Chapter 2
2
PULL/PUSH
Mitch
Mitch placed the rake on the grass outside the bunker, quickly grabbed Lana’s golf bag and his backpack, and walked up to where his favorite golfer on the ladies’ professional tour was dropping the mat behind her ball some twenty yards away. Her dusky skin was flushed with anger and exertion. He’d played here since he was five years old and still hadn’t been able to master the course. He could sympathize.
It had taken her three strokes to get out of the ten-foot-deep Hell Bunker, the Old Course’s most notorious hazard on the long par-five 14 th hole. He’d have done the same or worse.
He opened his mouth to console her, but she raised a hand to silence him.
“Give me a sec,” she snapped, then closed her eyes and counted under her breath, visibly calming herself down.
Mitch didn’t take offense to her sharp tone. Through thirteen holes, he’d been getting to know Iolana Aguilar, former number one female amateur golfer in the world, winner of her debut tournament as a professional in her native Hawaii. What he’d learned so far only intensified his admiration and respect for her. Lana was quick to learn, listened to instructions intently, and executed them all with ease. But she was also a perfectionist and hated making mistakes, not giving herself grace for her lack of familiarity with the course, the unique vagaries of links golf, and the difficult playing conditions today.
The temperature had warmed since they started eighty minutes ago—if one considered going from three degrees to five degrees Celsius warmer like he did. But the winds whipped faster—up to thirty-two kilometers per hour according to his phone app—and changed directions from west to southwest. Where the wind had been hitting them from the left in the first hour, it now blew in their faces. The cloud cover further reflected Lana’s deteriorating spirit.
The front nine had been easy. She got off to a fast start and was two under par through ten. And then it went downhill from there. Literally. Her ball skidded into the Hill greenside bunker on the par-three 11 th after a mishit. A fried-egg lie led to a double-bogey. Even par for the day through twelve holes. Driving into the Coffins on the par-four 13 th yielded another bogey. Her scorecard read one over par at that point. This descent into Hell would probably lead to a snowman—a triple bogey eight. Four over par. The treacherous 17 th named the Road Hole was still ahead.
Mitch had to do something. He had to uplift her mood before the end of the round. Because if she ended on a high note, she might say yes when he asked her out on a date. His Valentine’s date.
He waited until she’d lobbed her seventh shot to the green and the ball rolled eighteen feet to the flag before he spoke. “Did you know that Jack Nicklaus took four to get out of Hell in ‘95?”
Lana’s lips twitched. “Yay. I beat the Golden Bear in something.” She handed him the mat and lifted the putter from the bag, this time without the jerkiness with which she’d pulled the wedge earlier. “You probably think I’m too intense,” she said after a few seconds.
He fell into step with her. Their conversation until now had been all about golf.
On the fairway for her approach, she’d asked, “How far to the green?”
“One-ten,” he’d replied after consulting his yardage book.
She’d reached for a fifty-degree wedge but he’d offered a fifty-four instead.
Then she’d asked, “How’s the wind blowing?”
He’d picked up clumps of grass and thrown them into the air. “Twenty kilometers … west.”
“So, around twelve miles, helping.”
This first personal remark from her needed a thoughtful response. “You’re passionate. Competitive by nature. Even with yourself. That’s why you’ve had so much success so young.” He hoped she didn’t think he was mansplaining and could hear the sincerity in his compliments. The list of her accomplishments as a junior and amateur golfer had taken him multiple scrolls down before he’d reached the end at her current age of twenty-two. Easily five times his wins in his twenty-four years of life.
“Yeah, well, success has eluded me lately. I haven’t won since two Novembers ago.” Her shoulders slumped. “I had to log off my social media because a golf writer called me a flash in the pan and hundreds of commenters agreed.”
Mitch heard the hurt in Lana’s voice. Having met her, he wanted to take her in his arms and comfort her. Shield her from all kinds of distress, defend her from those with ill intentions. He’d seen the offending post back when it was published, and he’d immediately blocked the insensitive knob who wrote it. His first instinct had been to comment, but he’d thought providing engagement would only bring more attention to the bawbag, so he hadn’t. Keyboard warriors had no shame or conscience. They’d do anything for traffic, even if what they posted was unfair or far from the truth.
“Is that part of the reason you’re here where it’s cold and gray instead of the paradise you call home?” he asked. Earlier, Lana had mentioned that her intention to prepare for the Women’s Open here this summer was the primary goal of her trip to Scotland. With her usual caddie anticipating the birth of his first child, she’d decided not to enter the Asian swing of the ladies’ professional tour in Thailand, Singapore, and China, which would last until mid-March.
Lana bent down to repair a divot on the green and placed a marker behind her ball before tossing it to him for cleaning. “I actually live in Texas now. Do you know Nick Andrews?”
He nodded. Who didn’t know the number one male golfer in the world? At only thirty-one, Nick had already won the career grand slam twice. Mitch had met him and his wife, Grace, a year ago before Nick had won his second Open Championship.
“His wife, Grace, is my first cousin; my dad and her mom are siblings,” Lana explained, pausing to tuck wisps of hair that had escaped from under her beanie. A smile played about her lips, telling him the familial relationship was close. “I’m staying at their ranch in the Hill Country where they have a nine-hole course that replicates some of the popular holes in Augusta National, Pebble Beach, and the Old Course. All the places where Nick has won. Outside of the tournament in O’ahu, I’m only in Hawaii during the holidays,” she said while surveying her line. “But yes, I needed to get away from all the noise in the US. Like I told you earlier, this is the best time for me to come here. Once I start playing again in California next month, there won’t be another lengthy break in my schedule until after the Tour Championship the week before Thanksgiving.”
Mitch whistled, impressed and a little intimidated by her dedication to her career. “March to November? Eight straight months?” He handed her the clean ball and she replaced it in front of the marker.
“Yes, unless I don’t make the US teams for the Olympics in August and the Solheim Cup in September, or if I don’t go to the October tournaments in Asia. I went last year and ran out of gas for my title defense in O’ahu.”
Mitch didn’t know enough about the qualification criteria for those team events to comment about Lana’s chances. As for playing in Asia, he figured the winnings from those tournaments couldn’t be lucrative enough to make up for the huge expenses involved in traveling to every country with a caddie. Especially if she missed the cut as she had in her first two tournaments of the year so far.
How he envied those who had the privilege to decline the opportunity to go to China, South Korea, Malaysia, and Japan because they’d been there before. He’d never set foot outside of the UK. Even going to England, Ireland, or Wales had been limited to school trips.
If everything went right, that would change in the summer. If being the operative word.
Lana stood to take practice strokes, signaling her readiness to putt soon.
Making sure not to step on her line, he walked to the pin to take the flag out. Also to avoid looking at her delectable ass every time she moved. Her pants were loose but they stretched tightly over her butt whenever she waggled before hitting her drives or crouched to read her putts. He barely needed his vest to keep himself warm. Improper thoughts that would get him smacked if she knew about them had been running through his brain from his first sight of her in real life.
Lana was pure telegenic on screen, but the flesh and blood her was infinitely more. Her Filipino and Hawaiian heritages blended beautifully. He admired her sparkling uptilted dark brown eyes, high cheekbones, bold nose, full lips that were plumper at the bottom than the top, and contoured jawline. The uncovered portions of her golden-brown skin he could see from her face and hands glowed with vibrant health. Her regal bearing and athletic build made her look taller than the height listed on her player profile. He wouldn’t be surprised if there was royalty in her bloodline.
“Yes!” Lana cheered, raising her putter in the air in triumph as the ball rolled into the hole.
Mitch grinned. She looked like a warrior princess in that pose, the putter her sword, the course her battlefield. Totally in line with his most recent thought. “A one-putt. Congratulations!” He offered his left palm for a high-five. The thrill he felt when their hands met hadn’t lessened, despite this being their third celebration of an excellent putt.
Lana retrieved her ball from the cup and beamed at him. “Best triple bogey ever!”
He replaced the flag and walked over to the bags to pick them up and head to the 15 th tee. “If you were in competition right now, your strokes gained putting would be first in the field. And you would probably be number one off the tee too.”
He’d been keeping an eye on the fourball behind them, now three holes away. It was obvious that all four golfers neared the maximum thirty-six handicap allowed at the Old Course with the way they’d been spraying their shots all over the place and hitting balls out of bounds. None of them were anywhere close to Lana’s level of play. They were having fun, though. Their laughter echoed around the mostly empty course. His pro- golfer, on the other hand, hardly smiled except for a handful of instances like just a few minutes ago. At this moment, a frown scrunched her face that was stunning even without makeup.
“That’s just it. My ball striking is way off. If I were in a competition right now, I would probably be dead effing last in approach and around the green in the field. I just don’t know what I’m doing wrong.” Frustration filled her voice.
Mitch hesitated before offering a response. He had a few observations but was unsure if they would be welcomed. While he dithered, she got ready to hit her drive.
As he’d seen her do a few times after a poor hole, Lana closed her eyes and mouthed the words “One thousand and five, one thousand and four” all the way to “one thousand and one.” It seemed to have worked because she looked calm as she hit a low stinger between the two prominent humps called Miss Grainger’s Bosoms on the narrow fairway. Another perfect drive.
Mitch noted where the ball landed and consulted the yardage book. By his estimate, Lana would have one-twelve to one-thirteen remaining to a deceptively deep green. He looked up to tell her, only to forget the number when he found her staring at him.
Lana averted her face but not quickly enough for him to miss the blush on her cheeks. Hope bloomed in his chest. Could she be attracted to him? He’d had a crush on her since he watched her dominate at Augusta National Women’s Amateur nearly two years ago.
Feck it. There was no point waiting until after the round; he would ask her now. “Are you?—”
“Do you—” Her eyes widened at their synchronized question.
He smiled. “You go first.”
She tucked her hands into her pockets as she walked and talked. “I know this is beyond your job description, but I could use your honest opinion on my game. You seem to have a good grasp of what works for me. I noticed that you were underclubbing me a few times, especially on the front nine, and it worked. Why is that?”
Mitch deflated as a twinge of disappointment shot through him. He’d misconstrued her stare as personal interest. Apparently, she only wanted to keep their interactions strictly professional.
For now.
He brightened. She’d be here an entire week, maybe even two, depending on what kind of winter package she’d purchased. If he proved himself in golf, perhaps he could pivot it to personal at some point. He could be patient. Good strategy. He’d run with it. “A couple of reasons. First is, when you use the mat, it’s like you’re teed up. The ball comes off higher and drops with less spin.”
She walked on, nodding.
He continued. “Second is, you gained additional yards with your new equipment sponsorship after your first professional win. While you’ve adjusted to the change of driver and putter, you haven’t yet mastered the distances with your irons and wedges. That’s why you’re always in between clubs. When the wind is down, I give you a shorter club than what you would have chosen because I know you’ll hit the ball farther than you think you’re capable of,” he explained. “I apologize that I didn’t tell you what I was trying to do sooner.”
Lana stopped walking and stared at him, eyes wide and mouth agape.
A flush warmed his skin. Shite! Did that sound stalkerish?
“You have seen me play before today?” Lana asked.
Mitch nodded. “Many times. On the telly and online.” Might as well confess it all. “I first became aware of your name at the Junior Ryder Cup in Paris six years ago. A mate of mine was a member of Team Europe, and I watched live videos of the matches his family posted online. I saw you and your teammate win the mixed fourball against him and his partner six and four.” She’d been Team USA’s top scorer, having won all three of her matches in runaway fashion over the two days of competition.
Lana laughed, an enchanting sound that brightened the gloomy day. “Really? Junior Ryder Cup was great fun! I’m sure not for your friend. But I had the best time. Not only was it my first visit to France, but it was also my biggest team competition to that point.”
She’d won every major competition and award since then. As a junior and as an amateur golfer. It must have been a shock to her system for the victory train to stop so suddenly.
Echoing his thoughts, she said, “I used to hate being called ‘Eagle Aguilar,’ but now I wish I could earn the moniker back. Birdie would work too.”
“You have the talent. That hasn’t gone away. I think it’s just a small tweak in your game and everything will click into place,” he reassured her.
“Thank you, Mitch.” She touched his arm, a sensation that warmed him even more despite the layers of clothing between her hand and his skin. “I don’t know if I deserve your confidence in me, but I really appreciate it. I’ve lost a lot of my early supporters for not living up to their expectations and … it wasn’t a good feeling, because I’ve been trying so hard. Maybe too hard. I’m grateful that there are still some people outside of my family and friends who believe in me.”
He covered her hand with his, satisfaction filling him at the heat that flared into her beautiful brown eyes. He wanted to capitalize on that reaction, but he knew he should get the golf out of the way first. “It’s unfair that you were made to feel so much pressure to win everything on your rookie year. You’re dealing with new equipment and using it on courses you’ve never played before. It can’t be fun trying to master technique and not seeing results straight away.”
“Fun,” Lana said almost in wonder, testing the word as if she hadn’t just said it a few minutes ago. She grabbed his hand in both of hers, eyes bright with excitement. “Fun! That’s what’s been missing in my game. I’ve been trying to be Nancy Lopez 2.0 and failing because I can only be me, Iolana Aguilar.”
Her voluntary touch sent his synapses firing. It was all he could do not to take her in his arms and initiate closer contact.
Lana shook their joined hands. “How can I make golf fun again? Do you have a suggestion?”
Now was the time to shoot his shot. “How about a bet?”
She raised an eyebrow. “For money?”
“No. A boon,” he rushed to clarify. “You’re four over par on your round with four holes to go. If you can get back to even, you can ask me to do anything for you.” A tough task but not impossible. Birdie, birdie, par, eagle should do it.
Her head tilted to the side. “Anything?”
“One thing.” He raised an index finger. “Within the bounds of the law and doesn’t involve pain. I found I’ve a low tolerance for it.”
“You’re on.” Lana unclasped their hands and grabbed a wedge from the bag on his back. The fifty-degree that usually netted her one hundred and sixteen yards. The exact club he would have given her for her second shot onto the green. The wind should knock the ball down close to the hole with a pure strike.
Mitch lowered the bag and handed the mat to her. He watched as she took a stance behind the ball. Waited for a couple of beats while she practiced a couple of swings before blurting out, “Aren’t you going to ask what I will win if you don’t make it?”
“No need.” She swung hard.
They both followed as the ball curved in the air and dropped right into the cup. A hole-out eagle from the fairway.
Speechless, Mitch goggled at her.
Laughing with abandon, Lana let out a whoop, threw the club on the ground, and launched herself at him. Caught off guard, he took one step back to steady both of them.
One of them gasped at the contact. Could have been her, could have been him. His arms were wrapped around her waist, hers were looped around his neck. They were thigh to thigh, chest to chest, face to face. Their eyes locked, and desire sizzled between them. He leaned forward, eager to taste the lips that had been tantalizing him for the past hour and a half.
“Fore left!”
Mitch jerked in alarm at the shout from the direction of the third tee. He tucked Lana’s head against his chest and turned so that his back faced the incoming projectile. He hunched over her as they both ducked in reflex to heed the universal call of warning for an errant shot.
Whatever pain that approached couldn’t hurt him. Not as long as her heady scent and the generous give of her curves filled his senses. The thud of a ball landing harmlessly on the ground behind him felt disappointing. It meant he had to let go. He did not want to let go.
Lana probably heard it too along with the hurried footsteps of golfers heading their way, because she disentangled herself from his protective embrace.
Mitch cussed out the offending golfers under his breath, watching with narrowed eyes as they apologized to Lana and belatedly to him about the stray ball.
Lana dismissed their apologies with a polite nod and retrieved her dropped wedge. When she straightened, she started to walk backwards with a twinkle in her eyes and a finger pointed at him. “One thing,” she said, reminding him of what was at stake.
Mitch felt his lips stretch his face in a wide smile. He was going to lose their bet, and he couldn’t wait to learn his forfeit.