Hooked

by A. M. Hargrove

  “This is a dream come true,” Mark says.

  “I hope the kids see it that way. It’s definitely a special place. Everybody always raves about Pebble Beach, and no doubt it’s awesome, but there’s just something about the Ocean Course that I love.”

  “Yeah, I can see why,” Mark says. “Although I’ve never had the privilege of playing Pebble Beach.”

  “We’ll have to do that sometime.” I tee up the ball and take a swing. It flies straight down the middle of the fairway.

  “Perfect shot,” Mark says with an appreciative grin.

  “Mark my distance.”

  “Got it. Is your coach here?”

  “Yeah. He’ll be around this week,” I say. “What’s my yardage?”

  He holds up the tracker and announces proudly, “Two forty-eight. Damn, that’s awesome.”

  The compliment slides right over me, my concentration too deep right now. The grip check Randy did on me seems to be holding. “Let’s go.” Mark grabs my club and puts it in my bag as I write down my yardage on the hole. We hop into the cart and drive to my ball. When we get to it, I remember something. “Hey, I showed you my ball mark, right?”

  “No, you didn’t.”

  “I do this on all my balls, even when I’m not playing in a tournament. Can you put a marker on the fairway for me?” When he places one where my ball is, I pick it up and show him. “See my three pink dots above the T in Titleist?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Those are my marks, so I always know they’re my balls,” I explain.

  “Yeah, that’s a requirement, isn’t it?” he asks.

  “Yes, so nobody’s balls get mixed up.”

  “Oh, yeah, I can see how that could be a big problem for someone if they get their balls mixed up,” Mark says. His tone tells me all I need to know, and when I look at him, he can barely keep a straight face with his double entendre. I try so hard to act stern, but it’s not possible to pull it off, and I end up letting a huge laugh rip out of me.

  “Oh my God. Don’t you dare do that to me during the event. I’ll kill you.”

  He rubs his chin. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t let that one go. The way you said it, you left the door wide open.”

  Shaking my head, I put my ball back on the fairway. “Okay, considering this is a par 5, which club should I use?” I’m testing him, and he knows it. He reads the yardage to the green and notices it’s a dogleg to the left. Then he suggests a 3 wood.

  “Why a 3 wood and not a 5?” I ask.

  “You need the distance. Your driver will put you over, but your 5 won’t get you close enough. Your 3 should get you within striking distance of the green, and hopefully you can birdie the hole.”

  “Read the hazards. What are they?”

  He checks his information book on the hole and cringes. “My bad. I should’ve consulted this first. Use your 5.”

  I smile, saying, “That’s why we’re here for a week. Had I used a 3, I would’ve ended up ass over head in the bunker.” I take the shot, and it’s a nice one, putting me within striking distance. When we get close to the green, he sees the bunker I was referring to. There are three, and they are waist deep.

  “Shit, if I had landed in there, I would’ve taken a mulligan.”

  “Yeah, well, mulligans aren’t allowed in regulation,” I say, nudging him with my elbow.

  “Duh. I know that. But I would’ve had to take one anyway and wave the white flag.”

  He makes me chuckle. “You play a lot?” I ask.

  “Not as much as I like, and you would certainly put me to shame.”

  “That’s because it’s my job. Like you would put me to shame in investing money. So, Caddie, which club?”

  He checks my distance from the hole and advises me to use a 9 iron.

  “You should probably ask how far I can hit with a 9 first.”

  “Hmm. Good idea,” he says sheepishly.

  “Hey, this is your first time out here. You’re learning my game.”

  “Yeah, and you smack the shit out of a ball.”

  “How do you think I got in the LPGA?”

  He takes off his cap and runs his hand through his hair. Then he crams his cap back on his head. Is this a sign of frustration? I hope not. I need to put him at ease. “You’re doing a lot better than I thought you would.”

  “Wanna know something?” he asks.

  “Sure.”

  “You intimidate me out here.”

  This is a complete surprise to me. “I do? Why?”

  “Because I didn’t expect you to be this awesome. I guess I knew you were good, but you’re outstanding. Ryder told me once that if you had been born a male, you would’ve excelled in any sport you played because you have incredible hand-eye coordination. I can see that now.”

  “Thank you for the compliment, but you should know I’m driven and competitive. When I want something, I go after it. I started playing golf with my dad when I was a kid and fell in love with it. That was all it took. There were no other sports for me. And this is my job. You spend what, fifty hours a week working? I spend that much playing golf. Sometimes more.”

  “Sixty at least, but, Riley, it’s more than that. You’re gifted.”

  “Maybe, but I have to work hard, too.”

  “Yes, you do. So, how about we continue on here, Boss?”

  “Okay, Caddie, back to my question about yardage with the 9 iron.”

  We debate which club, and I use the 9 to make a point. As I set up the shot, I look back at him and say, “Stop ogling my ass.”

  “I thought that came with the job.” He waggles his brows at me. “Seriously, though, I’m checking out your stance. Something a good caddie would do.”

  “Sure you are.” I take the shot, and it flies over the green.

  “Holy fuck! Maybe a pitching wedge would’ve been better.”

  I crack up. “You think? But check my distance with that so you know.”

  “Damn, too bad the Yankees don’t need a pinch hitter. I bet you can knock the hell out of a baseball, too.”

  “I’m not too bad.”

  “Modesty,” he mutters with mirth.

  We drive around to the back of the green, and I chip my ball onto the green with a great shot, landing me inches from the hole.

  “Jesus! Look at that shot!”

  He’s cracking me up. “Calm down, Caddie.”

  “You almost sunk that baby.”

  “That would’ve been a nice birdie hole if I had.” As it is, I end up with a par. The rest of the day moves smoothly, with Mark picking up pointers and learning my game. By the end of our first round, he’s acting a bit more comfortable.

  “How about a stop at the nineteenth hole for some food?” I ask. The nineteenth hole is the place where golfers usually hang out after they play. It’s not an actual hole, but a restaurant or bar at the golf club.

  “Yeah, I’m starved.” One of the course attendants comes up and asks if I want to check my clubs, but I tell him after we eat, we’re heading to the range. Mark’s eyes bulge out.

  “The range? After eighteen holes?”

  “Yeah. I need to hit a few hundred balls. Randy is supposed to meet us there this afternoon. Is that a problem?”

  “Not at all. I only thought you’d be tired.”

  “Tired? This is nothing. We got a late start because the course was wet, and now it gets dark earlier so I can’t play as late. I usually play thirty-six holes and then go to the range and the putting green.”

  We order our food and eat when it arrives.

  Mark is full of questions. “What about during the season?”

  “Yeah, the travel is tedious. Living in hotels practically every week. Practice rounds and then the tournament. I pick and choose now, usually playing in the majors. But when I’m not in a tournament, I’m at home playing my ass off. And in the off-season is when I crank it up. I take a week off here and there, but it’s not a lot of time. Golf isn’t like the other sports where
you have to rest your body. Unless you’re injured, it’s all-out.”

  “Do you work out?” he asks.

  “I have a trainer. He works me hard three days a week. Forearms, shoulders, back, chest, legs, and core are what he concentrates on. And on the other days I run.”

  Leaning back in his chair, he stares with a furrowed brow. “Your life is brutal.”

  “I don’t happen to think so. Sometimes I’m grumpy when I’m not hitting the ball like I want, but otherwise, I love what I do. It’s the price you’re willing to pay in order to do what you love is how I look at it. Professional athletes work their asses off. No one sees the behind the scenes of what we do.”

  “No, they don’t. They only see the TV coverage.” He suddenly grabs my hand and says, “You have no idea how much respect I have for what you do.”

  Wow. I wasn’t expecting this. It makes me warm and fuzzy, which is weird because not much does, especially where men are concerned.

  “Thank you, Mark. That means a lot to me.”

  The check arrives and he moves to pay, but I stop him. “All your meals are covered, remember?”

  Sitting back, he says, “Okay, but only for this event. And just for the record, I’m not a fan of this.”

  “Duly noted.”

  We leave and head to the range where I proceed to hit bucket after bucket of balls. Randy finally shows up, and I make the introductions. My coach isn’t stupid. He scrutinizes Mark, and then me. His brain churns like an old-fashioned ice cream maker. Now he gets why I was so discombobulated the other day.

  “So, Mark, how long have you known Riley?”

  Before Mark can answer, I say, “A long time. Mark is my cousin, Fletcher’s best friend.”

  “I see.” And then Randy mumbles, “Hair twirling.”

  At the same time, I say, “Randy!” and Mark asks, “What?”

  “Mark, don’t pay any attention to him. He’s going senile,” I say.

  Mark says, “He’s not old enough for that. What aren’t you telling me about this hair twirling?”

  Randy says, “Her game was off the other day, and I accused her of hair twirling. Now I know why.”

  Since Mark’s a finance guy, I see him doing some mental calculations. It doesn’t take long for a satisfied grin to spread across his handsome face.

  “See, I knew it,” Randy yells. “Damn hair twirling.”

  I grab a different club out of my bag and stomp away from them. Mark looks like a male lion that just became king of the pride. But Randy, on the other hand, looks like the detective who uncovered the killer of JonBenét Ramsey, a murder that’s been unsolved for twenty years. I only have one word for this—men.

  But soon after, my pride soars, because as I’m hitting ball after ball, they’re landing exactly where I’m aiming. Randy praises me, and Mark’s eyes singe holes in my ass. There’s no denying I’m in love with the fact that he can’t seem to rip his gaze off of me. And I’m quickly laughing said ass off when Randy asks him, “Hey, aren’t you supposed to be caddying for her?”

  Mark says, “Yes, why?”

  “You’d better start watching more of where her balls are landing instead of eyeing her butt much like an eager pup.”

  Mark, being the good sport he is, has nothing else to say, except, “Busted.”

  “You sure you’re up for this? She’s one of the top LPGA players.” Randy is dead serious now.

  “Yes, sir, I am. And I promise, no more butt ogling.”

  Randy is not buying it for a second, but Mark moves to my bag and starts busying himself with cleaning my club heads.

  When the light begins to fade, Randy calls it a day. “Good job, Ri. When’s your tee time tomorrow?”

  “Ten,” I say.

  He looks at Mark when he answers, “See you then.” He doesn’t trust Mark at all to do the job. Tomorrow will be hilarious, with Randy ordering him around. I’ll have to remind him that Mark is doing this out of kindness, and not because he is being paid.

  When we get to our hotel, The Sanctuary, which is aptly named, Mark asks, “Is Randy always a caddie Nazi?”

  I crack up. “He’s protective and wants to make sure I do well. He also considers himself my second father, so watch yourself around him.”

  “No shit.”

  He shoves me into the room and says, “But for now, I’ve been teased by that ass of yours all fucking day, so it’s only fair for you to bare it and share it now.”

  “Gladly.” I pull off my jacket, shirt, and unzip my pants. When I’m down to my bra and panties, he stops me.

  “Let me do that.” He’s a panty ripper. With his fingers on the elastic at my hips, he snaps it like it’s nothing, and it falls to my feet in scraps.

  “Those were Agent Provocateur. They cost a pretty penny.”

  “I’ll replace them.” His mouth covers mine as he unhooks my bra. Grabbing my ponytail, he spins me around and kisses my neck. And I mean kisses my neck. Up and down, front and back, and each side until I’m a writhing mess in his arms. No other part of my body has been touched, only my neck, and I’m as wet as I’ve ever been.

  He doesn’t speak a word. All I know is I want him. Now. He strips, and I watch. Defined muscles point down to a sexy V and I go to touch, but he stops me. Instead, he reaches for my hands and puts them on one of the bedposts we’re standing next to. It’s a four-poster type, so I grab on to it and hear him tearing into a condom. His hands latch on to my hips and pull me out so I’m bent at the waist. Then his fingers reach between my thighs from behind and he slides one inside, I imagine to see how ready I am. And I am definitely ready. The finger is gone, but is replaced by his cock. He doesn’t test the waters. He drives straight for the hole in one. And it’s exactly what I needed.

  “Hold on, baby. I’m taking you for a ride.”

  And does he ever. Each thrust lands balls deep with a slap, and he doesn’t break stride at all. One hand holds me steady, while the other has playtime with my clit. I am on fire with heat and electricity, going from zero to eighty in no time flat. And when my orgasm detonates, it feels like the transformer on my electrical circuitry blew. If it weren’t for his arm holding me up, I’d tumble to the floor.

  Surprise, he’s not done. He lays me flat on my stomach on the bed, with a pillow beneath my hips, and round two begins. The man is a machine. He does some rotational movement that I can’t see, only feel, and it fires me up again. His mouth works on my neck again, and I’m squirming to the dance of his tongue. Deep moans come from my throat, and I couldn’t prevent them if I wanted to.

  But wait, he pulls out and flips me over, like a circus act. Then he lies next to me and rolls me to my side. When he’s behind me, he slides back in and pulls my knees up. Hmm. This is great. It causes so much friction, I’m soon coming again. He bucks a few times, and I feel him coming, too.

  Then it hits me. I may be in shape on the golf course, but I need to work out more in the bedroom. It strikes me as funny, so I laugh as he heads to the bathroom. When he returns from disposing the condom, he asks what’s so comical and I fill him in.

  “Guess we’re going to change all that, aren’t we?” he suggests.

  “Yeah, I guess we are. Starting now.”

  “And do I have some plans for you.”

  “Plans? What kind of plans?” I ask.

  “How adventurous do you like to get?”

  “I’ll try anything, except bondage and whips.” The thought of being whipped freaks me out.

  “No bondage at all? Not even the fun stuff?” he asks.

  “Okay, maybe a little. But no whips and chains.”

  “I wouldn’t do that, but I’d love to see you spread out on the bed, tied in silk,” he says.

  “Now that I could do.”

  “How about toys?” he asks.

  “I love toys. I have some toys,” I admit.

  “We’ll have to use them sometime. And … what about anal?”

  “I’ll try it. I’ve never do
ne it, but I’m game.”

  He grabs me and kisses me. “I think this will be a lot of fun.”

  “Just remember, we have Randy to deal with. I have to get sleep. And our adventures in bed can’t affect my game.”

  “No, never,” he promises.

  Tomorrow will tell. And if they ever do, he’ll have to deal with Randy, too.

  MARK

  Riley goes to sleep, but I go to work. I might not have a job with a firm, but I work for myself. I play catch-up with the financial news of the day and make decisions about the directions of my investments for tomorrow. I read through emails and find that I’ve received a few from previous clients at my former job. The common theme between them is they want to find out where I landed.

  I carefully craft responses that I haven’t accepted any job opportunities at the moment, but may have an answer soon. Any position I accept will come with the expectation that I will bring new clients with me.

  It’s a little after one in the morning when I finally crawl into my bed, alone. I could have gotten in bed with her, but I didn’t want to wake her. Plus, I’m certain I wouldn’t be able to keep my hands to myself.

  My eyes have barely closed when an alarm blares in my ear. I open my lids to see a playful Riley hovering over me with her phone held near my ear. Groaning, I roll over.

  “Come on, Wall Street. You have ten minutes before we have to get out of here. I ordered breakfast.”

  Tired as shit, I roll out of bed and take the fastest shower known to man. I barely have a chance to take two bites of eggs before Riley is shoving me out the door. I’m sleepy and grumpy, but manage to keep a smile plastered to my face as Randy gives me shit the whole day for not keeping eagle eyes on Riley.

  We’ve been at it for nearly six hours when Randy and Riley talk to themselves off to the side. He’s giving her crap about her posture before, during, and after her swing. I let my eyes drift shut for one second before he’s launching into me.

  “If you’re not taking this seriously, maybe I should caddie for Riley this week.”

  I close my mouth. Many thoughts want to burst from my mouth. I almost say you act more like you want to be her husband than her coach or a second father. Somehow, I manage to keep it to myself.