Chapter 11
Chapter eleven
Avery
Silences, I can handle.
Hell, lately, silence is bliss. Having people actively avoid conversation with me? Perfect. Not having to force conversation with them? Even better.
But this shit is just awkward
I had no choice but to remain completely quiet in the car ride to our first location because she gave me nothing.
Not that I really tried. I cleared my throat, cracked my knuckles, tapped my fingers on the leather seats, and she watched me like I was a species in a museum she’d never seen before.
I could feel her eyes raking over me the entire drive, but I refused to give her the satisfaction of looking back at her. So I kept my eyes forward.
She watched while I tried to hand the driver the card with the address. Watched as he waved me off because he knew exactly where to take us.
And she watched as I read a text message from my manager telling me to ‘let loose’.
Whatever that means.
It’s just like Orlando to meddle and go all out when he does. Tonight is the perfect example of that.
Olive watched in complete silence, observing almost eerily, making me uncomfortable.
Not a word.
Not a smile.
Not a single sign of life.
I told the guy behind the counter at our first location, Putt Lane, that we had a booking for their next session. He handed us two golf clubs, a bucket of balls, and guided on us where to go.
Once we were both in our respective spots, she put ball after ball on her tee and swung her club like she was mad at it. She even hit almost every target she aimed for.
I, on the other hand, am no good at golf. I bounce and shoot a ball on a court, I don’t swing and hit balls with a stick.
"You’re really gonna give me nothing?" I finally ask her after she returns with her second bucket of golf balls.
"I don’t know what you mean," she says, still not looking at me as she places a new ball on her tee. How she’s able to do it so seamlessly in that dress isn’t something I want to try to figure out.
It’s dark blue, skintight with thin straps, and all I want to do is peel them off her shoulders, and let her dress pool at her feet.
I still don’t like her.
No matter what my brain—or body—might be saying.
"I don’t think I’ve even seen so much as a smile from you since you got in the car. Or ever, really." I shrug, swinging my club, missing the ball completely.
"And I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say anything even remotely funny to make me want to smile." The sound of her club connecting with the ball is something I’ve heard time and time again, but that one in particular feels like it’s aimed right for my gut, and I realize she’s right.
I’m giving her as much as she’s giving me.
"Although, something that almost makes me laugh, Avery, is your form. Because, and I mean this in the least respectful way possible, what the hell are you doing?"
I—what?
That gets a laugh out of me, a real, deep laugh that I’m sure everyone around us heard. I think it’s the first time I’ve laughed genuinely in the last twelve months. It makes my throat feel…itchy.
"I play basketball, not golf," I remind her.
Olive’s face remains expressionless. "Ah, that’s why you’re famous."
I genuinely cannot tell if she’s being serious, and she knows nothing about me, or if she’s being sarcastic.
"If you’re so good, Olivia, why don’t you teach me?" I raise a brow, gripping the end of my club in my hand, watching as she scrunches up her nose and shakes her head.
Placing hers on the ground, she walks over to me, her heels digging into the grass. I hold mine out for her, expecting her to take it, but she doesn’t.
My brows furrow. "What are you doing?"
She walks around me with purpose until she’s standing behind me, her chest pressed against my back.
"What are you doing?" I repeat, more teasing in my tone than the last time, but she doesn’t humor me with a response. Instead, what she says simply annoys me. I’m beginning to think I should’ve picked the older woman instead.
"Teaching you how to swing a golf club." Her arms lace around mine, her hands over mine as we hold the grip.
Her knees bend inward with mine. "Keep them bent."
She nudges me a little more, and I allow them to buck. "Hips back," she says, and I do it, realizing to outsiders just how ridiculous this would look, especially with our height difference.
I even see someone over the other side with their phone out, taking pictures, and I already know what the headline will read when the press inevitably get their hands on it.
Jones, emasculated by singer at a driving range as she teaches him how to play golf.
And the funny part is, I wouldn’t even care. My name would be in the news for something other than my temper.
A rare occurrence, these days.
I humor her, listening to her instructions, keeping my position exactly how she wants it, and when her arms come back with mine to swing the club, I miss.
On purpose, of course, but I still miss it.
"Who’d have thought a professional athlete would be unteachable?" She returns to her club and now-empty bucket before tucking them both under her arm.
"So, you do know who I am," I tease. "You remember me from my game the other night."
It’s not a question, but a fact.
Her expression sours. "Not even a little bit. I come from a football town, so unless you play in the NFL, I probably still wouldn’t have a clue who you are.
I was dragged to your game by a friend, but I couldn’t tell you anything that happened.
" She shrugs. "Have you always played for that team?
How long have you been a basketball player? "
"What is this? Twenty questions?"
"I don’t think we have enough balls left for twenty questions. What’s next on the list of things for us to do?" she asks, and I swing my club, connecting it with the final ball, before she heads toward the exit without me.
Collecting my things in a hurry, I follow behind her.
For someone with such short legs, she sure walks fast.
Or, she just doesn’t want to be seen with me.
That’s more likely.
And there it is. My least favorite recurring thought, dragging itself out from whatever mental pit I usually throw it into.
This time, I just don’t have it in me to fight it off.
"Anyone home?" She waves her hand in front of my face, and I realize I’ve probably been staring at her for long enough to be deemed creepy.
"Sorry?"
"What’s next?"
"Uh, let me check." I reach for the pocket in my suit jacket, fumbling for the stack of small envelopes, finding the next one.
I slide the card out of the envelope and hand it to her before I can change my mind.
She clears her throat before reading the card aloud. "Olive and Avery. Head to the nearest se—yeah, we’re not doing this card. What’s next?" She scrunches it up and tosses it in the bin, but I catch it before it sinks to the bottom.
"I may not be good at hitting a ball with a stick, but I am good at catching things."
She groans. "You’re arrogant, you know that?"
I mimic her then clear my throat, and read the card out loud. "Olive and Avery. Head to the nearest sex shop, and pick one item each." I raise a brow at her, and I can’t help the way my mind wanders.
That blue dress does not leave a lot to the imagination, that much is certain. It’s silk, and hugs her in all the places it’s supposed to. But now that Orlando has put that thought in my mind, that image… I shouldn’t be thinking about her like this.
But the picture is there, and I can’t shake it.
It throws me, just for a second.
Long enough to know I’m in trouble.
"Would it be such a bad thing?" I tease, but she pinches her nose and rolls her eyes for so long that I get the message loud and clear. "Got it. Not happening."
I shouldn’t have said it.
None of that belonged in the moment. But it’s already out there, and I hate that a part of me meant it.
I shake the thought off.
This isn’t the time. And she sure as hell isn’t interested in me like that. Or at all.
We spend the next few hours roaming the streets of New York City for our next locations, and it isn’t lost on me that people are watching the two of us very closely.
A few have stopped to ask her for photos, which surprises her every single time, and the few that recognize me, shout things at me as if they’re in the crowd and I’m on the court. As though I’m made of stone, and not affected by the words they say.
All things I’m used to hearing, sure, but called out to me while they think I’m on a date? Not okay.
We’ve played golf, watched a very short film, sang karaoke at some bar downtown, and gone to an arcade where she schooled me at literally every single game we played.
After each location, I asked if she wanted to head home. I didn’t want to force her to stay if she didn’t genuinely want to be here. And if I was being honest with myself, a little part of me felt glad that she always shook her head in response, and kept moving to the next destination.
We then had to go off script and find a store that sold shoes, which happened to still open at eleven at night because her feet were on the verge of ‘bleeding so much, her toes might drop off.’
Word for word, that was her exact description.
There wasn’t even a drop of blood in sight.
Conversation has been sparse, with secret glances at her when I knew she wasn’t watching, and it’s made me enjoy this date-for-charity-and-not-at-all-real more than I thought I would.
It’s been nice to get out, but not have to force conversation. And it hasn’t been awkward, either. Not since the very beginning, anyway.
"Down to our last card, Olivia." I know that isn’t her name, but I like watching how frustrated she gets whenever I call her that. Instead of waiting for her to call me an asshole, I continue before she gets the chance. "Any guesses on what it could be?"
She glares at me. "Okay, Elf Leader. If you can guarantee me food, I’ll let you…" She holds her stomach as it grumbles, while I pin her with a glare. "Your name." She clarifies. "It literally means ‘ruler of elves’. God, it’s not funny when you have to explain the joke." She shakes her head.
Of course, I knew what she meant. It’s my name, for God's sake. My mom’s nickname for me when I was younger was ‘Elfie’.
Thankfully, she stopped calling me that when she realized I would be the tallest person in our family by a long shot.
I haven’t thought about it in years, but Olive just calling me that sparked the memory.
Instead, I focus on the words she almost said, but didn’t.
"What will you let me do, Olive?" I take a step closer to her, catching her off guard. I watch her swallow hard.
She clears her throat, shakes off her nerves, and steps closer. "Whatever. You. Want. To. Me."
Fuck.
Now it’s me swallowing hard, my mouth suddenly dry.
The card does have food as the last stop, I checked when she wasn’t looking. Going by what Orlando had written, he’s booked out the entire top of the Empire State Building for a private meal for just the two of us.
I get the feeling that Olive Herring isn’t the type to enjoy something so formal and intimate.
I nod. "He’s telling us to get pizza."
"Perfect."
"You’re not actually going to let me do whatever I want to you, are you?" I ask as we walk side by side toward Tony’s in Manhattan.
"Not even once."