Chapter 5
CATARINA
Pheobe’s jaw hung open as we walked to the golf outing the next morning.
“He just . . . left?”
I nodded. “Apparently I can’t even get laid by one of the biggest manwhores in the wide world of hockey. The worst part is that I felt this unbelievable connection with him. I was probably imagining it. I bet he does that with a girl every other night.”
“I just don’t understand why he would mess with you like that. Dancing all hot with you, kissing you, pressing you against the wall.” Phoebe zoned out, looking at the golf green as we came upon it with our rented clubs.
I squinted at her. “Are you . . . getting vicariously turned on right now?”
She rolled her eyes. “I’m not bi-curious. Well, okay, maybe a little. You did look really sexy in that red dress last night.”
“I said, vi-carious. Like you’re living through me.”
“Oh.” Her face reddened, and she cleared her throat as we arrived at the green. “Lot of noise out here today.”
It was dead quiet as we approached the green. A grin tugged at the corners of my lips. I put my hand on Phoebe’s shoulder. “It’s going to be one of those days, isn’t it?”
She nodded. My head ached and my hangover was starting to kick in. It wasn’t as bad I thought it would be. We were lucky we had the 11:00 A.M. tee time for charity golf instead of the early one.
“It’s definitely going to be one of those . . .”
My jaw fell open as I saw the beer-cart girl and, more specifically, who was flirting with her.
There he was, in flesh and blood on the fairway, about one hundred feet away: Dustin LeBlanc. He sat in the cart with his leg hanging out as the beer-cart girl typed something into his phone, and handed it back to him, along with a six-pack.
“. . . days,” I gulped, finishing my sentence as I set my clubs down.
“Why is he here?” Phoebe asked.
“I don’t know, but our celebrity partners better get here soon so we can get started and get the hell out of this area. Who did you say we’re playing with again?”
“According to the last notification I got from the app, we were supposed to be with a couple of Chicago players. Jake Napleton and Chandler Spiros,” Phoebe said.
“Well, where are they?”
The beer-cart girl was on the fairway in front of us, but she drove around and sped toward the tee, with Dustin in the front seat. He had a big smirk on his face as he arrived right in front of us.
“Hell yeah! Phoebes! And Doctor Red!”
My stomach lurched.
“Can you just call me Catarina, please?”
“Catarina. Well, alright. And I gotta say. Damn, Cat. You look stressed. Like you need a break already.” He winked at me.
Why did I feel all of the sudden like I was talking to the same asshole I’d met in the elevator last night before he got all nice and deep for our later conversation? Was our whole 3:00 A.M. rendezvous a dream? My body was tense, so he was right.
“I’m fine,” I responded. “What are you doing here, anyway?”
“We’re supposed to be with Spiros and Napleton,” Phoebe interjected.
“Last second change. They paired us together.”
I tried to hold it together, I was sure my face conveyed my frustration. The last thing I wanted right now was to spend three hours golfing with the man who had toyed with me and then turned me down last night.
“Hey-o!”
A voice hooted from behind us. It was Chip, another player from their team, and he was somehow driving two golf carts, with his legs spread between them.
“Wooohooo!! Well well, Destino! Looks like we got the hook-up for today with a couple of hotties! Hey ladies!”
I faceplanted into my palm. So much for a nice, de-stressing afternoon of golf.
“Hey Kit Cat, cheer up.” I felt Dustin’s hand on my shoulder. “You look like you need a break. Let me break you off a piece of this Kit Kat Bar.” He held out a piece of chocolate.
I looked over at him as he bit his lip, and took it. Because despite the new nickname he’d just branded me with, I was hungover, and Kit Kat Bars were delicious.
“Did he just call you, ‘Destino?’” I asked.
“Damn skippy I did, Kit Cat!” Chip interjected, picking up right away on my new nickname.
“Oh no,” I said because two people saying it meant it was a thing. “That’s not my name.”
Dustin and Chip made eye contact.
“You thinking what I’m thinking?” Chip asked.
“Oh yes,” Dustin answered.
Chip pressed a couple of buttons on his phone, and ten seconds later the two of them literally broke into song, as they danced around the putting green like a couple of goofs and sung to the Ting Ting’s song That’s Not My Name.
“They call me Sta-cy. They call me Jane. That’s not my name. That’s not my . . . name!”
Phoebe died laughing, and although I tried to resist, I did too. And it felt good.
I stared at Dustin—Destino, now?—and I tried to fight it, but I couldn’t help the way my heart warmed. There was something about two muscular, good-looking guys doing a goofy coordinated dance (where did they learn it?) to a ridiculous pop song. I couldn’t help but smile.
Just then, a camera crew and a group of people came upon us.
“Uh, hey, sorry we’re late. Are you about to tee off?”
Chip and Dustin stopped dancing, and Chip turned off the song.
“Fun’s over, girls,” Chip said. “We’ll dance more, later. Don’t you worry.”
We teed off and started the first of eighteen holes. As I watched Dustin hit an expert shot, I couldn’t stop my heart from fluttering. But it still drove me crazy thinking about how he had turned down my invitation last night.
After an hour of pretending we’d never seen each other before and exclusively chatting about golf, pop music, and which holiday is the best, we’d had a few drinks and I felt bold going from hole seven to eight.
“So are we going to talk about last night?” I blurted out. He didn’t take his eyes off the green as he drove the cart.
“I had a great time. Did you?” he said.
“Yes, of course,” I said. “But why didn’t we . . . you know?”
He stopped at the next tee. Phoebe and Chip were already teeing off.
“Why didn’t I what, Kit Cat?” He seemed to revel in asking the question to which I was sure he knew the answer.
“Why didn’t you want to come in?” I breathed, spelling it out.
He shrugged. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Is there something wrong with me?”
“Don’t be silly.”
“Something I said?”
Phoebe and Chip drove off to find their balls on the fairway.
“Anyone ever tell you that you overanalyze things?” Dustin said as he set his ball on the tee, and lined up his shot.
“I’m a doctor, that’s what I do. I analyze things.”
“I like you, Cat,” he said. “I think you’re great.”
“I think you’re great!” I repeated back to him. “That’s like, what I said to a guy at the bar I wanted to put in the friend zone last month. You sound like the Frosted Flakes tiger. For real. Just tell me, I can take it.”
“Fore!” he yelled, then took his shot. Turning to me, he said, “Fine. I’ll tell you what I was thinking.
I was thinking, there has to be something wrong with you.
Some kind of idiosyncrasy that I’m blind to right now.
Because last night—you were perfect. A hot doctor in a red dress with a body that’s made to be pressed up against a wall and kissed?
You were too good to be true. And I felt a connection with you that I haven’t felt in a long time. So I backed it off.”
My body slackened, surprised his response was actually quite thought out and articulate. Maybe there was more to this puckboy than met the eye.
I set up my shot carefully, then launched it right into the water.
“We’ll give you a mulligan on that,” Dustin said, pulling another ball out of his pocket.
“I felt it too,” I said, then laughed. “Too bad I’m going to be deported soon.”
I breathed, let it out, and took another swing. This time the ball stayed on the fairway.
When I turned, Dustin was glaring at me. “Did you just say you’re going to be deported?!”
I nodded. “I’m being sent back to Spain. Thank you for all the new regulations, Uncle Sam!”
“So they’re going to send you away, just like that?”
“Yeah,” I said, getting in the cart. “Unless I like, find someone to marry me. That’s really the only way I can stay in the country at this point. But I can’t get a guy to spend the night, so marriage is clearly off the table. Unless?” I looked at him, and he laughed.
“Yeah well, I don’t believe in marriage. So you’re definitely barking up the wrong tree.”
“What do you mean, you don’t believe in it? And I was just kidding about the whole marriage thing, obviously.”
“I don’t think it’s something desirable, something that I want. I would never get on my knee for a woman. Kudos to everyone who is happily married. That’s not me, though. Not my cup of tea.”
I leaned in and put my hand on his shoulder. “You just like getting slapped, not married, eh?”
He launched his head back in laughter as we pulled up to where our balls were on the fairway. The momentum jolted me forward, and my hand landed on his bare leg.
“Oh,” I said. “Sorry.” I gave him a sultry look. “I’m touching your leg.”
He swallowed hard and didn’t get out of the cart. “I can’t move,” he grinned. “Did you put a spell on me?”
I glanced up, then remembered, we were possibly on camera right now, so I released him. “Bad balance,” I said. “My bad.”
“All good. Although Kitty Cats usually have stellar balance.”
I shook my head. “Fine. If I’m Kitty Cat, then you’re Destino.”
“I like that. So you’re telling me I’m your destiny.”
“You know a little Spanish? I’m impressed.”
We got out and waved to the camera and the few people who had lined up along the green.
“Give me a break, Kit Cat. Let’s stick to the game.”
My stomach rumbled. “I’m starting to get hungry now, though.”
He grinned. “Well. Do you want another one of these?” he said, waving an unopened Kit Kat Bar.
Where was he getting all of those?
I batted my eyes. Little did he know, chocolate was my favorite vice. “I guess it is my destino.”
We kept golfing, kept drinking beers, and the afternoon spilled into the early evening until the next thing we knew, Chip, Phoebe, Dustin and I were out at Mon Ami Gabi, a huge French restaurant on the strip in Las Vegas.
We were served many beers during golf (the beer-cart girl made several more appearances and shot me devil eyes at the way I was flirting with Dustin), and at this point, we needed some food to fill our stomachs and keep us from going off the deep end.
“I guess we can call this the last supper,” I said as we handed the server back our menus after ordering.
“Why?” Chip asked.
“Kit Cat is getting deported.”
It was the first time I felt as though Chip dropped the veil of his ridiculous personality. “What? Are you fucking serious?”
I nodded.
Phoebe shot me a concerned look. “Don’t talk like that. We’re going to figure something out.”
“What are we going to figure out, exactly?” I responded.
“There’s nothing left to figure out. I’m getting deported.
That’s the end of it. I don’t get why we have to pretend like it’s not happening when it is.
It’s a thing.” I felt bad that my little tirade had sobered up our fun conversation, but I also wanted to be a realist.
“Spain’s a great country,” I added, trying to lighten the mood. But now I felt like I was parroting Phil’s talking points. “Maybe I can take up painting like I’ve always wanted to do. I’ve never had enough time to do something like that.”
An awkward silence took over the table, and I took a sip of my drink.
“Let’s pick a different topic. Just about anything aside from my deportation will do. Dustin,” I said, knocking my hand down on his wrist. “Why don’t you tell us something about you that not a lot of people know?”
He smiled slyly. “So . . . aside from just about everything about me?”
I felt a warmth emanate through my body as our skin touched. “How about this? What’s a question you’ve always wished interviewers would ask about you, but they never do?”
He ran a thumb over his stubble.
“They never ask me about the way of the Samurai.”
I rolled my eyes. “Be serious.”
“I am being serious. I love Japanese honor culture. Ask me anything about it.”
Even Chip seemed surprised, and I assumed teammates talked about everything.
“Okay, what do you like about it?”
“Besides the Samurai swords?”
“Besides those.”
“Well, my grandfather served in World War II in Japan. He stayed there after the war ended. So, basically whenever I would go over to his house I would find a bunch of old books about Japan, and it got me started reading. I love the aspect of Japanese honor culture that has to do with facing your enemy. The only way you can truly win a battle is by embracing your fear and using it against the enemy.”
“I must say, that’s not what I was expecting,” I said.
He shrugged. “You asked a good question. What about you, what is your side interest?”
I giggled. “I love anything to do with the 1920s. Music, books, clothes.”
“Why the 1920s?”
“It was one of the last fun decades in Spain. Well, for the Catalan people at least. Ernest Hemingway wrote his book about bullfighting in Madrid, and things were generally carefree. After the depression, the war, and the resulting dictatorship, things just went downhill.”
“So . . . this is an oddly coherent conversation for the amount of drinking we’ve done today,” Phoebe jumped in.
“Agreed,” Chip said. “LeBlanc, I never knew you were such a closet nerd.”
“It’s cute how he calls you LeBlanc,” I chimed in.
“You know what else is cute?” Dustin said.
“No. What?”
“Your face.”
My mouth fell agape, and a chill went down my spine.
He smirked, and I couldn’t believe I was continuing to walk right into his third-grade traps.
I felt my buzz coming back, and I wondered if it was him making me drunk, not the drinks.
He must have taken my open, parted lips for a target because the next thing I knew, his lips were on mine and I was moaning into his mouth as we kissed. My head filled with reasons we shouldn’t be doing this.
“Uh, guys?” Pheobe asked.
It was five o’clock, and we were in plain view of other people from the conference.
Doctors were not the kind of people who just engaged in PDA recklessly. We had an image to upkeep.
But then again, we were in Vegas, and I was being uprooted in a week. What did I care? YOLO.
I heard Chip clear this throat a minute later and was saddened when I looked up to find our server delivering our food. The filet mignon I hard ordered at Dustin’s behest smelled delicious.
I wasn’t disappointed as I ate it.
Toward the end of the meal, Dustin slipped me a note scribbled on a napkin and said he had to get back to his room.
I smiled as I read:
There’s something special for dessert on the menu tonight.
Meet me up in my room. Use this key. Floor 82
D