Chapter 13 #2
She sets up the way Brennan did—mimics his stance perfectly. Takes a practice swing that actually looks pretty good. Her form is solid. Back straight, knees slightly bent, grip relaxed. She looks like she knows what she's doing.
Then she steps up to the ball, draws the club back, and...
The ball dribbles about fifteen feet and stops.
"Huh," she says, staring at it. "That's not what I was going for."
The guys are kind enough not to laugh. I'm kind enough not to mention how cute she looks with that confused furrow between her brows.
"Hey, you made contact," Tony says encouragingly. "First time out, that's pretty good."
"Is it though?" Laine asks, staring at her ball sitting fifteen feet away. "Because I was aiming for that flag way over there."
"Details. You got it in the right direction at least," Walsh says, waving his hand dismissively.
"Right. Minor detail." She's already walking toward her ball, this cute little scowl pinching her face together.
I fall into step beside her, and this time I do it — hand on the small of her back. Just for a second. Light. Easy. She glances up at me with this little smile, and my ribs do something stupid. Like they expand. Like my chest forgot how big it's supposed to be.
"You're doing great," I tell her.
"I hit it fifteen feet."
"But you hit it. That's more than some people manage their first time."
"You're a terrible liar, but I appreciate the effort."
We pile into the golf carts — me and Laine in one, Tony and Walsh in another, Brennan and Kowalski bringing up the rear. Laine's driving, which — honestly? Most natural she's looked all day. Hands easy on the wheel, none of that death grip she had on the club. She just goes.
"Shotgun was the right call," I tell her, stretching my arm across the back of her seat. Not quite touching her shoulders, but close enough that I can feel the warmth of her through my fingertips. "You're a much better driver than Tony."
"Low bar."
"Very low bar. But still."
She takes a corner a little fast, and I slide closer to her on the bench seat. I don't slide back.
"So," she says, glancing at me with a knowing smile, "on a scale of one to ten, how bad am I at this?"
"You made it to the first hole," I point out. "Tony once lost six balls on the first hole."
"That was one time!" Tony yells from the cart behind us. "And there was a goose!"
"No there wasn't," I tell Laine.
“Huh.” She brushes a strand of hair off her face. "Reid, can I ask you something?"
"Sure."
"Are your friends always this..." She bites her lip, nose scrunched up.
"Ridiculous?"
"I was going to say enthusiastic, but sure." She parks the cart near what we think is her ball. Could be anyone's ball at this point. "Because this is either the most fun I've had in months, or I'm losing my mind."
"Both," I say. "Definitely both."
She laughs, and I reach over to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear that's escaped her ponytail. She leans into my touch, just slightly, and my heart does this cartoonish pitter-patter thing.
"Thanks for being a good sport about this," I say.
"Are you kidding? Your friends are hysterical."
"They really are."
"I like them."
"Yeah?" Fuck she's perfect. "They like you too. I can tell."
"How can you tell?"
"Tony hasn't tried to give you a nickname yet. That means he's still deciding which one fits best. It's a sign of respect."
By the third hole, Laine's figured out that Tony's advice is complete shit, but she's still listening to it because she's too polite to tell him to shut up.
I'm standing behind her, watching her set up for another shot, and I'm definitely not staring at the way her jeans fit. Definitely not.
Golf. Focus on golf.
"Remember, Laine, it's all about the follow-through," Tony's saying as we stand on the third tee. "Think of it like... like you're stirring a giant pot of soup."
"Soup," Laine repeats, adjusting her grip for the fifteenth time. She's been studying everyone's stance, trying to mimic different parts. Walsh's foot position. Brennan's grip. Kowalski's backswing. She looks like someone handed her a scalpel and told her to do heart surgery.
"Big, smooth circles," Tony demonstrates, making these exaggerated stirring motions with his arms.
I want to help her. I can see exactly what she's doing wrong — she's overthinking it, micromanaging every muscle like she's running a board meeting with her deltoids.
Just let it flow, woman. But every time I open my mouth, she gets this look.
This jaw-set, don't-you-dare, I-will-figure-this-out-myself look.
Which I love about her, honestly.
But Jesus Christ, it's painful to watch.
"Can I show you something?" I finally ask. "You can tell me to fuck off if you want."
She turns, one eyebrow up. "Show me."
I step up behind her. Close. Close enough that her back is right there against my chest, radiating warmth through my shirt, and my brain short-circuits for a second because — focus, Reid.
"May I?"
She nods, and I settle my hands over hers on the club, nudging her grip a fraction. She shivers. Not from the breeze. Definitely not from the breeze.
"Relax your shoulders," I murmur near her ear. "You're holding all your tension here." I run my hands down her arms — light, easy — and she takes a breath. A real one. "Power comes from your hips, not your arms. And stop thinking so hard. Just let it flow."
"Easy for you to say." Her voice comes out a little thin. A little breathless.
Good. I'm not alone in this.
"Try it."
I step back. Reluctantly. Immediately hate the two feet of air between us, which is ridiculous — I was standing perfectly fine over here thirty seconds ago. She takes a breath, sets up, swings.
The ball sails maybe fifty yards. Still not great. But straight. Right down the fairway.
"Better," I say.
She turns and grins at me, and that fucking flippity feeling is back.
"Maybe you should be my coach instead of Tony."
"I'm a much better coach than Tony."
"And more hands-on."
God, this woman.
She sets up again, takes her backswing—which actually looks pretty good now—and swings through. The ball shoots off at a ninety-degree angle and nearly takes out a guy on the adjacent fairway.
"FORE!" I yell, while the guy dives behind his cart.
"Sorry!" Laine calls, waving apologetically. Then she turns to Tony, completely deadpan. "I don't think soup stirring is working for me."
"The soup was a metaphor," Tony protests.
"A dangerous metaphor. I almost killed that man with soup energy."
I'm laughing so hard I have to lean on my club for support. God, she's funny. She's funny and competitive and she doesn't take herself too seriously, and I am so completely fucked.
The fourth hole is where Laine's competitive side finally shows up.
She's been a good sport about being terrible for a solid hour — laughing it off, shrugging, the whole thing.
But then her ball goes backward. Actually backward.
Like she caught it with the toe of the club and it just..
. rolled behind the tee. I didn't even know that was physically possible. I'm kind of impressed, honestly.
Something snaps behind her eyes.
"Okay," she says, hands on her hips, glaring at the ball like it keyed her car. "I'm tired of being terrible at this."
"Atta girl," Walsh says approvingly.
"No more soup stirring, no more windmills, no more helicopter thinking." She looks at Tony. "No offense."
"None taken. Sometimes you gotta find your own groove."
She tees up another ball. No asking for advice this time. No copying anyone else's stance. She just sets up the way that feels right to her, takes a practice swing, and lets it rip.
The ball goes straight. Not far, maybe a hundred yards, but straight down the middle of the fairway.
"Holy shit!" Kowalski yells. "She figured it out!"
Laine turns around with this huge grin on her face. "Did you see that? It went where I aimed!"
"I saw it," I tell her, and I can't stop smiling. "That was perfect."
She high-fives Tony, who's acting like he personally coached her to victory. Then she turns to me, still grinning, and something in my chest gets tight.
Then Brennan ruins the moment by hitting his ball into the water hazard with a splash that sends a duck flying.
"That's it," he announces, throwing his club back into his bag. "I'm done pretending this is relaxing."
"Agreed," says Walsh, who just spent five minutes looking for his ball in some bushes only to find out it was in his pocket the whole time. "This is taking forever."
Tony checks his watch. "We've been out here two hours and we're only on the fourth hole."
"And my scorecard looks like a phone number," Kowalski adds, scribbling something that's definitely not regulation golf scoring.
Laine looks around at all of us. "So what do we do?"
"Speed golf," Tony announces, like he's just solved world hunger.
A little spark lights in Laine's eyes. "Speed golf?"
I love that spark. I've cataloged it — filed it away in the growing mental folder labeled Things About Laine That Are Going to Kill Me.
She gets it when she's solving a problem at work, when she's elbow-deep in some complicated recipe, when she's about to absolutely destroy me at Scrabble.
It means she's engaged. Interested. Ready to compete.
It also means I'm about to find her even more attractive, which shouldn't be possible at this point. And yet. Here we are. My brain doing the math and coming up with infinity.
"New rules," Brennan explains, already bouncing on the balls of his feet. "No practice swings, no looking for lost balls more than thirty seconds, and we race the carts between holes."
"Race the carts?"
"Oh yeah." Walsh grins. "You can't play speed golf without speeding carts."
Laine's processing. I can see it — the competitive look sliding back into place, but now it's mixing with something else. Something that looks like pure joy.
"I'm in," she says.
She's practically vibrating, and it hits me like a contact high. I grab her hand and squeeze.