3. Chapter 3 #2
I raise my hands immediately, annoyed at myself. I never touch people while helping them unless they’ve explicitly asked first. I don’t know what made me so comfortable with JB that I’d do it now.
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t—”
“No. It’s not you.” He clears his throat, and his cheeks go a little red. “It’s just, I've had fans come up behind me on the field...” He trails off, and then, apparently deciding to commit to the over share rather than retreat from it, says. “My ass gets grabbed a lot.”
Why does he have to make everything weird?
“I was not grabbing your ass. My hands were on your hips.”
“I know that now.”
I hold his gaze for one more second, and then I raise my hands. “Can I?”
“Anytime. Getting a golf lesson from you is like winning the World Series and eating that nacho hot dog at the Knaves stadium on the same day.”
I place my hands back on his hips, noting the sheer width of him in comparison to me. He’s a unit, that’s for sure.
“Rotate,” I say.
He faces forward, grips the club, and when he shifts his weight through the swing, I can immediately feel what the problem is.
“You’re blocking yourself,” I say. “Right here.” I press my thumbs into the top of his hip bones, just slightly. “Your whole lower half is locked. You need to let your hips go first. Then your arms follow.”
“Try again.”
“Sure thing, Boss.”
He tries again, and to his credit, it’s marginally better. There’s about half a second where the rotation actually starts from the right place before his upper body takes over.
“One more time,” I say, and take a step back to watch.
He nods, trying again.
And we’re right back to where we started.
“It’s your ass.” I take it in, impressed by it. In any other circumstance, I’d say it’s perfect. All those years of squatting have clearly helped build his muscles.
Unfortunately, they’re too developed for this.
He shimmies slightly before saying, “My ass?”
I stop, and inwardly curse.
I shouldn't have said that.
I feel him freeze, and he slowly turns around to take me in.
“It’s not made for the hinge. It’s why your lower half is tight,” I answer quickly, avoiding all the thoughts about his curved, muscled butt. “Golf needs you to hinge and rotate. Your glutes are too developed. They're fighting the movement.”
JB takes a second to process this information before a grin grows wide on his face.
“You’re telling me my ass is too big for golf?”
I swallow. Close my eyes and try to regain any composure I have left. “It's too muscled, which is creating resistance in the rotation.”
“I squat,” he says, spreading his hands out. “All the time. Every day of my professional life. What do you expect?”
He stares at me. I stare back. A slow grin is starting at the corner of his mouth, and I know exactly what's about to come out of it, so I get there first.
“Golf requires fluidity,” I say, placing my hands back on his hips. “Rotation. Finesse. It's not about generating raw power and sending the ball into orbit. It's about sequencing. The club does the work if you let it.”
“Finesse,” he repeats. “You want finesse, Marlow?” He looks at me. “I can do that.”
He shimmies a little again.
I sigh. “Are you ever serious?”
“I can be.” The shimmying stops. He picks the club back up and settles into his position.
I take a step back as he sets up over the ball, and this time, when he goes through the motion, I can see him actually thinking about it, trying to let the lower half lead. The contact isn't perfect, but the ball flight is straighter. This time the ball actually holds its line.
We both watch it land, neither of us saying anything for a moment.
“Better,” I say.
He looks at me over his shoulder with one corner of his mouth tilted up. “Damn. I was hoping for another tango with you, Marlow.”
My eye twitches, and irritation makes its way through my chest.
It was just a joke. A light, throwaway, completely harmless joke that I should be able to dismiss.
Sadly, every time I close my eyes, all I see are his big, juicy glutes. Yeah, he'd definitely be able to throw me around if I asked him.
I pick up my bag.
“I’m going to talk to my caddy. I’ll see you at the first tee,” I say, needing some space from him.
I hear him laugh behind me, but I don't look back. I'm not going to let him or his perfect ass get in my way of winning.
I narrow my eyes, taking in the fairway.
JB moves up beside me and leans in as I assess the first hole. It's a four-hundred-and-twelve-yard par four with a slight dogleg left.
“Looks like a great hole,” he says.
I flinch. My jaw clenches, and I close my eyes.
Why? Why did my brain immediately go to him complimenting my great holes? Is that even a compliment anyway?
I shake my head, ignoring the fact that he's close enough that I can smell him and can therefore confirm he showered today.
“Don't do that,” I grit out.
“Do what?”
“Stand here like you've assessed the hole.”
“Well, I've looked at it.”
I turn to look at him. “Looking and assessing are not the same thing.”
He tips his head, and he's holding back a smile. I can tell. “Okay then, Marlow. Talk me through what I'm missing.”
I point. “See that bunker on the left at two-fifty? If you try to cut the corner, you're in it. The safer play is to just aim a bit right of center off the tee. That'll leave you a clean second shot.”
“Sounds good.”
“How far do you usually hit your driver?”
He pushes his lips out and mulls it over. The fact he has to think about it tells me beating Max is going to be harder than I'd hoped.
“Two-sixty on a good day.”
“Then skip the driver. Use your three-wood and put it in the middle of the fairway. Keep it simple.”
“Okay,” he says.
That's it?
“Okay?”
He shrugs. “Yeah. You know the game better than I do. I'm not going to fight you on strategy.” He pulls his three-wood from the bag and studies it. “See? I'm coachable.”
Coachable? This man is coachable? I don't know what to do with that. in my experience, most men ignore my advice. JB hasn't done that at all. He just... agrees and adjusts.
I find it deeply unsettling.
I pull out my club and step up to the tee before settling in. I plant my feet, adjust my grip and line myself up.
Taking one last look, I swing.
Thwack!
The ball flies in the air, landing clean in the middle of the fairway. Exactly where I wanted it.
JB watches the ball land, and gives a low whistle. “That was seriously impressive.”
“I know.”
From the other side of the tee box, I hear Jess snort. She's standing next to Max, who has his arms folded and is watching my ball emotionlessly.
“That's the one to beat,” he says, almost to himself. Then he looks at me directly. “And I plan to.”
I hold his gaze, squaring up to him. “You're welcome to try,” I say in a sickly-sweet voice before crinkling my nose. “But I thought you were a pitcher?”
“What's wrong with that?”
I look at JB and then back to Max.
“Well, pitcher’s aren’t really considered athletes.”
Jess takes in a sharp breath.
JB groans. “You just had to go there, didn't you?”
Max hasn't flinched at the words. I knew he wouldn't.
Game recognizes game.
What a cocky ballplayer.