by Jen Silver
Jordan felt the blush engulf her whole body. She was grateful when Andi engaged CJ in conversation about the course.
Finally CJ pushed off from the wall. “Right, I’ll let you get on with your prep. I’m off for lunch and a shower, probably in that order. See you around.”
Jordan thought she winked before she turned away.
“Looks like you’ve got an admirer there, Jor.”
Somehow, when Andi shortened her name, Jordan didn’t mind. She shook her head. “It was you she came to talk to.”
“Don’t kid yourself. She’s just come off a tough eighteen holes and could have gone straight to the hotel for much needed refreshment. We’ve talked plenty of times before. Believe me, she was checking you out.” Andi plucked her three-wood out of the bag and went back to hitting balls.
†
For the first three holes, it was almost a reversal of roles with Andi talking to her, telling her to relax. It wasn’t until Jordan gave Andi the first useful piece of advice that she started to feel she belonged there. On the tenth hole, a par 3, it was all water to carry before reaching the green.
“Seven iron,” Andi said, holding out her gloved hand.
“Are you sure?” Jordan hesitated, unable to see Andi’s eyes behind her dark glasses. “Wind’s against.” She smiled nervously.
Andi walked out onto the teeing ground again. They were in a sheltered spot surrounded by trees and spectators but the flag on the green was waving about madly.
“Okay. Give me the six.”
Jordan already had it out of the bag.
Even with Andi hitting a perfectly balanced shot, the ball just touched the edge of the green and took a generous bounce forward towards the pin. If she had used the seven iron, it would have been a watery grave for the ball.
That was the turning point in the round for both of them. Andi came off the green with a birdie on the scorecard and Jordan felt a surge of confidence in knowing she could play a useful role, not just be a bag carrier.
†
After the round, Jordan was sitting outside the clubhouse cleaning Andi’s clubs when she became aware of someone standing nearby. She looked up expecting to see another caddy.
“Hi again.” It was CJ, smiling down at her looking gorgeous in a tight pair of jeans and white tank top. She had a midriff worth showing off, not to mention the half-sleeve tattoo on her left arm. It looked like a shoal of fish swimming in the sea. “Are you off duty now?”
Jordan hoped she hadn’t been doing an open-mouthed fish impression. “Um, yeah. After I’ve finished with the bag.”
“Care to have dinner with me?” The shyness in her voice belied her confident posture. Her luxurious chestnut-brown hair, released from its ponytail, draped across her bare shoulders and part of her face, but couldn’t hide the anxious look in her eyes.
Jordan could only nod.
Meeting for dinner led to an invitation to join CJ in her room for a digestif. The after dinner drink didn’t materialise but the kisses did. And kissing led to taking their clothes off and spending most of the night exploring each other’s bodies.
Jordan managed to keep hold of her senses long enough to set the alarm on her phone. She had to be up early to check out the new pin placements before any of the players set foot on the course. There would be just time enough for her to get back to her bed and breakfast room to change into fresh clothes as Andi was teeing off mid-morning.
Once the round started, Jordan was able to keep her concentration on the play. But at the end, while interviewers were cornering Andi, and Jordan was again cleaning the grooves in her clubs, doubts crept into her mind. Was it just a one-night stand for CJ? What did Jordan really know about her, other than she was a good golfer and equally as good in bed?
One of the pros from the golf shop approached her as she was returning Andi’s bag to the locker room.
“Jordan Hillier?”
“Yes.”
He handed her an envelope. Inside was a hastily scrawled message on the back of one of the hotel’s postcards and a hotel keycard.
Jordan knew it would be a few more hours before CJ came off the course. She collected toiletries and the clothes she would need for the next day from her B&B room and returned to the hotel. CJ’s room looked much the same as it had when she’d left it that morning. Jordan picked up a pair of briefs from the floor and sniffed. A rush of arousal went straight to her groin. Glancing at the clock, she thought it was going to be a long two hours before the golfer arrived back.
A long soak in the bath was a heavenly experience. She dried off and laid on the bed watching the day’s play on the TV. CJ finished her round with a birdie at the last hole and gained a significant move up the leaderboard. Jordan licked her lips in anticipation. Her new lover would be in a good mood when she turned up.
CJ didn’t disappoint. As soon as she closed the door she pounced on Jordan, pinning her to the bed.
“I was just going to call room service,” Jordan said. “I thought you might be hungry. I know I am.”
“This is what I’m hungry for.” CJ stopped any further talk by capturing her lips in a fierce kiss.
Later—after they had made love, showered, consumed most of a room service meal, and made love again—Jordan asked, “What does CJ stand for?”
“If I tell you, I’ll have to kill you.”
“Well, at least I’ll die happy.” Jordan trailed her fingers through CJ’s hair.
“Okay. But if you tell anyone, I’ll never sleep with you again.”
“My lips are sealed.”
CJ laughed. “I was christened Clara Jane.”
“That’s not so bad. What’s wrong with it?”
“It was fine until I started school and everyone, including teachers, starting calling me Calamity Jane. I didn’t manage to shake that off until we moved to another town when I was eleven and I refused to answer to anything other than CJ.”
Jordan pushed a leg between CJ’s thighs and hovered above her. “Can I unseal my lips to give you a kiss?”
CJ reached up to pull her face close. “I would like that.”
Chapter Twenty
Freya didn’t think she could take the suspense. Watching as much of the tournament as she could over the past three days had been enjoyable, but now on the last day, it was pure torture. Andi hadn’t been featured much on the coverage for the first two days. She had made the cut and was in twelfth place at the start of the third round. At the end of that round she was tied for second, and as she had finished ahead of the other second-placed player, she was scheduled to go out with the leader for the final day.
Seeing the logo emblazoned on the back of Andi’s white shirt as she approached the first tee through the crowd, Freya wondered if she hadn’t gone a bit over the top with the design. But it did stand out and the TV cameras had no difficulty following it. She smiled to herself as one of the commentators observed that Andrea Mihajlovic was wearing her country’s colours—the red trim on the shirt and the red shorts denoting her Canadian allegiance. When she was interviewed after her round the day before she was asked what the “TC” on the logo stood for. Andi just smiled and said, “Top Cat.” Luckily the interviewer was more interested in asking how she had turned around a six-shot deficit from the day before to reach second place and didn’t pursue the obvious deflection. Perhaps they also thought the ash tree image was another Canadian symbolic icon, like the beaver and the maple leaf since no one had questioned her about its significance yet.
Lisa Chalmers had obviously worked some PR magic because Andi had so far avoided being asked any questions about her divorce, and more importantly, the reasons behind her marriage to Goran in the first place. The commentators had restricted themselves to a few words on how Andrea’s game didn’t seem to be affected by the changes in her personal life.
†
Beth had hardly moved from in front of the TV for four days. Sam wondered if she was watching the golf to get tips on her game, or if
it was the periodical sightings of Jordan she was hoping to catch. The final day’s coverage was going to be centred on the leading two-ball, so shots of Andi’s caddy would likely be much more frequent than in the previous three rounds.
Occasionally Beth’s eyes would flick from the screen down to the lesson-planner she had picked up from the school the week before. As far as Sam could tell, she hadn’t made any notes in it to plan ahead for the new term.
They had gone to look at one of the nearby golf courses with a view to joining. Although situated on top of a hill, it did have some nice features, and the clubhouse had a welcoming atmosphere, along with fantastic views from the balcony.
Sandra’s client had been pleased with Sam’s report on the golf-training experience. Sam wondered what kind of story would emerge from the writer’s consciousness. She was fairly sure it wouldn’t match any of what had been going on behind the scenes in non-golf related ways.
Sam stopped in the doorway just as the camera focused on Andi as she was getting set to drive off on the sixteenth tee. The shirt design was stunning. Lady Temperley would be selling a lot of those in the golf shop, particularly if Andi went on to win.
“There’s only three holes left to play.” Beth patted the empty space on the sofa next to her. “Why don’t you come and watch?”
“How’s she doing?” Sam sat down.
“They’re even at fourteen under at the moment. It could go either way. But the worst she can do is come second. No one in the groups ahead are close to that score.”
“I doubt she wants to be second.”
Sam had seen Andi practicing on the driving range and marvelled at the smoothness of her swing, as well as the distance she could send the ball with seemingly effortless ease. She had asked her once why she needed to practice when she’d been playing the game for so long. Andi had laughed and said, “Try doing this when the pressure’s on—when there’s a ton of spectators watching and you know there are TV cameras following your every move as well. You need to be able to rely on your swing, on the muscle memory.”
Sam found she was holding her breath now as she watched Andi’s club make contact with the ball. The camera followed its arc through the air and another camera expertly picked it up as it landed on the fairway and rolled another twenty yards before stopping.
The distinctive voice of England’s former number one player, Mickey Walker, intoned: “Perfect drive from Andrea. She’s not letting up. The pressure’s now on her opponent to match that.”
Beth grabbed her hand. “Oh, God. I can hardly bear to watch. I do hope she wins.”
Sam liked the feel of Beth’s hand in hers. She would stay to see the end of the tournament, if just to sit enjoying the connection between them.
†
“Don’t get ahead of yourself. You can only play one shot at a time.” These, and many other golfing mantras, had been drummed into her head at an early age. And it was never a better time to remember them than when walking up the sixteenth fairway with the chance to take the lead back from your opponent. Andi had checked the leaderboard while waiting to tee off and seen that it was just between the two of them now. It was hers to win, or come second. And she didn’t like coming second, not when a win was within reach.
Jordan was doing a good job of acting the calm and collected caddy. But Andi thought the goofy smile she’d been wearing most of the day had little to do with the nice bonus she was earning with a percentage of Andi’s winnings. More to do with the attractive player she’d been having lunch with when Andi arrived to start her practice routine.
“So, is she good in bed?” Andi asked as they walked to the driving range. She said it quietly. They were being followed by a crowd of TV interviewers and cameramen.
Jordan just shook her head, also aware that there were live microphones not far away. Andi let it go. She needed to concentrate on her game and there would be plenty of time to pump Jordan for info on her love life on the long drive back to Temperley Cliffs.
“One shot at a time.” It was a match play situation with her co-leader now. She only needed to hold her nerve to be walking off this green one hole up with two to play. However, if they finished on equal terms it would be a playoff situation. Then it would come down to which one of them was fitter and not already exhausted, mentally more than physically.
Andi waited for her opponent to play her shot from twenty yards back. It was a good strike but it looked like she’d under-clubbed as the ball landed just short of the green in a rough patch. Andi could almost hear the commentator: “Tricky lie for her next shot. She’ll need all her skill as a chipper to make an up and down.”
Jordan handed her a club. It was her nine iron and she had been thinking lob wedge.
“Lower grip, back in your stance. It’s good.” Jordan had mastered the art of talking out of the side of her mouth. Lip-readers weren’t going to get any joy from her.
With the solid advice Jordan had been offering over the last three and a half days, Andi didn’t question it. Just adjusted her grip, took the stance that Jordan suggested and hit the ball. At first she thought she should have gone with the wedge after all as the ball landed a long way past the pin, but then it started to roll and kept rolling until it was just a short distance away. The noise from the crowd around the green was indication that it was closer to the hole than it looked from where they were on the fairway.
If her opponent holed the ball with her chip shot, they would be going to the seventeenth all square. But this was where the nerves would take hold, on the short game.
Jordan grinned at her as she put the club back in the bag. Andi suspected she was thinking the same thing. They set off for the walk to the green. “One shot at a time.” She needed to keep saying that to herself to keep the fluttering in her stomach at bay.
†
Sam didn’t think she could have sat through the whole tournament. It was exciting to watch someone you knew when they were in a winning position, but on the whole she had to agree with Simone’s assessment that it was mainly a fashion show.
Over the four days of seeing bits of the tournament, Sam had been amazed at the range of attire, some shorts or skirts that barely covered the players’ bottoms. It looked like a perv’s paradise, waiting for the camera to linger as one of these long-legged beauties bent over to pick her ball out of the hole.
Not many of the young women had short hair like Andi’s. Instead they mostly sported ponytails sticking out through the gap at the back of their hats or visors. Maybe this was to try and avoid being tagged a dyke. It worked for some, but others might just as well have had the word tattooed on their forehead.
During one of the viewing breaks, Beth had asked her what the tree thing signified. She knew it was part of the Temperley Cliffs logo but it loomed large in every shot of Andi from behind.
Sam did know the answer. She had researched Lord and Lady Temperley as part of her assignment. From the entry in Who’s Who, she had discovered that Lady Temperley was formerly Freya Johannsen with a Danish father and English mother. She might not have picked up on what the tree represented from that scant information, if she hadn’t mentioned the tree symbol to Andi one day. That’s when she learned about the Norse myth connection. By following that up with some extra Internet searching, she had picked up more facts, and although this did not provide any information she would put in her final report, it was of personal interest.
“Did you know,” she said to Beth, “that Asgard, the home of the gods, is reached by crossing the rainbow bridge?”
“No. But I do know that Daphne du Maurier had a boat named after that tree.”
That was the kind of thing Beth would know. Although nowadays she mainly read and reread only the texts that were on the school’s reading lists, she had read widely as a teenager.
The players had reached the eighteenth tee. Sam didn’t think she could stand the tension and went into the kitchen to put the kettle on. Glancing out the window she could see Hermione
engaged in another of her favoured occupations, bird-watching. The cat’s tail swished back and forth as she gazed intently at a daring robin that was pecking under the patio table in search of crumbs.
The kettle reached boiling point, the cat pounced, and Beth yelled out from the living room. The bird escaped, leaving a frustrated Hermy lying on the hard slab, paws spread out in front of her as if in supplication. Sam turned away and went into the living room to find out what drama was unfolding there.
†
Freya knew that look only too well. Andi’s post-orgasmic smile radiated from the screen as she held the trophy high.
When Andi took the lead after the sixteenth hole, Freya knew her lover would go on to win. It was still hard to watch, knowing that with one small mistake she would be engulfed with disappointment. Both players parred the seventeenth and their drives were level on the last hole. Andi laid up to a perfect position for a wedge shot to the green with her second. Freya held her breath and let it out with a whoosh when she saw the club the other player was using to line up her shot. The woman was going for the green. It was a risk and reward shot of the highest order and not a chance most pros would take at this stage. Hitting the ball smoothly, and with the extra adrenaline now pumping through her veins, the player risked overshooting the green into the crowd. A miss hit would end up in the water.
The commentators were echoing Freya’s thoughts as the player settled into her pre-shot routine. There was a collective gasp from the spectators followed by a shocked silence as the ball flew higher than intended and with only a tenuous touch on the green, slithered back into the pond.
Andi still had to play her third shot onto the green and there was every chance she would dump it into the water as well. Perhaps that’s what her opponent was thinking. Jordan said something to Andi as she handed her the wedge. Whatever it was, the words had the right effect. Andi played a beautiful lob that landed a few feet from the hole. Even if she took three putts, she was going to win.
Freya enjoyed watching Andi walk onto the green, lifting her cap, waving to the crowd. Jordan kept pace with her, beaming from ear to ear.