by Kat Bastion
Don’t I know it. But I’d begun to learn the unexpected was part of the fun with her. A surprise always waited around the next corner.
“Did it sustain much damage?” My random question had a purpose.
She’d physically distanced herself as we talked, had wandered toward the back corner of our cart. And curiosity had drawn her attention rearward, toward the procession of other golfers and their carts.
I also searched the line of parked golf carts, and anxiety spiked in my gut about who I’d rather not see today. Foursomes gathered, loading bags onto the back racks of their carts. In one group, two women hugged while their other halves laughed at some joke. On down the line, new introductions shook hands, reunited friends clapped a hand onto a shoulder.
But no unfriendlies spotted. Yet.
However, we still had about twenty minutes in the meet-and-greet hot zone before tee time, and I wanted to keep the both of us distracted.
“What?” She turned back toward me with an adorable sunglass-covered blank stare.
“The phone? Or the wall?” At the time, I’d been joking about her throwing the phone, yet my gut told me it’d happened anyway.
The corners of her mouth twitched, like she fought a smile. “Doorjamb’s got a nice dent in it. Phone glass has a crack in the corner.” She leaned a shoulder on the black tubing of the cart’s roll cage, folding her arms. “Tile floor doesn’t have a scratch on it.”
Doorjamb. Tile floor. As in, an actual apartment or a house. Not the cement, cobblestone, or curb of a street.
She shrugged. “No big. Hope you’ve got good insurance on that thing.” She held out her palm then bobbed it up and down a few inches. “It’s got a nice heft to it. Might get another urge to practice my pitching.”
Fair enough. Her abuse hadn’t ended yet. Not even close.
I looked forward to every minute of it.
“Lookin’ good, kids.” Cade suddenly appeared through a mingling crowd of people.
He clapped me on the shoulder and gave Shay a respectful head-nod.
“See.” Shay pushed off from her back-o’-the-cart safety zone, then stepped closer. She pointed at Cade’s shorts, accusation in her tone. “At least he’s got on a solid color.”
“Gray.” Cade glanced down, then shrugged. “Safe.”
Shay stared a couple of beats longer at his conservative golf shorts, then dropped her gaze toward my loud Bermudas. “World of difference.”
Good. I didn’t want her to lump Cade and me together. Different? Fine by me.
“Who’s our fourth?” Yesterday, I’d asked Cade to slot us as close to the front as possible. He’d somehow gotten us positioned as first to play.
“Wait.” Shay gaped at me. “We’re playing?”
“Yep. Why do you think we went to the driving range?”
Brows arching high, she folded her arms. “Uhhh…to gain an understanding of the clients we’re serving. Not become one.”
“What better way to understand them?” I hefted a half-set of borrowed ladies’ clubs onto the back of the cart beside my bag, then strapped both in.
“Sounds wise to me.” Cade hoisted his bag onto the back of his cart, which had been parked in front of ours. “And our fourth is Whoosh, dude.”
“Whoosh!” Our voices dropped an octave as we barked out our friend’s name.
Confusion wrinkled Shay’s forehead. “Whoosh?”
I gave her a nod. “Whoosh. J.J. Whoosh. Otherwise known to the world at large as Jefferson Jamison Washington. But never—”
“—ever—” Cade shot a pointed look at Shay.
“—call him that,” I finished.
Cade clasped his hands together into a golf grip, gazed out toward the first fairway, then executed a smooth club-less golf swing. “The legend sinks eagles from the middle of fairways like a silent basketball whooshing through a hoop: nuttin’ but air.”
“Our ringer.” No point in playing without winning.
“We need a ringer?” Shay stepped up onto the passenger side of our cart, gripped the metal framework, then swung around and dropped onto the seat.
From the cart’s back storage area, I retrieved one of the two black goodie bags that a volunteer had given me at check-in, then handed Shay hers. “Gotta have some kind of decent showing with three lesser players.”
Cade dropped me a deadpan look. “Two lesser and one greater.”
I brushed off his comment with a shrug. “Not one as good as Whoosh.”
“Did someone call my name?” The nearby crowd parted when a tall blond man spread his arms up and wide, as if for his adoring fans.
Shay gave Whoosh a mere cursory glance, then busied herself with checking out the multiple outer zipper pockets of her goodie bag.
Gratitude filled my chest. Why? Because Shay hadn’t succumbed to what every other female within a twenty-foot radius of Whoosh always had: model handsomeness, Olympian physique, and an air of confidence that said life always worked out perfectly—because it always did...for him.
The rest of us mortals had to work hard, leverage risk, and hope we didn’t fuck things up.
I clasped forearms with Whoosh, and we tugged into a rough shoulder-hug. Whoosh and Cade did the same before the crowd split again and another childhood buddy pulled them away for a brief reunion.
When deeper anxiety spiked again, I swept another check down the line of waiting golf carts. And I spotted what I’d been dreading. The who-I’d-rather-not-see? Had shown.
Great. I’d probably get stalked. Maybe verbally assaulted. Most definitely guilted.
Thank fuck Shay’s here. I needed to focus on her raw goodness; she lightened all the badness that had weighed down my life lately.
“My name’s on this?” Childlike wonder filled Shay’s soft-spoken words.
I stepped closer, fully alerted to one of those rare moments when she’d let her guard drop.
She hovered fingertips over an engraved brass tag that had been riveted into the rigid canvas bag’s front. Then she unzipped its main circular top and flipped it open. Out puffed swag provided by the event’s sponsors, most of which boasted our country club’s name.
“Yep. All participants receive one; it’s part of the entrance fee.”
“Entrance fee,” she murmured. “Which is…”
Thousand bucks a pop.
She pulled out a burled walnut case, opened it, then angled its shining contents toward me with an arched-brows What the hell are these? expression.
I answered her vocalized question. “Covered.” Steep. But members got a discount. The rest of the exorbitant cost? A business write-off for the sake of more training.
Or so I told myself. Somehow the lines of justification began to blur with Shay. Being around her whatever the dollar cost? Worth it.
I finally nodded at the two colorful enameled disks in the case she held. “Ball markers.” When her brows furrowed further, I added. “For the green.”
“Of course.” She snapped the lid shut, her bored mask back in a flash.
A deep male voice suddenly interrupted, “And who’s this lovely nubile novice?”
Whoosh swept between us. His hands gripped the top edge of the cart, face hovering low over Shay’s bag as he shamelessly stared into her eyes through her sunglasses.
“My employee, Whoosh.” I clamped a hand on his shoulder and yanked him backward. “Off-limits.” To him.
And me...due to the whole employee thing. That principle mattered. Another easy self-lie.
I kept piling the denial on. Because it worked hand in hand with irrational behavior: Somehow, I’d become territorial about her. Which was unacceptable.
Dating staff had been forbidden from the start. How Cade and I had set things up to protect Loading Zone’s work ethic and morale. And I’d stuck to that code without exception. Because I’d learned over the years that I failed at relationships. So why shit where you eat? Besides, through college—and especially over the past six months of being singl
e again—plenty of willing women had proven casual sex worked better. Bedsport was less complicated, more fun. And no workout on earth beat sex-gym for stress relief.
To clear my head of everything not appropriate during a golf tournament, I stared at Shay’s goodie bag as she continued to rifle through it.
I spotted a black baseball cap and snatched it out. Then I tucked it onto her head.
She scowled, tore the hat off, and yanked my sunglasses off her face to glare at me. “I decide who I’m off-limits to.” To emphasize her point, she cast an appraising glance at Whoosh.
But I watched her carefully. No fire lit in her eyes. No deep breath revealed any kind of gasp. Whoosh only received a cool assessment from her, like she sized up an opponent.
“I’m Shay.” She pointed at her bag’s name tag, fierce gaze locked on said opponent. “New bartender at the event. Novice only to the game of golf. Nubile to no one.”
She stared at Whoosh with an unforgiving expression until he relented with a short nod. Then she glanced at Cade before landing a hard look at me. “I’m one of the guys. Just another golfer. I expect to be treated like one.”
Right. One of the guys. Even though I stared at a woman like no other I’d ever met: soft curves yet hard edged, vulnerable under a fearless façade, giant heart with no mercy when it came to betrayal, moral compass a little off when it came to abiding by laws...
An announcement blared through the speaker system. “Welcome, welcome one and all to our Thirty-Seventh Annual Unity Foundation Event.”
Shay calmly slid my sunglasses back on her face. Then she snugged the baseball cap back on and looped her long hair through its adjustable back opening. The echoing directive continued, “…in groups One through Four, please proceed to your carts. First foursome tees off in ten.”
“Okay, boys and girls, time for a last-minute warmup,” Cade said. He and Whoosh grabbed a wedge and putter each before crossing to the far side of the practice green.
“C’mon, Blink. Let’s see what your short game looks like.” I slid our putters from our bags.
Shay gripped the side rail of the cart and froze halfway into the process of standing. She lowered her brows at me. “Don’t call me that.”
Ahhh, there’s your fire again. A fire that burned hotter when it flashed out toward me.
“Bear gets to. But I don’t?”
With a burst of movement, she launched from the cart, then swiped the putter from my hand. “Exactly.”
I fought a grin, glad I’d pissed her off. Every time I pushed her buttons, I learned more about the woman under the layers of her bulletproof armor: The big guy from the alley was more than a casual acquaintance. Bear had been protective of her the other night. I wondered just how close they were if he rated nickname-status with her.
Shay stopped on our side of the practice green, out of earshot from Cade and Whoosh, and pointed the head of her putter at me. “Not nubile, not novice,” she repeated. Whoosh had hit a sensitive spot earlier. “Not Blink.” She stopped a few feet from the nearest hole and stared at me another few seconds while I followed her. Then she sighed and her shoulders relaxed. “Shay.” Her voice softened as I approached. “I’m just Shay, okay?”
You’re not just anything.
The more time I spent with her, the more I discovered a tangle of contradictions under her skin. Raging fire and hard ice. Heroic bravery masked an innocent vulnerability. Wildness vibrated deep within her—even though she did her damnedest to hold on to some level of tame.
“Okay,” I yielded to respect the complex beautiful woman by giving her the space she needed. “Shay.”
Relief washed over her face and she nodded.
“Is Shay short for anything?”
Her entire demeanor tensed with frustration again. “No.” She planted the head of her putter on the turf. “Speaking of…what’s my ‘short game’?”
Message received: Personal inquiries? Off the table. Golf? Safe zone.
We had only a few minutes left, alone. I decided to spend them wisely. On neutral ground. “At the driving range, we practiced the long game.”
“Whacking the hell out of balls.” The corners of her mouth twitched again. Neutral suited her. It brought out that brand of dry smartass humor she wore so well. And mildly amused? Looked amazing on her.
A memory flashed into my brain: her smartass Yeaaah...two...three...whatever swing-mantra followed by her whacking the hell out of the ball. “Those were drives and fairway shots. Once you’re within striking distance of the green, your short game takes over: pitches, chips, and eventually putts. A specialty club is used for each, with the heaviest club in a golfer’s bag being a carbon-steel sand wedge. Well struck, our sand wedge will get us out of the deadliest bunker.”
“Sounds like a lot for a few minutes.” Her attention drifted farther out, toward where Cade and Whoosh practiced. Cade tapped a gentle three-footer into his cup. Whoosh stood downhill of a deceiving rise and cracked a gnarly pitch that shot his ball curving along the inside slope before it sank straight into the hole.
“We only have time for a handful of practice putts. When you need to pitch or chip, I’ll teach as we play.”
She wasted no time, not waiting for me to guide her. Like Cade had done, she placed a ball a few feet from the hole on even ground, held her putter in the same manner, then tapped the ball.
Nice. Her first try sank the ball with an echoing clunk.
“Did you hear that?” Pride radiated on her face as she plucked the ball back out.
“Yeah, I heard it.” Not the clunk, the ping.
The sweet spot. A perfect connection.
If only the rest of life were so simple.
My gaze traveled back along the waiting line of players, across other club members, toward my past—and a not-to-distant future I didn’t want to face.
“Why do they call it a scramble?” Shay angled fully toward me.
Her knee nudged mine as I swerved the cart to avoid a nasty bump on the left side of the path. I hadn’t planned the bodily collision. Much.
But totally unexpected? Our continued contact.
She didn’t readjust; her leg still touched mine.
The four of us had already played through Hole One, and Shay and I were back in our cart on the way to Hole Two. “Not sure why. Maybe because the other three players scramble to reposition their balls?”
She gazed at the path ahead, my sunglasses and that black tournament baseball cap still shielding her eyes. “So, on every hole, all four of us tee off in whichever order, but after that, we all play our own balls from the same position as the one closest to the hole?”
At the rise, I slowed to make a tight right turn. “Almost. We decide as a team each shot we like best out of the four we made, which isn’t necessarily the closest one to the hole. Then we all move our balls to be even, within a club’s length, with that ‘best’ shot to take our next shot.”
“Makes the stuffy game of golf a lot more exciting.”
“Exactly. The club does scrambles for charity and fundraising events to make the tournament fun for everyone. Not all members are great golfers. A scramble evens-up the playing field between teams. Novice or occasional golfers are matched up with at least one player who has a low handicap.”
Whoosh parked at the next hole. He and Cade hopped out to retrieve their drivers from their bags strapped to the back.
I slowed our cart. Didn’t want the remaining private time I had with her to pass any faster.
After a couple of silent seconds, her knee nudged mine. “What’s a handicap?”
Oh, damn. I’d walked right into that hornet’s nest. Maybe I can dance around it.
Act dumb. Or deaf. “Handicap?”
“You just said a ‘low handicap.’ And I heard a guy talking about it earlier, when I walked by the registration table.”
Shay missed nothing. Listened to everything.
“It’s what a golfer uses to record their skill compared
to par on a course.”
“What’s par?”
“The number of strokes an expert golfer should take to complete a hole. That first hole we played? Was a par-5; but we did it in four strokes, or one under par. All eighteen holes, with each requiring anywhere from four to five strokes—three on a couple of short holes—makes our course a par-72. A handicap is gauged by what a golfer’s average typical score is on a course, or in a tournament. So, if a course is par-72, and a player usually scores a 75, then he’s considered a 3-handicap golfer.”
“Or she is.”
I parked at the tee box for the second hole. If I’d driven any slower, the cart would’ve been at a standstill. She’d talked about golf the entire sixty-seconds. I’d thought about her knee.
“What’s your handicap?” she asked. Her knee? Still up against mine.
You are. “I don’t have one.”
She turned toward me, rested her hand on her own knee. The slight pressure of her fingertips touched my leg. But her expression? Innocent. “Because you don’t compete?”
“Something like that.” Had the sun fired up ten degrees? On that note, I broke that amazing but perplexing knee contact and got out of the cart. Strictly business.
When I rounded the back corner of our cart to get my driver, Cade’s smug mug stared straight at me, inches away.
I cut him a warning glare. But maybe he hadn’t overheard.
He grinned. “Don’t be humble, Ben.” He handed me my driver, then glanced at Shay as he pulled hers free. “Our boy here is a scratch golfer.”
Yeah, he’d heard.
“Scratch?” She glanced over her shoulder at me as Cade led her up to the elevated tee box.
He leaned his head toward her, conspiratorially. “No handicap. Because he golfs at par.”
By the time I caught up and heard the bastard confess for me, Whoosh joined the fray. “Below par, more often than not.” Whoosh deadpanned me, then glanced at her. “He should’ve gone pro. He’d win next Saturday’s annual tournament, if he bothered to play.”
“He” —I teed up my ball and lined up my driver since they only seemed interested in talking— “is golfing right here. And has no interest in any other game.” I took a smooth swing and launched the ball to land a couple hundred yards down the fairway.