by S Doyle
Putting Out
S. Doyle
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Epilogue
The Spy Who Loved Me…Sort Of
Also by S. Doyle
1
“Right now she’s eyeing up this very tricky twelve- foot putt to save par. Not that it matters, Judy.”
“Not really, Steve. She’s got a pretty substantial lead on the field, but if I know Reilly, she’s not going to want to bogey the final hole of what’s been a nearly perfect round.”
“Let’s see how she handles her first real tester of the day.”
Reilly turned her head in the direction of the gallery and scowled. Someone had brought a portable TV to see what was happening on the prior seventeen holes. She didn’t begrudge their laziness for parking at one hole rather than walking the course; it was hot out here today. But she didn’t need to listen to the commentators discussing her while she was over the putt.
It was sort of freaking her out.
Still, they were right. She wasn’t going to miss this. She’d made a hash of her iron shot coming into eighteen because she’d been thinking ahead to her plans for that night rather than on her swing. A sixty-three wasn’t a fifty-nine, but it would make a statement to the rest of the field, letting everyone know she was picking up where she’d left off last year.
On top.
Reilly covered the bridge of her baseball cap to shield the California sun that beat down on the green. With the sweat trickling down her neck and the stickiness under her arms, it was easy to forget it was winter back home in Nebraska.
The idea of home hit her like a blast of cool air. A weird feeling shivered through and she thought about Pop and Grams. Neither of whom were getting any younger.
She needed to see them and she would bring Kenny, too.
“Yo, Reilly, what are you doing?”
Her brother’s voice snapped her back into the present.
Focus. Just until this is over.
“I’m lining up the putt. What do you think I’m doing? Come over here and take a look. What do you think?”
Kenny made his way over to where she was still crouched behind the ball.
“Why do you do this to me?”
She shrugged. “You’re my caddy. You’re supposed to help me read putts.”
“That’s funny because in thirteen years you’ve never once taken my direction on a putt.”
“There’s a first time for everything.”
“That’s what Lucy told Charlie,” he mumbled. He leaned over her, his long body parallel to hers as he studied the green.
“Just at the edge of the cup I think it’s going to break a little to your right. I’m sure of it.”
Reilly sighed as she stood up.
“I think it’s going to break left.”
“I hate you.”
Reilly patted her older, albeit not that much wiser, brother on the cheek.
“But don’t you see? By telling me right, I now know left is the best way to go.”
“If there weren’t a hundred people gathered around this green right now along with a couple of television cameras I would seriously pop you.”
“You can’t hit me. I’m a girl.”
“You’re a brat. There are very clear rules about brothers being allowed to hit brats. Now will you sink this thing so we can get out of here?”
“You can’t pressure a master.”
This time Kenny rolled his eyes in disgust, which was what she’d been going for. Chuckling to herself, she once more focused on the task in front of her. Sink the putt. Win the tournament. Go home.
The gallery quieted like the professional golf watchers they were, and waited. With an eye that had been gifted at birth then honed to perfection to read greens like a fortune-teller reads Tarot cards, Reilly saw the path as if it had been outlined in chalk.
She steadied her feet. Checked the hole. Relaxed her body until she was still. Looked down over the ball, eased the putter back and …smack.
The ball started rolling, trickling along just as she knew it would. It got to the hole and right there at the end broke ever so slightly to the left.
In.
The crowd, already on its feet to watch the track of the ball, roared its approval. Reilly did an obligatory fist pump because it was the latest thing in golf these days. She was trying to come up with something new to show satisfaction. Something a little more original. Maybe a jumping jack.
She lifted the ball out of the hole, kissed it, and sent it into the crowd. Then watched as a tall guy snatched it out of the air. The jerk. He could have let it fall to the little girl in front of him.
Reilly went over and shook both her opponent’s hand and her opponent’s caddy’s hand. If this was the first major tournament of the year, she would have had to make the expected winner’s jump into the pond. She’d done it two years in a row and man, she hated it each time. The water in that pond was always murky and dark and she couldn’t help but worry if there were snakes or other little creatures floating around in the damn thing.
For this tournament, all she had to do was smile and wave to the cameras. After so many wins, the celebrations were starting to get a little anticlimactic.
Not that Reilly didn’t love winning. But given her obvious advantage over the rest of the field, it was becoming expected. Maybe even a little predictable.
Predictability was death for sports.
Considering where she finished last season, she hadn’t lost a tournament in twelve attempts. She’d set the record at six wins in a row and then had done nothing but add to it. This twelfth win was going to put that record all but out of reach. At least for a while. It should have thrilled her.
It did thrill her. She just wished she didn’t have to work so hard to remind herself to be thrilled.
Shaking off the strange melancholy she was suffering from, which made no sense because she’d won, Reilly made her way over to the man with a microphone, who was waiting for her at the edge of the green.
Dan was a former golfer on the PGA tour, who had gotten out of the game but was working his way toward being an analyst. Like other lesser-known golfers, he had to earn his way to the men’s tour by starting with the ladies. With most of these guys, Reilly found herself gritting her teeth as they tried to hide their condescension and failed. However, Dan was a pretty decent guy. He respected her game. That was something.
“Reilly, you did it again.”
He moved so that she was forced to step sideways, giving the cameraman a better angle. Reilly pushed up her baseball cap and removed the sunglasses she habitually wore as a boon to the cameras. Her bright blues flashing for the world to see.
“Thanks, Dan. It feels good.”
The words were canned and practiced. For the first time they were also insincere. This win didn’t really feel good. It didn’t feel anything.
“First event of the season for yo
u. How does it feel to be back and winning?”
Amazing. Remarkable. Like I’m the queen of the world. At least that’s what she should be feeling.
“Uh… it’s amazing. I’m thrilled. I’ve worked hard in the off-season to take my game to an even higher level. I credit that to the other ladies on tour. I’ve had to chase down a lot of talented golfers and because of them it’s made me work harder.”
Only she wasn’t chasing anyone now. Hadn’t chased anyone since Annika retired.
“I know you’ve been asked this question a million times…”
“But you’re going to ask it anyway, aren’t you?”
“After so many consecutive and frankly dominant wins, are you considering playing one of the PGA tour events?”
“I’m a lady, Dan. And I’m happy on the ladies tour.”
The same boring answer she’d given a million times before. She was going to have to come up with a better response. Even she was getting tired with that line.
“Yes, but I’m sure you’ve heard there is going to be a change to the golf-ranking system this season to include all professional golfers including those on the seniors and ladies tour.”
Reilly heard about it. It was the new politically correct thing to support: a ranking system that was inclusive instead of exclusive.
“If or when they make the change,” Dan continued, “where do you think you’re going to fall on the list? Keep in mind it looks at the last two years of play, majors are weighted…”
“Yes, but the ranking of the others playing in the field is also considered. I haven’t played against top-ranked golfers, which will negatively affect my rank.”
A spurt of anger simmered in her belly even as she thought about the list that was expected to come out any day. No one knew how the new system was going to work so it was impossible to guess where she would fall. The idea of her name showing two- hundredth on a list with other golfers she knew she could beat on her worst day wasn’t something she was looking forward to.
“Yes, but I’m hearing statistics are also going to weigh heavily in the new system. Driving distance, greens in regulation, fairways hit. Let’s take a hypothetical. Let’s say you are ranked and manage to break the top fifty… Would you consider playing in some of the events that ranking would make you eligible for?”
The top fifty. For a second, Reilly thought of the one tournament a ranking in the top fifty would grant her instant access to.
A place no woman has ever gone before.
You sound like a bad episode of Star Trek. Let it go.
“I can’t think about that, Dan. Too many ifs. For now my season has started and I’m happy it’s a win.”
Dan nodded, sensing she was done with the line of questioning.
“You’ve got a few weeks until your next event and then just a couple of months until your first major. Tell us what you’ll do with your free time?”
Home. The word jumped into her head confirming her earlier decision.
“I’m going home. Spend some time with my grandparents.”
“Enjoy it. You deserve it. Great win today.”
“Thanks.”
Reilly walked off the green. She needed to sign her card and then she would take the time to sign for fans. Looking at the crowd already formed outside her trailer, she was going to be a while. But that was part of the package. Kids first then she’d get to as many people as she could before her hand gave out.
Kenny was already inside the trailer as was her friend Erica, who had been playing in the group in front her. The two had been whispering about something, but stopped as soon as they saw Reilly climb inside.
Reilly opened her mouth, then shut it. She didn’t want to know what they were talking about. The two of them had been acting weird around each other for weeks. She suspected a… romance. Ew.
If she asked the question and it was confirmed, then she would have to warn Erica her brother was a player, who had been flitting from one relationship to the next for the last fifteen years. Breaking hearts along the way. No real thought of ever settling down.
Unlike Reilly who excelled at settling down. Only to later get divorced.
Erica would get pissed because she would think that she was the one to change him. Kenny would get pissed because his sister had ratted him out.
But Erica was one of her few friends on tour. Anyone who had once liked Reilly started hating her as soon as she began pounding everyone into the turf. As a friend, Reilly didn’t want to see Erica get hurt.
Which is why she said nothing. What Reilly didn’t know, she couldn’t interfere with.
“Great win.” Erica flashed a smile.
“Thanks.”
“Bitch,” she added.
“Whore,” Reilly volleyed.
“You two are weird,” Kenny told them.
“It’s how we keep our competitive edge,” Erica explained. “You can’t make nice with the enemy.”
“But you’re planning on going out together later tonight.”
“Right,” Erica said as if it made perfect sense. “That’s off the golf course. Off the golf course, she’s my B.F.F. On the golf course, she’s a B.B. Big Bitch.”
“And Erica is a whore,” Reilly finished. She thought about the implications of saying that in front of what might be Erica’s new boyfriend. “I mean, not really. It’s just the worst name I could come up with since she already took bitch.”
“Whatever.” Kenny removed his caddy coverall and shoved it into the golf bag.
He looked good. As good as a brother could anyway, in faded jeans and a black T-shirt. Reilly guessed she understood what Erica saw in him. He had her same burnished blonde hair that he kept an inch too long and the same dark blue eyes. He hadn’t shaved in the past four days as part of the ritual they had established for tournaments, so he had the gruff thing going. He was no Brad Pitt, but he wasn’t a slouch, either. Hence the trail of broken hearts. But Erica was a grown-up.
“I’ll meet you outside. I’ll hook up with you two for dinner? Your treat, of course.”
Reilly smirked. “Of course.”
It was a time-honored tradition in the Carr household. Winner buys. Just one more downside to winning all the time. She always got stuck with the check.
“Hey,” she called to him before he left. “I’m thinking about going home.”
“Back to Florida?”
“No, home to Little Creek. You should come with me.”
“Why?”
Reilly gave him an admonishing glare.
“Because your grandparents are getting older and don’t get to see either of us as much as they would like. It’s winter and there are a ton of chores they could use our help with. Once it hits mid-February my schedule picks up so this might be our best chance to take a break.”
Kenny said nothing in response.
“Because if I go alone, Grams will spend the whole time talking about why I can’t meet a nice man and settle down. You know, for real this time.”
“That’s what I was waiting for. Sure, I’ll go. Invite Erica. She’s never been to the farm.”
With that he closed the door behind him. Reilly picked up her score card on the table where he left it for her to sign. She double-checked the numbers, although she knew Kenny would have done it for her, and signed the bottom.
“So…you gonna invite me?” Erica drawled.
Reilly winced. There it was. In her voice. The hots. For her brother.
“You don’t want to come out to the farm. It will be cold and snowy. The wheat’s been harvested so the place looks as barren as all get out. There’s a lake, but unless it’s super cold it won’t freeze all the way through so you won’t be able to ice-skate on it and …”
“Don’t be mad.” Erica stopped her.
Reilly lifted her head. Erica was shorter than her own five-nine height, but not by much. Half American, half Korean, she had exotic eyes matched with thick black hair that she wore in a style outlining the
shape of her face. In a word, she was a knockout. No misunderstanding what her brother saw in her, either.
“I’m not mad.” She wasn’t. Worried was more like it.
“We’re just testing the waters.”
“The waters or the sheets?”
“Waters first. Sheets next.”
Working hard to block the mental image of her best friend and her brother in bed, Reilly took her card and headed to the door. She needed to hand it off to one of the officials, then go sign autographs.
“All I’m going to say is you know his history.”
Erica rocked back and forth on her golf spikes.
“History is just that.”
“That’s what I thought you would say. Okay, you can come to the farm. But you have to stay in the guest bedroom and if you’re caught sneaking around, Pop has a gun.”
“He’d shoot me?”
“No,” Reilly replied as if that was the most ridiculous conclusion ever. “He’d make you get hitched. It is Nebraska we’re talking about.”
Erica stopped short. “Oh. So that’s how you ended up married all those times.”
Reilly shot her an evil glare. “Whore.”
“Bitch.”
Looking down at the ball in his hand, he raised it so he could study it. It was obviously fate she’d thrown it to him. Like he had picked her, she had picked him.
He held the ball pinched between his finger and thumb, and with his other hand he caressed each tiny indent along the dimpled surface paying special attention to the mark she’d made on it.
Her mark. One black dot, one red dot in a red circle, one black dot. Three dots, one circled, it was symbolic on many levels. He’d have to think about what it all meant.