Kiss My Putt (Summersweet Island 1)

ESPN voted me one of the top twenty golfers of my time. I’m one of only five players to place in the top three of The National Tour, the biggest golf tournament in the world, more than fifty times in my career. I honestly can’t even tell you the number of other tournaments I’ve won at this point, and I’m only thirty. I have golf shoe endorsements, golf club endorsements, golf bag endorsements, and I’m the poster boy for golfing attire for one of the biggest athletic chains in the country.

And I have a caddie and best friend who absolutely hates the sport of golf.

“I think it’s precious you’re calling me unprofessional. I see you’re still missing a golf shoe.” Bodhi chuckles, nodding toward my crossed feet.

One foot has a black-and-white golf shoe on it, and the other one just has a white sock now covered in grass stains. That “missing” shoe is still at the bottom of the water hazard about three hundred and sixty-five yards behind us. Along with my pitching wedge. And the water bottle Bodhi was holding in his hand that I snatched away from him and hurled in there for good measure.

My stomach churns, and I want to throw up at just how expertly I probably tanked my professional golfing career today. The career I’ve been training for and my father has been grooming me for since the first time he put a club in my hands at the age of three and entered me in my first tournament at six. I also want to laugh so hard my sides hurt at the absurdity of everything I did. My head is a confused mess right now, and no amount of sitting out here feeling sorry for myself, like Bodhi so nicely put it, has helped.

After I stormed off and wandered around on one fucking shoe until golfers, fans, celebrities, television networks, and officials cleared off the course, most people going home, and only the VIPs heading back to the clubhouse to celebrate, I found an abandoned golf cart one of the grounds crew must have left on the apron of the 10th tee box. I drove it back out here so I could be alone and punish myself by replaying every stupid thing I did here today.

“Is there any hope the television networks suddenly had camera trouble all at the same time right at that moment, and absolutely no one had a cell phone on them?”

I don’t even know why I bother asking Bodhi this question; I already know the answer. I turned my phone off an hour ago after seeing the first twenty emails my agent forwarded to me, all from my different endorsements telling me my contracts were on the verge of being terminated if today’s display of behavior was going to be the norm going forward. There were also a few emails sprinkled in uninviting me from upcoming tournaments I’ve been working my ass off to compete in.

There are plenty of professional golfers who have temper tantrums, but Palmer “Pal” Campbell isn’t one of them. I was taught at a very early age to respect the game and to respect the course you’re playing on. I’ve gotten all of my endorsements and the popularity I have, because I keep my mouth shut, my head down, and I play the game, period. I don’t shout, I don’t argue, I don’t fight with other players, and I never lose my temper if I shit the bed on a shot. Most people think I’m an asshole just because I’m not outwardly friendly and I don’t have a humorous bone in my body with people I don’t know and trust. Which makes the nickname I got of “Pal” when I first came on the pro golfing scene quite the oxymoron, but that’s fine with me. And it was fine with my endorsements and the tournament commissioners until I actually became an asshole in front of the entire world today.

When Bodhi finally finishes laughing after I decided to ask that stupid question out loud, he trails off with a humming sigh before reaching over and patting the top of my knee.

“The bad news is, you came in dead-last at the Bermuda Open that you’ve never placed lower than second in during your entire career. Instead of taking home a one-point-six million-dollar purse, you’re taking home just enough to pay for our flights home, and you had the meltdown of all meltdowns on national television,” Bodhi says, turning his head to look at me.

“But?” I ask, after several quiet seconds where he doesn’t say anything else and just sits there blinking at me.

“But what?”

“You gave me the bad news, which thanks for that by the way. It’s not like I haven’t been replaying every moment of what I did in my head for the last few hours, trying not to break out into a cold sweat. But now you’re supposed to give me the good news to make me feel better,” I remind him.