Chapter 42 – Remington #2
“If that’s rusty, may we all achieve that level of corrosion,” Jackie quips. “Now do it again and see if you can keep it straight like that. That’s what you’re going to need to do on the first hole.”
Mindy nods and blows out a breath, placing another ball and lining up. The second drive is even better, sailing straight and farther than the first.
“Seriously, feel my nips,” Cesar says, turning to thrust out his chest toward me. “They’re like fucking pebbles.”
I reach for one, pinch it, and twist. Hard. My friend lets out a groan. “Oh yeah, I like it rough, Daddy. Now do the other one.”
“Would you fucking stop, you reprobate,” I hiss before striding toward my assistant who’s apparently some kind of goddamn golf savant. “That was… exceptional, Mindy. How long has it been since you’ve played?”
She rolls her lips in between her teeth, looking self-conscious as hell with her pretty hazel gaze lifted to mine. “Since my dad died. So, like, seventeen years?”
Chandler steps toward us, one hand raised in the air. “Hold on. What did you say your last name is?”
Mindy purses her lips and blows out a long breath. “Espinoza.”
Small puzzle pieces begin to shift in my mind, forming a bigger picture. “And what was your dad’s name?” I ask cautiously.
“Juan Espinoza,” she says quietly, like it’s an admission. Gasps from the entire group suck all the air from the space.
“The Juan Espinoza?” I ask, once I return some oxygen to my lungs.
“Yes.”
“The professional golfer?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Juan Espinoza, the pro golfer, was your dad?” I ask, stringing all the information into a single sentence, just to be sure.
Mindy giggles a little at my repeated questions, though she still looks apprehensive. “Yes, Juan Espinoza, the pro golfer, was my dad.”
I look down to see if my socks have been blown off, but they’re still firmly on my feet beneath my Nikes. “Why didn’t you ever tell me?” I ask, returning my gaze to hers.
She shrugs. “People have mixed reactions when hearing my dad’s name. You know, because of… everything.”
Cesar steps up beside me. “You mean after he won two U.S. Opens and The Masters in two years and then…” He lets his voice trail off, but Mindy picks up the story.
“And then choked during the first three tournaments the next year, which sent him into a spiral where he began drinking heavily, showed up sloshed to a major televised tournament, fell into a pond, and then punched another player when he tried to help him out?” she asks in one long sentence. “Yeah, pretty much that.”
A collective wince passes around the group. I remove my hat and stroke a hand over the top of my head before replacing the cap backward, not missing the flare of interest that sparks in Mindy’s eyes. Hmmm, she likes the backward hat move. Noted.
“I’m sorry, Mindy. I didn’t mean for all this to bring up bad memories.”
Her smile turns my soul to mush. “Most of my memories of my dad are good ones. The only reason I don’t talk about him to others is because his downfall makes a lot of golf people uncomfortable.”
Chandler inches closer. “It makes people uncomfortable because they’re worried it could happen to them.
They see someone’s rising star plummet, and they envision themselves in that story, and they don’t like it.
Golf is such a mental game so it’s easy to fall from grace in only a few strokes.
” He offers Mindy a gentle smile, and it doesn’t even bother me this time because it’s so genuine.
I squeeze her shoulder reassuringly. “That’s your dad, Mindy, and he was absolutely brilliant in his heyday. You can talk about him all you want with us.”
“Thanks, guys,” she says, offering a soft smile. “After he died, I hung up my golf bag. I’ve hit balls at Top Golf a few times with friends, but I never actually hit the links again.”
Silence falls around the group. Then I say some of the hardest words I’ve ever uttered because I really want to play in this tournament. But not at the expense of her mental health.
“You don’t have to play. We’ll just forfeit and enjoy the weekend as spectators.”
She snorts out a scoff that startles me.
“Oh please. I’m not a baby about it. I just didn’t feel like playing anymore after he was gone.
” Her eyes sparkle in the Florida sunshine as she looks around at the driving range and the manicured putting greens in the distance.
“But it feels like maybe it’s time,” she says, wistfulness and a gleam of hope in her soft whisper.
I want to take her hand. I want to pull her against me and rock her back and forth. I want to tell her to do what’s best for her and not think about anyone else.
Because her feelings… her wants… her needs matter more than my own. And that’s when I know I’m in trouble.
Antonio checked us into the hotel while we played our practice round today. Mindy only got better as the day went on, and it was fucking beautiful to see her confidence grow stroke after stroke.
Speaking of strokes, I’m going to have to take care of this throb that’s been threatening inside my pants all day. I’ve managed to control it enough to not embarrass myself, but if she wears another one of those goddamn skirts tomorrow, my putter won’t be the only club the cameras get a shot of.
“So, you and Mindy, huh?” Cesar asks. I turn to look at my friend, wondering if he can somehow read my mind. We’re sitting at the bar downstairs in the Avancé Hotel having a drink since Mindy went gaga over the soaking tub in her room and announced she was taking a bath.