Kiss My Putt

by Tara Sivec

  The 18th hole can sometimes be a noisy place and extremely stressful, and not just because it’s your last chance in the game. Since out here and back at the 1st hole are where the spectator stands are, there are easily ten times as many people watching these shots than on previous holes. But it’s absolute silence and nothing can be heard but the rustling of the wind through the trees as I look away from Birdie and back down at my ball. With one last deep breath, knowing it doesn’t matter at this point how I place, because I have everything I’ve ever needed standing twenty feet away, I pull my club back about a foot and bring it right back forward to tap my ball, holding my breath as it rolls toward the cup.

  And rolls…

  And rolls…

  And rolls…

  And then circles around the lip once before flipping over and dropping right down inside.

  “Holy shit.”

  The roar of the crowd is instantly deafening. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see everyone in the stands up on their feet, cheering and clapping, and everyone behind the spectator ropes doing the same as I slowly turn around in place.

  To find that Birdie has already scrambled under the rope and is charging full-speed ahead at me, tears falling down her cheeks and a bright smile on her face. I have just enough time to drop my putter and brace myself before she’s flying into my arms, wrapping her legs around my waist and her arms around my shoulders.

  “Look at you finally not sucking!” She laughs and cries excitedly as my arms lock tightly around her and I bury my face into the side of her neck.

  “I love you so fucking much,” I speak against the skin of her neck, squeezing her tighter to me, rocking us from side to side as television cameras and spectators all start moving this way, crowding around the apron of the green.

  Sliding one of my palms up her spine, I clutch onto a fistful of her hair and pull her head back a little, crashing my mouth to hers as soon as it’s close enough. Birdie’s tongue immediately tangles with mine, her arms tightening around my shoulders and my hat flying off the back of my head when she grips a handful of my hair and deepens the kiss, her thighs locking tighter around my hips.

  Hearing the clicking of camera shutters and sports reporters firing questions at me, I break the kiss, even though I don’t want to. Even though I could spend the rest of my life standing here on this golf course, holding this woman wrapped around me after she gave me a Birdie-launch hug on national television.

  “Would you look at that?” Birdie muses as I heft her up higher in my arms, and she runs her fingers through my hair as she looks down at me, both of us completely ignoring everyone around us vying for our attention. “Looks like someone just made a spectacle of himself on national television again.”

  I smile up at her when she laughs and then lets out a gasp when I give her ass a little squeeze, not giving one goddamn shit who’s watching or how many times this will make ESPN.

  “Yikes. Looks like I might need some help sprucing up my image. Know anyone who can do that for me?” I smirk.

  “I might…” she trails off as her legs loosen from around my waist, and I finally let her slide down the front of me. “We can talk about it later… over cookies.”

  I groan when she winks at me, knowing she put entirely too many dirty thoughts in my head when I now have to go speak to reporters and then do a press conference, and I probably shouldn’t do that with a boner.

  But then I realize who I’m in love with and see a little sliver of sweet Birdie ass cheek when she bends down to grab my hat she knocked off my head, and I know I’m just going to have to get used to it.

  And enjoy every single second of giving my best friend the shaft and my heart.

  EPILOGUE

  Palmer

  “Kiss my putt.”

  Three months later

  “Will you stop with that nonsense? You’re in public, and I’m trying to enjoy my popcorn,” Murphy grumbles.

  I laugh against the side of Birdie’s neck, nuzzling my nose under her ear one last time and inhaling her tropical coconut skin before I sit back up on my seat in the bleachers, where Birdie is sitting on the bench in front of me. She’s between my bent legs with my feet resting on either side of her ass on her seat, her back pressed against my chest with her arms resting on top of my thighs. We’re in the fifth inning of her nephew Owen’s first fall baseball game, sitting in the stands of the Summersweet High School baseball diamond, with a nice ocean breeze cooling down the warm night air.

  “We live together now, Murphy,” Birdie reminds him, craning her neck to look up and back where Murphy is sitting above us in the bleachers next to Tess and Bodhi. “You can’t vomit every time you see us kiss.”

  Murphy mutters under his breath, shoveling a handful of popcorn in his mouth before shouting down to the ump that a blind man could have seen that was a strike and not a ball.

  Birdie tips her head back to look at me upside down with a smile, and I lean forward and kiss her forehead before she brings her head up again to watch the game, clapping and cheering for Owen playing short stop.

  Just like Birdie said, we live together now as of the day we got back from San Francisco. Since Birdie’s flight had been delayed twice and she had nothing to do but sit around in the airport and wait, my good friend Bodhi made sure she wasn’t bored by giving her plenty to read and blowing up her phone with texts, telling her everything I hadn’t before I left for the tournament. About how I was broke, about how I was playing in the tournament to buy her a bigger cottage and put some money back into the bank because I didn’t want her to think I was a loser, and about how I had made up my mind that day in the storm that I was going to semi-retire and spend the rest of my life on this island with her.

  The day we got home, Birdie called Stefanie at Sandbar Cottages and cancelled my lease for me, saying it was ridiculous for me to pay rent on it every month when I practically lived at her place anyway. She was more than a little pissed at me about the money thing and my ridiculous need to keep it from her because I was embarrassed. And she ripped me a new one about the upgraded cottage and how if I wasn’t so hot, wasn’t so good in bed, and she didn’t love me so much, she would slit my throat. She actually went for the knife drawer when she said that, and I had to wrap my arms around her from behind, pick her up, and move her far, far away from the kitchen and any sharp objects.

  After my win in San Francisco, she stood by my side through every interview and press conference. I told her as soon as we got up to my hotel room the only thing Bodhi left out for me to fess up to – That I had been in love with her just as long as she’d been in love with me, and we called ourselves all kinds of dumbasses for all the years we wasted being miserable. Then we celebrated in the hotel room with me burying myself inside her until the sun came up and we had to leave for the airport, and after we got home and she cancelled my lease and we moved my stuff in, I was grounded for the next five days.

  Yep. Grounded. No sweet Birdie ass cheeks, no sweet Birdie kisses, no blowjobs during Caddyshack, and definitely no desk screwing. Birdie’s body was off limits, because she was so pissed at me she couldn’t even think straight, let alone have sex with me. I took it like a champ, only crying in the shower twice while I tried to sloppily jerk off and could never finish, since my hand paled in comparison to being inside of Birdie.

  My initial grounding was supposed to last two weeks or more. Thankfully, Birdie barely made it through day five, and she’s the reason I got off early for good behavior. Pun intended. I came home from the grocery store to find her pacing back and forth in the living room, hands in her hair, pulling it out by the roots while she muttered and cursed. As soon as I walked in the door with arms full of brown paper sacks of groceries and stopped by her small island in the kitchen, Birdie stopped pacing to glare at me. And then through a whole bunch more muttered curses, she yanked off her T-shirt and shorts until she was standing in front of me wearing nothing but a red lace thong with no bra. The groceries fell right out m
y arms and oranges rolled across the floor as Birdie huffed.

  “You’re picking all that up after you give me cookies, because this shit is ridiculous, but I’m still pissed at you, so this is going to be angry-fucking, got it?”

  I just nodded, stepped over the box of pasta, head of lettuce, and oranges, bent my knees when I got to her, and pushed my shoulder into her stomach without a word. Standing back up, I easily lifted her up and over my shoulder while she yelled at me, naked down over my back, telling me I couldn’t just always pick her up and put her where I wanted her, as I whistled while I walked us back to our bedroom.

  She stopped yelling that when I put her where I wanted her.

  Which was straddling my lap on the edge of our bed, riding my cock.

  “Daddy, can I have some money? I want nachos.”

  “Christ,” I mutter when Birdie laughs between my legs as I lean to the side to pull my wallet out of my back pocket, grabbing a twenty and handing it back to Bodhi.

  “Nachos only! No candy!” Birdie shouts to him after he gives Tess a kiss and then races past us down the stairs in the aisle.

  “I love that you’re still trying to make sure not a penny of my money is wasted.” I laugh, kissing the top of her head, both of us screaming and clapping with the rest of the stands when the pitcher for Owen’s team strikes out the third batter.

  Thankfully, she doesn’t need to keep track of all the junk food Bodhi is inhaling at the game tonight and all the money I’ve been doling out to him. Thanks to her amazing work with my social media accounts, the close contact she continues to have with my endorsement deals, and that win in San Francisco, my incoming royalties have steadily gone up and they just keep climbing, along with a few new deals Birdie has been able to secure for me. Even though I’ve tried to tell her she doesn’t need to keep handling my marketing and public relations, she refuses to give it up or let me hire a new publicist. She says she likes taking care of me and my work, and it fits in seamlessly with her new job at SIG. And that even though we are solid, and committed, and so fucking in love I feel like I’m in one of Bodhi’s romance novels he loves to read, Birdie still said it would be over her dead body before I hired someone else like my old publicist Callie who just wanted to get in my pants. Her show of jealousy just made me love her even more, and she got three cookies that night after dinner.

  I’m even happy to report the video of Birdie launching into my arms at the San Francisco Open now has more hits than the “Crazy Bitch” one, although Bodhi watches that stupid thing at least twice a day to make sure the numbers continue to go up.

  “Bodhi already had a Snickers, a bag of Twizzlers, and four sodas. Not only am I concerned about your money, but I’m concerned about my best friend and her having to kiss a man who will eventually have meth teeth from all that sugar,” Birdie tells me.

  “Much obliged,” Tess says, leaning down from her seat to give Birdie a fist bump. “I had a man with meth teeth once. I felt like the hookers in Pretty Woman. ‘No kissing on the mouth.’”

  “I’m seriously concerned about your taste in men,” I look back over my shoulder and tell her.

  “I’m dating your best friend,” she reminds me.

  “Like I said. Veeery questionable taste.”

  Tess just shakes her head at me and pats me on the shoulder as I turn back around when Murphy yells something else down to the field.

  “This coach is garbage. Why in the hell does he have Owen playing short instead of out in center field?” Murphy complains.

  “I heard this is his last game coaching,” Tess pipes up from behind me.

  “No shit?” Birdie asks, craning her neck to look back at her. “Bob Simpson has been freshman baseball coach since my mom went to school here.”

  Tess just shrugs.

  “That’s what Melanie told me at The Barge. I guess at the last board meeting it was unanimous that everyone wants him out. They’re tired of all the complaints from parents about how shitty he is to the kids and how he’s lost touch with the game and new techniques he should be teaching them.”

  “He was using the same shitty techniques when he coached me.”

  Everyone’s heads whip to the right when we hear a deep voice, my woman letting out an ear-piercing scream as soon as she sees who spoke.

  “Oh my god, Shep Oliver is back on Summersweet Island!” Birdie squeals, flying up from between my legs.

  She shuffles across the bleachers to the man standing at the end of the other aisle who laughs as she races to him, and then he wraps his arms around her when she gets to him. He lifts her up in a tight, friendly hug before putting her right back down on her feet and letting her step back.

  I only feel a little bit homicidal watching the love of my life hug that man, and not just because he is one good-looking son of a bitch. But because Shepherd Oliver is the other big thing that came out of Summersweet Island along with me. Except he lived here, and he belonged here a hell of a lot more than I did. And he’s been playing professional baseball for the Washington Hawks since he was drafted right out of college, going to the World Series three times in his career, and has been ranked as one of the top-five center fielders, while also being an insane offensive player who hits the ball like a beast and steals bases with ease.

  That is until the end of last season, when he was rounding third base at his usual speed of light and he slipped on the base, tearing ligaments and tendons in his right knee. It ended the season for him. He was supposed to come back this year good as new after surgery and rehab, but he never did, and he’s been in hiding ever since, never once giving an interview for his absence on the field this season.

  Birdie and Shepherd walk back over to us, and she indicates for him to sit down next to me. He was a few years older than us, the same age as Wren, so I only met him a couple times back then until he left for college and never came back. Birdie reintroduces us, and I shake his hand, only squeezing it a little extra firmly before letting it go. Pulling Birdie back where she was between my legs, I grab her face and give her a nice, big kiss, just so Mr. Baseball doesn’t get any ideas.

  “Noted.” Shepherd chuckles softly from next to me when I pull back from Birdie’s mouth.

  “Where’s your sister at this evening?” Shepherd asks Birdie, and I glance over at him curiously when he rubs the back of his neck nervously while looking around the stands.

  “She had to work tonight. My mom wasn’t feeling good. How long are you in town? She’s going to be pissed she missed you if this is just a quick overnight trip. That woman has more T-shirts, hoodies, and jerseys with your name on the back than anyone else I know, watches every single game like it’s a religious experience, and God forbid any of us interrupt her while you’re playing.” Birdie laughs before quickly sobering. “Shit. I probably shouldn’t have said that. It makes her sound like a creepy stalker fan. She just likes cheering for our hometown boy done good.”

  Shepherd doesn’t say a word. His mouth is just tipped slightly open in shock. And since I’m starting to wonder about this whole Wren obsession with him and why this guy who is the chattiest pro baseball player in the league who never shuts up when he’s interviewed suddenly can’t find his voice, I feel a little bad for the guy. I give him a little nudge with my elbow, so he’ll wake up and stop trying to catch flies in his mouth.

  “Um, not sure how long I’ll be here,” Shepherd finally says. “Still feeling things out. Might stick around for bit. Maybe… maybe don’t tell Wren I’m here. I want to surprise her.”

  I just laugh and shake my head at him, wrapping my arms around Birdie, knowing surprises with either one of the Bennett sisters never work out well, but that’s his funeral to plan, not mine.

  “You excited for next week?” I whisper in Birdie’s ear, feeling her shiver a little in my arms.

  “You mean am I freaking out, can’t sleep, can’t eat, holy shit so excited you’re taking me to Hawaii next week for your first Pro-Reg tournament?” she asks, making me
laugh when she starts bouncing up and down in her seat in my arms.

  Now that I’m semi-retired, I can pick and choose what I want to do and where I want to go. Every single time I choose and look at the calendar ahead, I ask Birdie if she wants to go with me, and she always says yes. It was a no-brainer when we got this email inviting me to a Pro-Reg tournament where any regular, average Joe person can play with a pro, I get paid very well for it, and we found out it was happening in Honolulu. That email came six weeks ago, and Birdie’s had our bags packed since then.

  I snuck the diamond ring into my bag I bought her after I won The San Francisco Open when she wasn’t looking.

  As well as a framed picture of the two of us leaning over a small table and sharing a kiss in the middle on the balcony at SIG when we went to dinner right at sunset a few weeks ago to celebrate all the good things that have been happening. I asked Tess to snap a picture when Birdie wasn’t looking so I could surprise her. I’m pretty sure she’ll like this kind of a surprise.

  “You packed the red bikini, right?” I ask her for the third time, the same red bikini she modeled for me this morning and I took off of her with my teeth.

  Birdie just laughs at the desperate sound in my voice, all of us standing up and cheering as Owen gets up to bat. Birdie steps back over her seat so she’s standing right next to me, and I wrap my arm around her shoulders, pulling her into my side and kissing the top of her head as she screams Owen’s name at the top of her lungs.

  I will spend the rest of my life making it up to her for the fifteen years we wasted because we were both too stupid to say how we felt, making sure Birdie knows every second of every day how much she means to me.

  And my dad? Last I heard, he was in talks to manage Brock Webster’s pro golfing career. Good for them. Those two pompous assholes deserve each other. I thought I would feel differently not having any kind of relationship with the only family member I have left. A little empty, a little alone.