five.2 （Bonus）
I teed up on the fourth hole, feeling the breeze tug at my shirt. White polo, khaki slacks, glove tucked into my belt when I wasn't swinging-same uniform every guy out here had on. The club felt good in my hands, familiar. One of the few places I could think without someone breathing down my neck.
Sincere leaned against the cart like he had all day. "You gonna hit the ball or stand there posing?"
I smirked, eyes still on the ball. "Patience."
I lined up, slow and steady. No rush. On the downswing, the sound came sharp and clean-thwack-and the ball sailed dead center down the fairway.
Sincere whistled low. "Alright, Mr. Whitmore. I see you."
I stepped back, watching it roll. "You doubted me?"
"Always," he said, grabbing a club from his bag. "Keeps you humble."
We played the next few shots in that easy rhythm we had-talk, hit, talk some more. No need to fill every silence.
Halfway to the next hole, Sincere broke it. "So... bachelor party last weekend."
I glanced at him from the passenger seat. "What about it?"
He grinned like he'd been waiting to bring it up. "You. Acting all mysterious in the corner. I didn't know if it was just you tryna impress that girl or what."
"Who?" I asked, even though I knew.
He gave me a look. "Don't play dumb."
I let my gaze drift out over the green. "I wasn't-"
"I've never seen you run your mouth so little when you had an opening like that. You were-what's the word? Mysterious. That's dangerous, man. Women eat that up."
Yeah, we'd had a good talk. But I'd had plenty of those before.
Still, she was the one sticking around in my head.
I didn't know if it was the way she looked at me without rushing to decide who I was...
or if it was the fact she really didn't know.
Not the name, not the weight that came with it.
Maybe that made her freer with me. Or maybe it made me feel like I could be someone other than the guy the rest of the world expected.
Either way, it got under my skin in a way I didn't like admitting.
Sincere pulled up the cart while I sank the putt. "You thinking about her right now?" he asked.
I grabbed my club and climbed in. "You talk too much."
He laughed, shaking his head. "Yeah, that's a yes."
A cart girl rolled up on us-blonde, bright smile, too much mascara for the sun-and leaned just enough over the cooler. "You boys need anything?" she asked, her voice turned sweet like she'd practiced it.
Sincere didn't say a word, just looked at me.
I gave her a small grin, polite, nothing too inviting. "Water," I said.
"Just water?" She tilted her head, eyes lingering a second too long.
"That's all I need," I told her. My tone made it sound like I meant more than the drink. She smiled anyway, handed me the bottle, and drove off.
Sincere raised an eyebrow. "You losing your touch?"
"Not losing," I said, twisting the cap open. "Just not spending it where it doesn't count."
We cruised to the next tee, the tires crunching over gravel. Sincere tapped the steering wheel with one hand, side-eyeing me like he was waiting for me to slip.
"So... when's the follow-up?"
"There's not one." I checked the wind, lined my shot.
"Not one yet," he said. "I've known you long enough to hear the difference."
I swung. The ball sailed straight, clean. "You've also known me long enough to know I don't chase every conversation I like."
"True," he admitted, grabbing his driver. "But you do chase the ones you can't stop thinking about and you haven't shut up about her-at least in your head."
He wasn't wrong. That night at the club had been good.
Real good. But I'd had plenty of nights like that with plenty of women.
This was different. She was different. Something about her voice in my ear had stuck, and I didn't know if it was because she didn't know who I was...
or because she didn't care. That was rare. And dangerous.
Sincere hit his ball, not as clean, but good enough. He grinned at me like he'd read my mind. "See? I'm right."
"You're annoying." I grabbed the water from the cart, took a slow sip.
"Nah. I'm observant." He leaned back in his seat as we drove off again. "So, is it her face? That attitude?"
"Maybe all of it," I said, half-smiling.
We rolled up to the next tee, the sunlight flashing off the cart's windshield as we slowed. I pulled my driver from the bag, gave the grip a quick rub with my towel, and stepped onto the box. The wind had picked up-just enough to make it interesting.
I teed the ball low, kept my stance loose, then let it rip. The sound cracked through the air, and I watched the ball climb, hang, and drop just short of the bunker.
"Not bad," Sincere said, stepping up with his own driver. "But I'm about to put you in my back pocket."
I snorted. "You'd need bigger pockets."
He lined his shot, all show, then hooked it right into the rough. I grinned. "Pocket must've got a hole in it, huh?"
We loaded back into the cart, the tires kicking up bits of gravel. The course stretched ahead, a patchwork of green and shadow. A couple groups ahead of us, two older guys waved us to play through. We didn't argue.
By the eighth hole, the sun was high enough to warm the back of my neck.
My shirt clung just slightly between my shoulder blades.
I pulled a cold water from the cart's cooler, twisted the cap, and took a long drink.
Sincere was squinting at the flag in the distance, calculating like this was the Masters.
He pulled a three-wood and went for it, his shot arcing clean over the hazard and landing just shy of the green. I gave him a slow clap.
"Finally showed up," I said, stepping up with my own club.
My shot landed a few yards past his, and I didn't have to say a word-just handed the club back to the bag and walked ahead. The silence was its own scoreboard.
By the time we hit the back nine, the easy talk had thinned. We'd both gotten sharper, more focused. Drives got longer, putts cleaner. We didn't bother keeping an official score; we both knew who was up without saying it.
On the seventeenth, Sincere sank a twenty-footer. He stepped back, hands raised. "Tie game. Eighteenth decides it."
I picked my ball from the cup, rolling it between my fingers. "Guess we'll see who's paying the tab."
We took our time driving to the last tee, letting the breeze cut through the heat. I could feel the weight of the day in my shoulders, the kind that only came from hours outside.
Sincere hit first-straight down the middle, damn near perfect. He gave me a look like he already knew I'd need to match it.
I took my stance, breathed in, and let the swing happen. The ball soared, dead even with his. Fairway against fairway. This one was going to come down to the short game.
When we finally shook hands on the green, both of us were grinning like idiots. No money changed hands, but pride was on the table, and neither of us walked away with less than we came with.
We were loading our clubs back into the cart when my phone buzzed. Unknown D.C. number.
I answered on instinct. "Yeah."
A clipped voice on the other end: "Mr. Whitmore, your father's requesting you at the Capitol. As soon as possible."
I straightened. "My father's here?"
"Yes, sir. He arrived this morning. He's asked for you directly."
"I'll be there." I hung up before they could say anything else.
Sincere was watching me over the roof of the cart. "Your dad's in town? Since when?"
"Apparently... now." My voice came out tighter than I meant.
The sun felt harsher suddenly, the easy rhythm of the morning gone in a breath. That knot between my shoulders-that familiar one I'd managed to keep loose for a few hours-was back, cinching tighter with every inhale.
I pulled my phone out again, thumbing out a quick text to Monte.
"Something up?" Sincere asked, leaning on his club.
"Yeah." I tossed my glove into the bag. "Family business."
He gave a low whistle. "You good?"
I forced a smirk. "When am I ever?"
But my head was already somewhere else, already running through the scenarios that would make my father show up unannounced. None of them were good.
Monte had the black SUV pulled up before we even made it back to the clubhouse. Engine running, door open.
Sincere slapped me on the shoulder before I slid in. "Text me if you survive," he joked.
I gave him a quick smirk, but it didn't reach my eyes. "Yeah, we'll see."
The door shut, sealing me into that quiet, temperature-controlled bubble. Monte glanced at me in the rearview. "Capitol?"
"Yeah." I loosened my collar. "He's here."
Monte's eyebrows lifted just a fraction-his version of surprise. "Didn't know he was coming in."
"Neither did I."
We merged onto the road, golf course giving way to city streets. I tried to focus on the blur of green and asphalt outside, but my mind was already skipping ahead-what he could want, what move he might be setting up, and what it would mean for me.
My phone buzzed with a text from an aide I barely knew.
We hit a red light. My knee bounced once, twice. I caught it and pressed it still, leaning back against the seat like I was calm.
But the truth was, the golf course had been the only time all week I'd been able to breathe without feeling like there was a clock running down in the background. And now the clock was back-louder than ever.
Monte was parked by the curb, the black SUV gleaming under the noon light. I slid out without a word. The city blurred past, and my stomach tightened the closer we got.
The Capitol's stone steps felt colder than usual. Inside, I passed a few familiar faces-staffers, aides-offering nods and quick "good afternoon, Mr. Whitmore"s. I didn't slow down.
Near the mail room, I caught sight of him-my father-standing in conversation with the governor. The air around them was taut, even before I stepped close enough for them to notice me.
The governor glanced my way, gave a polite nod. "I'll leave you two to it," he said, excusing himself.
That left me alone with him. The President of the United States. My father.