Chapter 13
REID
"So I should probably warn you," I tell Laine as we pull into the Riverside Golf Course parking lot, "the guys get a little weird and competitive about golf."
"Weird how?" She's messing with her ponytail in the passenger mirror, and I'm trying not to stare at the way her neck curves when she tilts her head. The polo shirt she thrifted fits her perfectly—maybe too perfectly. I'm going to be distracted all day.
"Just... they take it way too seriously. Tony's been playing for fifteen years and still can't break a hundred, but he acts like he's Tiger Woods. Brennan uses a different colored tee for every hole. Walsh has this whole ritual before every shot that takes so fucking long."
"Reid, these are first responders who save lives for a living. How competitive can they possibly get about hitting a little white ball?"
That's when we hear the shouting.
"MOTHERFUCKER! NO NO NO—FORE!"
A golf ball ricochets off the pro shop window and bounces across the parking lot. Then there's this loud honking sound. Is that a…goose?
"Jesus Christ," I mutter, watching the ball roll under a minivan. That's got my friends written all over it. Why did I think this was a good idea?
Things between us are so good. We've been spending all our spare moments together for the last couple of weeks—dinners, lazy mornings, that incredible night on her couch where we made out like teenagers until my lips were numb. And now I'm going to introduce her to these fuckups?
Okay. Not fuckups. Not usually. But golf doesn't exactly bring out the best in them. I asked them to be on their best behavior. So fucking stupid. They're going to be even worse now, either because they want to wind me up, or because they psych themselves out over making a good impression.
Either way, I have a feeling today's going to be a shit show of epic proportions.
"Did someone just break something?" Laine's staring toward the first tee where I can see Tony jumping up and down, waving his arms.
"Probably." I grab the clubs from my truck bed. "Welcome to golf with the crew."
We walk toward the disaster, and I can already hear Brennan's voice carrying across the course.
"—told you not to use the driver on the first hole! It's a positioning shot, you moron!"
"It was positioned perfectly until that fucking squirrel ran in front of the ball!"
"Squirrels don't make golf balls hook left, Tony!"
Laine's trying not to laugh. "There was a squirrel?"
"There's always a squirrel with Tony. Or a bird, or the wind, or someone coughed." We reach the tee box where Tony's digging through his bag like a different club is going to magically fix his slice. Spoiler, buddy. It won't.
"Reid! And you must be Laine!" Walsh waves us over. He's already got his scorecard out, pencil behind his ear. "Hope you're ready for some serious golf."
Serious golf. Right. Kowalski's practice-swinging next to the tee markers, making these exaggerated whooshing sounds with every pass.
Brennan's examining his blue tee like it holds the secrets of the universe.
I don't know where the hell he picked up that superstition, but he still thinks it's going to shave strokes off his game.
Maybe he needs to add a little dance. A chant. Really get the juju flowing.
"Hey guys," I say. "Laine, meet the crew. Try not to judge us too harshly."
"Nice to meet you all," Laine says, and her smile is — okay, it's genuine. Not the hostage smile people plaster on when they've been dragged somewhere against their will. She actually looks like she wants to be here.
She shifts closer to me, her shoulder brushing my arm, and my hand twitches at my side.
The small of her back is right there. Right there.
But we haven't — I mean, we haven't put a label on whatever this is, and I don't know where her line is with people she met forty-five seconds ago, so I just grip the clubs tighter instead.
But god, I want to touch her.
"You play much golf, Laine?" Kowalski asks, still hacking at air like he's auditioning for something nobody asked him to audition for.
"Never." She eyes the clubs in my hands. "But how hard can it be, right?"
The guys exchange looks. Oh fuck. She has no idea what she just walked into.
"That's the spirit!" Tony claps his hands together. "Confidence is half the game!"
"What's the other half?" Laine asks.
"Luck," Brennan says solemnly.
"And good tees," Walsh adds, pulling out his little baggie of color-coordinated tees.
"And proper hip rotation," Kowalski demonstrates by doing this weird gyrating motion that looks like he's having a seizure.
Laine nods like they're giving her actual useful information instead of complete bullshit. I love that she's taking them seriously. Most people would be backing away slowly by now.
"So who's up first?" she asks.
"Ladies first," Tony says, gesturing toward the tee.
"Oh no." Laine holds up her hands. "I need to watch you experts first. Learn from the masters."
Every fucking chest puffs up. The masters. Jesus. If she only knew what she was about to witness.
"Brennan," Tony announces, "you're up. Show her how it's done."
Brennan steps up to the tee, and Laine watches him like she's taking mental notes. He's got his stance set, club positioned just so, taking practice swings that look almost professional. Smooth arc. Decent follow-through. The whole package.
Anyone watching him up to this point would think he might actually be pretty decent.
Then Brennan starts his pre-shot routine. Step back. Waggle the club three times. Adjust his hat. Step forward. Waggle twice more. Step back again.
"Is he okay?" Laine whispers, and she leans close enough that her breath tickles my ear.
"Physically yeah. Mentally, that's up for debate," I whisper back, and I use the excuse to duck my head closer to hers. She smells like sunscreen and something floral. Not perfume. It’s lighter, like it's just her and whatever lotion she grabbed this morning, and I want to bury my face in her neck, which is absolutely insane behavior for a mini golf course on a Tuesday.
Focus, Garrison. Golf. Friends. Not the way her hair is brushing against your jaw.
Step forward. Adjust his grip. Waggle once. Look at the flag. Look at the ball. Look at the flag again.
"How long does this usually take?" Laine asks.
"We've timed him at four minutes and thirty-seven seconds," Walsh says proudly. "Personal record."
Finally, finally, Brennan swings. The ball shoots off to the right, bounces off a tree, and lands in the water hazard with a splash.
"Fucking tree jumped right in front of it," Brennan mutters, already pulling out another ball.
Laine's watching this whole thing with this little frown of concentration, like she's trying to figure out what went wrong and how to fix it. I've seen that same look on her face when she's listening to a patient.
It's also unfairly attractive. Everything she does is unfairly attractive. I'm starting to think I have a problem.
"My turn," Tony announces, stepping up to the tee.
"Oh good," I mutter. This should be entertaining.
Tony's already got his driver out, which — no. No, no, no. Not on this hole. He sets up, takes a practice swing that damn near decapitates Kowalski.
"Watch it, asshole!" Kowalski ducks.
"Sorry, sorry." Tony resets, and I can see it happening in real time. The overthink spiral. His stance is too wide, his grip's white-knuckling the club, and he's got that face — that face that says he's about to try to send this ball into low orbit.
"Remember," he calls to Laine, still mid-setup, still not looking at the ball, "it's all in the hips. Think like a helicopter."
"Think like a what now?" Laine asks, shooting me a look.
I shrug helplessly. They have no fucking idea what they're doing, but their confidence? Through the roof. Absolutely stratospheric. It's almost beautiful.
"A helicopter. Rotating motion, smooth and controlled." Tony demonstrates with his hips, and it looks absolutely obscene.
Laine bites her lip, clearly trying not to laugh. "Helicopter. Got it."
She catches my eye, and I have to look away before I lose it completely.
Tony swings, and the ball shoots straight up in the air, comes down about twenty yards in front of the tee, and rolls backward toward us.
"Well," Laine says after a moment, completely deadpan, "that's definitely not what helicopters do."
I snort, trying not to laugh. Walsh isn't even trying—he's doubled over.
"I think your helicopter crashed," Laine adds, and Tony clutches his chest like she's wounded him.
"Harsh, Laine. Harsh but fair."
She grins at me, proud of herself, and I want to kiss that smug little smile right off her face. Later. Definitely later.
"Wind caught it," Tony says, like there's hurricane-force winds on this perfectly calm morning.
"Sure it did," Brennan says, setting up for his second shot.
This continues for the next ten minutes.
Kowalski launches his ball into the parking lot.
Walsh's shot goes sideways and nails the golf cart, setting off the horn, which won't stop beeping until the course marshal jogs over and fiddles with it for an embarrassingly long time.
We've been doing this every month for years—you'd think some of them would've improved by now.
Nope. Same level of hopeless they were three years ago.
I'm the best golfer in the bunch, and that's not saying much. But Dad used to take Jared and me out in the summers, so I at least learned from someone who could actually hit the ball in the right direction.
These idiots watched a few YouTube videos and called it training.
By the time it's Laine's turn, she's been studying all of this with her brow furrowed like she's prepping for a final exam. If she had a notebook, she'd have been scribbling in it. She's fucking adorable.
"Okay," she says, stepping up to the tee. "I think I've got the basic idea."