3. Chapter 3 #3
“Not an athlete? Try saying that to my one-hundred-mile-an-hour fast ball.”
JB stands in front of me, blocking my view of Max, but giving me a great view of JB's ass.
Stop looking.
“Okay, you two. Can we stop the trash talk? We're only on the first swing of the first hole.”
I take a step back and stand beside my caddy, Graham.
JB's shoulders relax, and he makes his way to the tee. “Gonna take all of your advice, Coach.”
“Coach?” I say with disdain.
As per usual, it doesn't faze him. He just hums to a beat in his own head and sets up the shot.
My fingers tingle, desperate to be back over there guiding his hips, but I don't need to.
His feet are positioned well.
His grip is perfect.
His stance is perfect.
He waggles his big, juicy—I mean, firm and muscular—ass once before taking a breath.
Why are my fingers still tingling?
When he swings, it has more fluidity than earlier, and the ball holds its line.
Impressive. Not that I'd tell him that.
When the ball lands about twenty yards behind mine, he says, “Where’s that trophy? It's ours.”
“Don't get excited. It's one shot.” I step forward and tap him on the shoulder as I look at our two white balls sitting in the fairway.
“Can I get a little excited?”
“No.”
He grins and steps back, and as I move away from the tee and pull myself up onto our golf cart. That's when I catch JB looking at the catfish on the back of my skirt. The design follows the same pattern at the front with the mouth gaping open in an unfortunate spot.
Right at one of my holes...
Stop thinking about nice holes, Whit
“JB,” I warn. His eyes slowly come up to meet mine. I point at him. “Eyes up.”
“What? I was looking at the fish.”
“You were looking at my ass.”
“It's not my fault it's on your ass.”
“You know, for two people claiming they’re not attracted to each other, there’s an impressive amount of ass appreciation happening,” Jess says.
From somewhere behind her, Max makes a sound that is definitely a laugh disguised as a cough.
JB raises his hand. “I'd like to formally point out that I've never said I was not attracted to Whit.” He takes a beat, as if he's working through the implication of Jess's statement.
Then he slowly turns to look at me as his hand lowers.
“Does that mean you've been telling everyone you're not attracted to me?”
“Focus on the game,” I say, avoiding answering him and lying to everyone.
“Focusing,” he says with a distinctly somber tone.
I guess there is a way to get him down.
Pushing the guilt to the side, I sit in the golf cart and watch as Max steps up to the tee. He looks at the fairway once and sets himself up with no wiggle or fuss because he has none of the JB flair.
JB flair...
Did I just say that?
What's happened to me?
Max swings and hits the ball. We all watch in awe as it lands ten yards ahead of mine.
Shit.
Maybe I shouldn't have fired up my competitor.
“Nice shot,” Jess says, giving him a high five as he walks past.
“Not bad for a non-athlete,” he says with sarcasm, his eyes landing on me.
Can't hate him for that.
“Good shot,” I say with pursed lips, knowing I'm going to have to push JB to his limits if I have any chance of winning against Max and Jess today.
Jess takes her place and hits a clean draw that lands just beside mine. She turns back with her club tucked under her arm and points at me.
“You're going down, bestie.”
“You wish.”
“I really do. I love you, but one day I'd like to know what it feels like to putt for the championship and win instead of lose every time.”
She shoulders past me, and yeah, hearing her say that kind of sucks. We've been playing on the same circuit together since we were sixteen, and statistically, I've always performed better, but I can't lose on purpose. That would be unsportsmanlike, and Jess would hate that too.
She's different, though. Better than me in every other aspect. She's peppy, with a personality that all the sponsors love. I'm not as open or fun. I know that.
My gaze inadvertently drags to JB, who's talking through the print design of his shirt with Max. Max nods along even though he’s seemingly completely uninterested.
This is what fun gets you.
Jess loops her arm through Max's, pulling him away from my partner for the game and toward their cart. “Come on, Max. I want to see their faces when we birdie this hole.”
Max lets himself get pulled along, probably thankful he no longer has to discuss the intricacies of fish stitching. He glances back at me from over his shoulder, and I narrow my eyes.
Game on, Brennon.
“Cart?” JB says beside me.
“Cart,” I confirm.
I get in first and focus on the fairway.
I'm not losing to Max Brennon.
I'm especially not losing while wearing a skirt with a catfish over my cooch.
“Ready, Coach?” JB asks with markedly less enthusiasm than earlier.
I turn the cart on and grip the steering wheel. “Call me that again and I'm switching partners,” I say, to try to get him to smile.
He doesn't. He just nods. I steer us down the cart path and stare straight ahead.
Seventeen holes. That's all I've got left. I'll be fine.
I wish I believed it.