Tee It Up: A Wilder Brothers Romance

by Megan Hetherington

  “Okay.” He places my cup of coffee onto the low table and then sits down on the sofa in the living area of the suite.

  “Not here, though. Out there.” I nod out of the window towards the hotel golf course, pleased that I could work in a swift exit so early in our conversation. “Oh, and you’ll need golf clubs, balls, tees et cetera.”

  “Right. Okay.” He jumps up from the sofa and picks up his cell, seconds later instructing someone to bring all the items to the hotel entrance.

  I take the coffee from the table back to the window.

  After hanging up the call, he asks, “Shall I change?” He opens up his arms, requiring me to look at his body.

  “Sure,” I say, snapping my head back to the window, so as not to give the wrong expression as I drink in his form.

  As I take a sip of the coffee, my eyes can’t help but refocus from the trees and shrubs waving in the light breeze back to the reflection of the hotel room and Johnson unbuttoning his shirt.

  “I’ll wait for you outside.” I splutter, having to wipe my chin with the back of my hand when the coffee dribbles out.

  Then, I rush from the room, averting my eyes from his body as I pass. I’m sure he deems it perfectly acceptable to undress in front of me, but after our recent encounter I’ve got to keep to my professional persona. I’m a psychologist and the only undressing I need to witness is a mental one, not physical.

  Once outside, I walk around, trying to breathe in fragrant air and let the warm sun relax my mood. A short while later, Johnson appears dressed in tight white pants, a bright pink golf tee and matching cap. His cleated shoes are also white and pristine; they don’t look as if they have been out of the carton before.

  He looks from me to the golf cart I am stood next to, and waves to the guy perched on the edge of the driver’s seat.

  “AJ.” he hollers, as he continues to stride towards us. “This is Meredith. Have you pissed her off already?”

  I’m confused by his line, but AJ doesn’t seem to be.

  “No, just didn’t know who she was.”

  Johnson slides into the back seat of the cart. “Come on, Dr. Fairchild.” He pats the cushioned vinyl next to him.

  I reluctantly walk across and on a sigh, climb into the cart.

  “Hey,” AJ greets me, before lurching the golf cart off the gravel-covered driveway and onto the grass. Johnson flings his arm around the back of my shoulders as I’m about to slide off the seat on to my backside.

  “I presume you’re the caddy?”

  “Yes, doctor. Are we heading to the practice range?”

  “Yes. First tee please.” Not knowing whether I’ve quite got the lingo correct but figuring if I say it confidently then they will grasp what I mean.

  We bump along the grass and over stony paths at an unnecessary speed. My feet slide on the floor and my backside repeatedly bounces from the seat, and as much as I want to shrug off Johnson’s hand from my shoulder, I fear I will no longer be sitting in here if I do.

  Finally, AJ slows the golf cart down and on a turn Johnson steps out proficiently from his side leaving me to grip onto the seat bar in front.

  AJ jumps out, takes the golf bag from the back storage shelf and plonks it on the grass at Johnson’s feet. They both stand still, staring at me as if I should have been out of the cart already.

  I peel my white knuckled grip from the seat bar and join them.

  “Okay, let’s take a moment,” I instruct. “Talk me through your usual procedure. Who does what and in which order.”

  “AJ usually selects the club while I put on my glove. I take it from him, walk up to the tee. Punch a tee into the ground, step back. Look up the fairway and then walk to the tee. Adjust my feet and take the swing.”

  “Okay. Let’s take each of those elements one at a time.”

  AJ walks across to the bag, selects a club while Johnson puts his glove on.

  “Right, stop. What can you hear right now Johnson?”

  He pauses, to consider it. “Nothing.”

  “Focus, what can you hear?”

  “The whirring of a golf cart somewhere.”

  “Listen again.”

  “Huh?”

  I wait for him to tune in to all the sounds.

  “Perhaps a water sprinkler.”

  “Again.”

  “Birds and the leaves from those trees over there.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Not really.”

  “What about your breathing?”

  “Suppose so.”

  “Okay, now what can you smell?”

  “Smell? What is this?”

  “Go with it, Johnson.”

  He sighs. “Okay. Outdoors.”

  It’s my turn to sigh now.

  He closes his eyes. “Grass. My aftershave. Your perfume.”

  “Anything else.”

  “I don’t know and I’m not sure how this is helping.”

  “Don’t concern yourself with that just yet. What about the leather from your glove? Or whatever your club has been cleaned with last?”

  He curls his lips.

  “Now walk up to the tee as normal.”

  He takes a few strides with the club, a ball shoved in his pocket.

  “Okay stop. What are you thinking right now?”

  “Why AJ picked this wood and not the driver?”

  “That’s doubt. You’re giving yourself an excuse to fail, or rather pinning an excuse on AJ if you fail.”

  “What should I do instead?”

  “Agree between you before you even walk out on the course, what club you will tee off with.”

  “But that’s the way it’s always been, and it worked fine.”

  “Sure, when you were confident and didn’t have a nick in your armor. Now every little slither of doubt is like a crevice in your mind, opening itself up to mind numbing paralysis. And failure.”

  “Okay, what’s next?”

  “Assume your position at the tee.”

  He idles up to the tee and pushes the plastic peg into the ground. It seems a little off, without the sense of purpose I’ve seen golfers, including Johnson, approach a tee. “Is that the way you usually approach the green, like you’d rather be somewhere else?”

  “Huh?”

  “I’ve seen you on TV, you attack the position. No hesitancy, no stuttering and no holding back. Anyway, carry on.”

  He positions his feet, hip distance apart, shuffles his balance, looks down the fairway and then pulls back to take the shot.

  The ball flies down the course and before he has time to see where it grounds I walk into his vision. “Whether you hit that ball well, with all the technical ability of a well-schooled golfer is not down to me. What I want to know is what you were thinking when you took the shot.”

  “Thinking?”

  I continue to bore my eyes into his. “Yes, thinking.”

  “Nothing, or I don’t remember.”

  “Really?”

  “Perhaps whether my back was sore and if I should take anti-inflammatories tomorrow.”

  That makes me laugh. With all the rounds and tee shots he has taken, he is making many rookie errors.

  “What’s funny?”

  “Just how easy this is. I will not put right all of your psychological issues today or even this week, but if you follow what I tell you, I guarantee your game will be as good as your technique allows.”

  He shakes his head. “If you say so.”

  “I do. Let’s take this from the top.”

  He does as I ask, and as we walk through every stroke and accompanying thought I realize how much this means to him. When he putts the ball in the hole, he wastes no time in picking it out and moving onto the next one.

  I imagine this is how sports people are; not afraid of practice and doing things over and over until they click. It’s insightful to witness Johnson’s steely determination first hand. As much as this guy screws up in other aspects of his life this is where he would b
alance it out. But now it has caught up with him.

  It’s not until I twig we’re about to walk the ten miles around this whole course do I dip out. My feet are killing me and it’s not surprising considering I’m wearing ballet pumps and not sneakers. My foray to the boutique didn’t include training gear.

  “Shall I leave you to it? We can catch up later to check on progress and iron out any last-minute issues before tomorrow?”

  “Yup.” Johnson looks up at me from his stooped position. The club resting on the ground and angled between his legs. “There’s a table booked in my name for us at the hotel restaurant at seven pm.”

  “Oh.” After the other night’s disaster, I was hoping for a quick chat, not a drawn-out discussion over dinner. “Don’t you want to sit down as soon as you’ve finished this round?”

  My plans were for room service and snuggling down in the large hotel bed while reading the last few chapters of my book.

  “Up to you, but I’m not going back to my room until after six. I’ve some TV interviews and what not, so if you’d rather meet me back at the room, we can always order room service?”

  I catch AJ snickering.

  “Okay, restaurant at seven.” I turn to leave.

  “Do you want a lift?” AJ asks.

  “No, thank you.” I hastily reply. “I’m good to walk.”

  Turning toward the hotel, I hobble for a hundred yards, before giving in and peeling off my pumps, letting the cool grass squidge between my toes.

  When I near the hotel entrance, I take a deep breath and push my feet back into my shoes, deciding to check out the spa on my way back to my room to get booked in for a mani-pedi. They fit me in straight away and I sigh as I lower my feet into the tepid bubbling water of the foot-spa, letting my body relax from my feet upwards.

  “Are you here with a golfer?” The beauty technician asks as she looks up from the stool positioned at my feet.

  “Sort of. Why do I look like a golfer’s wife?” I ask, curious whether there was a particular trait that determines what such a woman might look like.

  “Yes, suppose you do, although I only asked because it’s only golfers staying here this week, what with the tournament and everything.”

  “Of course. Do you get many golfer’s wives in here then?”

  “Sure.” She plucks one of my feet out of the water and cuddles it dry on a towel resting over her knee. “Although it’s mainly girlfriends rather than wives.”

  I raise an eyebrow before furrowing them both and asking for clarification on my assumption.

  “What girlfriends of married golfers?”

  She pulls out the other foot and dries it briskly before resting both onto the stool.

  “Some, but obviously I don’t gossip about that kind of arrangement. All hotel staff have to sign a non-disclosure agreement. Management are keen on that stuff, making sure this is a safe-haven for the celebrity golfers. They don’t want to lose any business.”

  “Quite,” I murmur.

  “Which golfer are you married to then?” she asks, as she massages my feet with a salt scrub that smells of tea tree and lavender.

  I splutter. “Oh no, I’m not married to one.”

  “Ah, I see.” She winks at me before walking off with the foot-spa to replace the water with fresh.

  Shit. Now she believes I’m one of those illicit girlfriends, secreted here with a golfer who’s been telling his wife for years how it’s better she doesn’t travel with him as it’s such a boring life. But what do I tell her instead? I can’t divulge that I’m a psychologist helping Johnson focus his mind on the game. I’ve patient confidentiality to consider. And anyway, I’m sure the merest mention of Johnson’s name will have her fantasizing about all sorts.

  She comes back with the fresh water, rubs off the salt scrub and changes conversation completely. Asking about polish colors and what I thought of the latest trend in stiletto shaped nails. I go along with the conversation, deciding it is better to leave the wife versus girlfriend explanation alone.

  While she concentrates, with a tongue stuck out of the corner of her mouth, at the precise lines she creates for the French manicure I wonder what sensible clothing I will wear from my new range for dinner.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Johnson

  Instead of the usual disappointment when I take a sip of the San Pellegrino the hotel restaurant waiter has poured me, it affirms my decision to act clean on this trip and focus on the game. My head is clear, and that’s how I intend to keep it.

  I’ve been playing golf long enough to know everything Meredith highlighted today on the course was basic and distilled down to focus and concentration. They were natural qualities I used in the early days of playing because my mind wasn’t full of distractions and I had plenty of confidence. But the drift of complacency over the last year has opened a gap and the self-confidence that is flooding out will destroy me. But I’ve no time to dwell on that crap. I have to come out on top this week.

  So tonight, I’ll try my best to reflect with Meredith on how it went today. Test out her thoughts for the rest of the week then tell her I don’t need her services for the rest of the competition. Because I don’t need any distractions.

  Especially not when they come in the form of the vision that has entered the restaurant.

  Hot shit!

  In desperation, I school my facial expression into what I hope looks like someone pleased to see their doctor arrive for an appointment and not a hot date.

  Meredith is wearing a pale gray pant suit and her blonde hair is swept up into a high ponytail that makes her look as glamorous as fuck.

  I take another sip of water before she arrives at the table, mitigating the chance of my voice cracking with the surprise. My clear mind suddenly fuzzes over again with the thoughts of her.

  “Hey.” The word comes out thankfully smoothly.

  “AJ not here yet?” she asks, as she slides into other side of the half-moon shaped booth.

  “No. Why should he be?”

  “Oh… No, I’d assumed this would be a run through of today… wrongly obviously.” She raises her hand to grab the attention of the waiter.

  I’m even more uncomfortable.

  “Sorry. Would you like a drink?” I ask.

  She turns back her hand still aloft. “Yes please. A glass of Cab Franc would be nice.”

  “Sure.” I nod toward a waiter and he immediately trots across for me to repeat her request.

  “That’s annoying.”

  “What is?”

  “The way he came over as soon as you blinked.”

  I don’t comment because unfortunately that’s the way it is here.

  “What do you want to talk about tonight?” she asks.

  “I’m not sure. I don’t want this to turn into a counselling session and I’m sure you would rather it wasn’t another date.”

  She laughs and shakes her head.

  I look up as two fellow golfers enter the dining room, and we exchange polite nods.

  “Are they golfers too?” Meredith asks.

  I nod, and then take a gulp of my drink, letting the bubbles fizz inside my mouth before swallowing.

  “Would you be having dinner with them this evening if you weren’t here with me?”

  I snort. “Not likely, they all keep their distance since that incident at the awards evening.”

  Her mouth forms an ‘o’ shape.

  “Case in point.” I shake my head, disappointed with myself, that she knows the intimate details of my out-of-order actions that fateful night.

  She takes a careful sip of the wine, a faint lipstick mark left behind in the shape of her lip. “Mmm, that’s nice.” She places the glass back onto the glass-covered table, her hand remaining on the stem. “As we’re on our own, we should clear the air about the other night.”

  “Yes, I’m sorry. I overstepped the mark and I shouldn’t have. I could have put your job on the line.”

  She lays a hand on my
forearm and a warm fuzziness travels up into my chest. “No need to explain. I get it, you’re in the middle of some emotional turmoil. You’re trying to stay away from women and the only woman you’ve been near of late has been me. I mistook your actions because I’ve not had a date in such a long while. At the end of the day, I’m your doctor and you’re my patient. It obviously can’t be anything more and I’m sorry for making it awkward.”

  “You’re sorry? There’s nothing for you to be sorry about. I’m the one that messed it up.”

  The waiter comes back to take our food order, and it gives me the chance to study her while she considers the menu and discusses the choices with the waiter.

  She’s different to any woman I’ve spent time with before. Her refined ways are not false or stuck up, gentler and more natural. Her elegant fingernails lightly scour across the pages and occasionally one makes its way to the corner of her mouth. And when she smiles, it radiates through her eyes making my heart ache.

  “Where were we?” she asks when the waiter recedes from our table, catching the tail end of my stare.

  “I was apologizing for my behavior the other evening.”

  She takes the opportunity to touch my arm again, and as much as she intends it to be a light friendly touch, it’s anything but. I want to put my hand over hers and keep it there or perhaps move it down onto my thigh. My heart races at the thought.

  “Johnson, we’re both adult enough to admit that we’re attracted to each other. It’s whether we do anything about it.” She pauses and I’m ready to tell that I am but before my mind can formulate the words she continues, “and right now my choice is made for me. I have a professional code to uphold.”

  “Not after tomorrow.”

  “How so?” She furrows her brow.

  “I will settle the final bill at the practice and I’ll sign a declaration, or whatever is needed, to prove to anyone that cares ask that we’re no longer doctor and patient. It leaves us free to take that next step…”

  “Into the quicksand?” she huffs.

  “Into the quicksand.”

  She looks away from me, for what seems like an awful long time. “And what about your golf? Don’t you need ongoing help with that?”

  “Meredith, I can find another sports psychologist if I need to, but I can’t find another you.”