Chapter 13 #3
"You're going to be terrifying at this," I tell her.
She actually cackles. Full-on villain origin story cackle. "I really am."
And just like that, golf becomes chaos.
Not that it wasn't before. But we take it to a whole other level.
Walsh wins the fourth hole by default since his ball actually made it onto the green, so he gets to lead our cart convoy to the fifth tee.
What follows is — and I say this with zero exaggeration — the most ridiculous parade of golf carts I've ever seen.
Walsh is zigzagging between trees like he's running from the law, Tony's trying to pass him on the cart path while Brennan hangs off the side screaming, and Kowalski's just — straight line, direct route, plowing across the fairway like a man with nothing to lose.
Laine's driving our cart, and she's not just keeping up — she's gaining on Walsh, cutting corners so tight the cart tilts onto two wheels. The woman is an absolute menace behind the wheel.
"This is insane!" she yells over every bump we hit, and she's laughing, hair ripping loose from her ponytail, cheeks flushed, eyes bright.
"This is the best part!" I yell back, one hand clamped on the roof, the other braced on my seat, zero percent concerned about dying.
She whips around another corner and I slide hard, grabbing the roof frame to keep from flying out entirely. "You guys do this often?"
"Only when we give up on actual golf!"
"So... pretty much every time?"
I laugh and nod because — yeah. Yeah, pretty much.
The fifth hole becomes a sprint. Literally.
We're all jogging between shots, clubs in hand, like some deranged golf decathlon nobody asked for.
Laine turns out to be surprisingly fast, which — okay, why am I surprised?
The woman spends twelve-hour shifts on her feet.
But watching her run across the fairway with a seven-iron in her hand, ponytail swinging, legs eating up the grass like she's got somewhere to be?
Something else entirely.
I stay behind her because the view from the backside is fucking spectacular.
Also because I like watching her move. The athletic grace, the determination, the way she's completely committed to this ridiculous game we've invented. She's not holding back, not worried about looking stupid or getting sweaty. She's all in.
This woman, I think. This fucking woman.
"Laine!" Tony calls from about fifty yards away. "Your ball's over here!"
"Thanks!" She changes direction mid-run, and I follow her.
"You're good at this," I tell her when we reach her ball.
"The running or the golf?"
"The running. The golf still needs work."
She laughs and lines up her shot. No practice swing, no checking her stance, just swings and connects. The ball goes about seventy yards and lands in the rough, but she's already running toward it before it stops rolling.
"Come on!" she calls back to me. "We've got a race to win!"
By the sixth hole, we've completely abandoned any pretense of normal golf. Kowalski hits his ball, it bounces off the cart path and ricochets toward the clubhouse. Instead of taking a penalty, he just runs after it, yelling "I'm still in play!"
Brennan's ball lands in a sand trap, so he hits it out while jogging, sending sand flying everywhere. Walsh loses his ball entirely but finds someone else's and decides that counts.
And Laine? Laine's having the time of her life.
She's not worrying about her form anymore, not asking for advice, not getting frustrated when her shots go sideways. She's just running and swinging and laughing every time something ridiculous happens.
Which is constantly.
"Reid!" she calls from about thirty yards ahead of me. "I think my ball just hit that squirrel!"
"Is the squirrel okay?"
"The squirrel's fine! But I think it stole my ball!"
Aw fuck. She's got the infection. Next thing she'll be telling me is a goose flew away with it. Only when I stop next to her and follow the line of her arm, damned if I don't spot a squirrel clutching the ball to his stomach, chittering.
"Well fuck. Let him have it." I fish another ball out of my pocket and toss it to her.
"My hero," she says, and grabs the front of my shirt and yanks me down.
The kiss is quick but it is not polite. There's tongue. There's teeth catching my bottom lip. Then she's pulling back with that grin—the wicked one, the one that makes my brain go full dial-up—and I'm just standing there with wobbly legs.
"What was that for?" I manage. Slightly dazed is an understatement. Fully rebooting is closer.
"For being prepared." She drops the ball and lines up her shot. "Also because I wanted to."
"Feel free to want to anytime."
"Noted."
"Incoming!" Tony yells, blowing past us with his putter like a man fleeing a crime scene.
"This is the weirdest sport ever," Laine says, but she's grinning.
"Wait until you see what happens at the ninth hole," I tell her.
"Why, what's at the ninth hole?"
"Water hazard. Big one."
Her eyes light up and she does a happy little hop. "Are you telling me someone's going to end up in the water?"
"Someone always ends up in the water."
"Please tell me it's going to be Tony."
"It's always Tony."
Her whole face lights up — full-wattage, kid-on-Christmas anticipation — and I sling my arm around her shoulders without thinking about it. She leans in. Tucks right against my side like a puzzle piece clicking into place, like she's always been there.
Don't think about that. Don't.
Sure enough, twenty minutes later, Tony's standing knee-deep in the pond on nine, hacking at his ball like it personally insulted his mother while Walsh holds up his phone like a referee.
"Thirty seconds!" Walsh calls.
"I can get it!" Tony yells back, takes another swing. Water goes everywhere. Ball doesn't move. Classic.
"Time!" Brennan announces.
"Fuck!" Tony sloshes toward shore, completely drenched, and Kowalski gives him a slow clap like he just watched a TED Talk on failure.
Laine's laughing so hard she can barely stand up, leaning against me for support. "This is the best day ever," she manages between giggles.
Her hair's a mess — half of it's escaped her ponytail, sticking to her flushed cheeks. Grass stains on her shirt from that kamikaze dive for the ball rolling toward the water. Streak of dirt on her neck. Mascara slightly smudged because she laughed so hard she cried.
She's a complete disaster.
And she's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
I want to marry this woman.
The thought slams into me like a linebacker I didn't see coming and I actually stop breathing.
Just — stop. Lungs offline. Brain short-circuiting.
Marriage. We've been dating for what — a month?
Six weeks? That's insane. That's clinically insane.
I don't even know her middle name. Do I know her middle name? I don't think I know her middle name.
But she's out there laughing, throwing herself full-body into this stupid game with my stupid friends, being competitive and silly and completely unguarded, and my fingers are gripping the edge of the bench so hard the wood grain is probably tattooing itself into my palms.
Yeah. I want all of this. All the time. Forever.
I'm completely gone for this woman.
And I don't even care.
"Hey," Laine says, looking up at me with those blue eyes. Her laughter has faded to a soft smile. "You okay? You got quiet."
"Better than okay." I pull her closer, both arms around her, and she comes easy, hands landing on my chest like they belong there. "Just thinking."
"About what?"
About spending the rest of my life with you. About waking up next to you every morning. About how I didn't even know I was looking for you until I found you.
Right. Cool. Totally normal thing to be thinking six weeks in. Not unhinged at all.
"About how glad I am you came today," I say instead. Because it's true, and it's not insane, and it won't send her running for the hills.
"Me too." She rises up on her tiptoes and kisses me, soft and unhurried. "Your friends are great. This was great. You're great."
"That's a lot of greats."
"You deserve a lot of greats."
My thumbs trace circles on her waist. I could stand here forever. I could literally root into this grass and become a tree and be fine with it as long as she stayed leaning against the trunk. I wouldn't care about the birds, even if they shit on me.
Fuck. The bugs, though.
Tony chooses that moment to slosh out of the pond, shoes squelching, shorts dripping a small river onto the bank. "Alright, lovebirds, save it for later. Who's buying the first round? Because I need a beer and I need it now."
Laine pulls back, but she keeps hold of my hand. "I think the guy who went swimming should buy."
"Harsh," Tony says, but he's grinning. "I like her, Reid. She's mean. Keep her."
"That's the plan," I say.