attire while Cynthia critiques my form with a wooden spoon as a makeshift club.
"Okay, basic rules," she says, circling me like a particularly fashionable drill sergeant. "Don't talk during someone's swing. Don't walk in their line of sight. Don't step on the line between their ball and the hole."
"What line? It's grass."
"Just...don't walk between their ball and the hole, okay? And for God's sake, don't hit anyone with your ball."
"That can happen?"
"With your natural grace? Almost certainly." She adjusts my stance. "Also, there's a dress code. No jeans. No T-shirts. No…”
My phone buzzes, making us both jump. It’s a text from an unknown number, which I belatedly realize has to be Evan’s. My heart thumps in my chest as I read.
Evan: Wear proper golf attire tomorrow. No jeans or T-shirts.
I show Cynthia the message, panic rising. "He saved my number?"
"Focus, Sophie. Text him back so he doesn't think you're ignoring him."
Me: Got it! No problem! See you at 7! ??
"Was the emoji too much?"
"For the Ice Man? Definitely." She hands me the golf bag. "But maybe that's not a bad thing. Now, back to the living room. We need to work on your swing before you accidentally decapitate someone tomorrow."
The next hour is a blur of golf terminology and basic mechanics.
I learn that "fore" means "incoming death ball" and that yelling it might save me from a lawsuit.
I discover that golf has more rules than any sport has a right to have, and that most of them seem designed to make me look stupid.
"Keep your head down," Cynthia instructs as I practice with the wooden spoon. "Arms straight but relaxed. Stop closing your eyes!"
"I can't help it! What if I hit something?"
"That's kind of the point of golf, Soph."
"I mean something that's not the ball. Like a bird. Or a person. Or, God forbid, Evan."
"Definitely try not to hit Evan. I don't think assaulting Chicago's star goalie is going to help your cause."
Around two a.m., Cynthia finally forces me to go to bed. "You need at least a few hours of sleep if you're going to operate heavy machinery."
"They're golf clubs, not heavy machinery."
"In your hands? Same difference."
I lay in bed, staring at my ceiling and running through my mental checklist:
Golf terms to remember:
- Birdie = good
- Bogey = bad
- Eagle = very good
- Fore = incoming death ball
- Mulligan = do-over (but don't actually say this out loud?)
- Par = normal/expected score
- Slice = bad thing ball does
- Hook = other bad thing ball does
- Drive = hitting ball far
- Putt = hitting ball not far
Golf rules:
1. Don't talk during someone's swing
2. Don't stand in someone's line of sight
3. Don't walk on their "line" (whatever that means)
4. Replace divots (grass chunks you murder)
5. Fix ball mark chunks on green
6. Keep up with pace of play (???)
7. DON'T HIT ANYONE WITH BALL
Just as I'm finally drifting off, another terrible thought hits me: What if golf courses don't serve coffee?
Oh God.
I'm so screwed.
My alarm goes off way too soon, but I drag myself out of bed with something approaching determination.
I can do this. I once covered an entire curling tournament in college without understanding a single thing that happened.
Golf can't be that different, right?
"You've got this," Cynthia says as I head out, looking surprisingly put together in my borrowed golf outfit. "Just be yourself. The Sophie who helped his daughter with math yesterday. The one who actually cares about people's stories, not just writing them."
I blink at her, touched. "That was...surprisingly insightful."
"I have my moments." She hands me a travel mug of coffee. "But also, maybe try not to kill anyone. I'm pretty sure that would hurt your chances with both the feature and the guy."
"Thanks for the vote of confidence."
"That's what roommates are for!" she calls after me. "Text me if you need bail money!"
I head out into the pre-dawn Chicago morning, golf clubs rattling in the trunk of my car, trying to channel my inner athlete. I can do this. I can totally do this.
And if I can't? Well, at least I'll look cute failing, thanks to Cynthia's cute clothes.
Small victories, right?