3. Chapter 3
My father put me in a catfish onesie the second I was born, so I should’ve known this day was coming. It’s a full-circle moment for me, really. A deeply unfortunate one.
Catfish.
That’s all I see when I stare at myself in the mirror. One giant, wide-mouthed Catfish printed on the front panel of my skirt. It’s looking up at me with the same blank expression I’ve been wearing since I unzipped the garment bag and found it waiting inside.
Did I mention that it also has a matching visor?
I put the visor on and am speechless.
I’m a professional athlete with sponsors and am considered my own brand, so why am I wearing a skirt with a fish mouth sitting over my cooch? Because the sponsors told me to, and I honor my obligations even when they involve looking like a walking piece of stadium merchandise.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
“Whit? You're going to have to come out some time,” Jess says from the other side of the changing room.
I sigh. She's right, so I accept my fate and open the door.
Her face says it all.
Her jaw is dropped, her eyes are wide, and she can’t get a word out.
“Wow,” she says after an awkwardly long silence. Then she steps into the room, wraps her arm over my shoulder, and takes us in from the mirror.
“You look amazing, Whit.” Her voice sounds genuine, but I’m not stupid.
I glance at her outfit and then at mine.
“How did you get the small embroidered fish?”
She’s wearing the exact outfit I requested.
Jess shrugs. “I emailed the coordinator and asked for it.”
“So did I.”
She forces back a smile as she gestures to the fish adorning my groin.
“I think we can all agree that only Whit Marlow can pull off an outfit like this.”
She takes in my scowl, and that’s when she can’t hold back anymore, and bursts out laughing.
“I look ridiculous.”
“No. You looked ridiculous when you wore a bikini to play golf. Today, you look like a woman who is about to spend two days on a golf course with a man who can pick her up with one arm.” She shivers. “Imagine what else he can do with those muscles.”
“No thanks.” I curl my lip, pretending it’s not something I’ve been thinking about since he wrapped his sweaty arm around me yesterday.
I hate, hate, hate myself for finding it so hot.
I need to stay professional and, more importantly, I need to win.
Jess barks out a laugh. “Oh, please. You can try to deny it all you want, but there is so much tension between you, I can’t wait to see what happens when you’re left alone in a golf cart.”
She wiggles her brows. I groan.
“We aren’t going to be left alone. Graham, my caddy, and JB’s caddy will be there too.”
She snorts. “Guess you didn’t read the full briefing packet. They want you and JB in the same cart for pictures.”
“More? They want more pictures of me and JB? Have they not got enough?!”
“Oh, babe. No one can ever get enough pictures of you. Especially when you’re partnered with a guy who gives off obsessed-crush vibes while you act like you have a stick up your ass.”
I pull out of my friend’s hold and look straight at her while flailing my arms around. “Can’t you pretend to have some sexual tension with Max to give me a break? He’s tall. You like tall.”
She raises a brow.
“He’s also got sparkling green eyes.”
“Does he?” she asks with a hint of amusement.
“And he’s intense. You like intense guys.”
Her lips pull into a smirk. “So you want me to fake sexual tension with my golf partner so you don’t have to admit there’s sexual tension on your side of the course?”
I glare back, making her chuckle.
“Okay, okay. I’ll stop teasing you.”
“Thank you.”
“But I can't pretend to flirt with Max to help you out.”
“Why not?”
She lifts her hand up, flaunting her diamond engagement ring.
“Because Joe is my person. He fixes my laptop when it breaks, doesn’t care that I miss every holiday because of the tour, and last week he sent me a care package with the specific brand of trail mix I like, so—” She straightens up and smooths her skirt.
“—I do not need a ballplayer. I have a computer nerd and he is perfect, but nice attempt at changing the subject.”
“Had to try,” I mutter under my breath, knowing it was a losing battle before I started.
She loops her arm in mine, pulling me to the door. “Come on. Your partner's waiting.”
“Don't remind me.”
I let her drag me through the changing room, past the reporters and photographers set up in the clubhouse, and out to the course.
I’ve been on thousands of golf courses in my life now, but none of them hit like the ones I play in Charlotte.
St. Ives is no different. I haven’t played it much because of its strict members-only policy, but I’ve always admired the rolling fairways and beautiful greens.
Under any other circumstance, I'd be excited to play. Golf is my thing. It always has been, ever since my dad took me to the driving range when I was three.
Right now, though, I’m ticked off.
The other pairings are already out stretching, and every single one of them is in tasteful grays and blues.
The only person who isn’t is my partner for the next two days.
“It was him,” I grit under my teeth, glaring at the countless fish printed on his pants.
“What was—” the words die on Jess's lips. “Wow. Those are some pants.”
“He’s trying to embarrass me,” I say. “He went on and on about how much he liked my game because he knew I’d caught him laughing at me.”
“I don’t think it’s that deep, Whit. I think he was laughing because he was crushing.”
“And now, as if rushing me into throwing the worst pitch in history—”
“Oh, babe. You can’t blame anyone but yourself for that.”
"—wasn't enough. He wants to embarrass me all over again."
He hasn’t noticed me yet. If he had, I have no doubts he’d be rushing me like the over-enthusiastic golden retriever he is.
Thank goodness. I need time to prepare for his pep.
“Wish me luck,” I say, only serving to make Jess laugh beside me.
“I think it’s him who’s going to need it. Not you.”
Ignoring her, I cross the green toward him and drop my bag at my feet when I reach my preferred practice spot, right beside him.
His eyes are closed because he’s warming up.
At least I think that’s what he’s doing.
He’s holding one of his golf clubs horizontally behind his back with his arms looped over either side as he twists his torso left and right.
There’s this small smile on his face even though he looks like he’s wringing himself out.
Does anything get this man down?
I shake my head in annoyance, hating the way my chest pangs when I see him. He looks ridiculous. He also looks extremely comfortable with looking ridiculous, which is somehow more irritating than the ridiculousness itself.
I set up my first ball and pull out a seven iron.
“You're early,” he says without opening his eyes.
“And you're stretching wrong,” I sass back before pointing my golf club toward his hips. “You’re just rotating your spine without any hip engagement. You’re going to be tight for the first three holes.”
When his eyes meet mine, I hate, hate, HATE that they twinkle in the sunrise.
“Good morning to you too,” he says with a smirk.
“Here I was thinking I was loosening up. Thank you for the correction, Marlow.” He unloops the club from behind his back and holds it out like a walking stick as he takes me in. “Nice skirt.”
Raising my hand, I shake my head. “Don't.”
“I'm serious. I think it works on you.”
“JB.”
“The fish really brings out your—”
“I will withdraw from this tournament.”
He laughs and opens his arms out. “Okay. I'll stop. For the record though,” he looks down at his own pants and shirt, “I think we look great. Very cohesive.”
“We look like the team store had a clearance sale.”
“Are you saying that’s a bad thing?”
I shake my head, turn away from him, and take my first swing. The ball lands in the middle of the green, right where I wanted it.
Good. Even under duress, I can still play.
I roll my shoulders, setting up my next shot slowly because JB is setting up with his driver beside me. I subtly watch him so I can see what I’m working with.
He goes through a little pre-shot routine with a couple of waggles of his muscular ass before looking at the target. Then he takes an exaggerated breath.
I can tell he’s played golf before. I can see the muscle memory in the setup and the confidence he has when finding his grip. He's played enough rounds that the mechanics aren't foreign.
Then he swings, and I watch the ball fly across the fairway.
It goes far, but the shape of it is wrong.
He lets out a satisfied breath, clearly thinking that’s enough.
I say nothing and hit my next ball. We’re only warming up, after all. He could get better.
I watch his next swing, disappointed that it looks exactly the same and ends with the same result.
His upper body is doing all the work, with his arms, shoulders, and hands, forcing the club through the ball rather than letting the rotation generate the speed.
There's no fluidity in the movement, and that's going to have a huge effect on our performance.
I hit one more ball, just to give myself something to do while I think about how to strategically say something to him. I can’t lose a ProAm to Max Brennon because my partner is muscling a driver on every hole and bleeding yardage on every fairway.
“Can I see your swing?” I ask, trying to sound sweet. I admit this is a hard task for me.
Clearly, JB thinks so, too. He turns, surprised. “You just watched my swing.”
“Yeah.” I tip my chin. “But I want to see it up close.”
He swallows. “Um. Sure.”
I move behind him as he sets up again, watching the entire sequence, and sure enough, his hips barely move. The whole swing is powered from the shoulders down, and it's costing him everything below the waist.
When he brings the club down, I step forward and put my hands on his hips.
He startles. It’s literally a full-body flinch that nearly sends his club off into the turf.
“Sorry—” He straightens up and glances at me over his shoulder, wide-eyed. “It’s a reflex.”