Kiss My Putt (Summersweet Island 1)

“Watch what? What’s happening here?”

“I know the main rule of Bradley’s and your vacation was no cell phones or social media, so you’re probably the only person in the world who hasn’t seen this or pulled up the video online and watched it at least fifty times.”

It’s true. That was a rule I put my foot down on when we started talking about this vacation a year ago. Bradley and I both had problems letting the rest of the world go and relaxing, especially considering the job promotion I was going for here was social media and marketing director for the course, and that job required I be on my phone a lot. Since I suddenly hated the world and everything inside it, I decided to keep my cell phone and my laptop locked away in a drawer until today. And I’ve been too busy with paperwork and training Chris this morning to check on the outside world.

Tess is still chuckling, and she starts clapping her hands and bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet when the sports announcer says, “Since this continues to be the most highly requested replay over the last week, here it is again!”

Tess suddenly grabs both my arms, turning me to face her.

“I know we aren’t allowed to talk about him, and any time he comes on the TV in the bar I have to change the channel, but buckle up, buttercup. Christmas just came early.”

Before I can process what my friend is saying to me and the look of absolute joy on her face, the back of my neck starts to tingle and butterflies start flapping around in my stomach when I hear the next voice that comes out of the television mounted to the wall. And since Tess turned it up as loud as it can go, that voice is amplified by a thousand. She drops her hands from my arms, and my head slowly turns toward the television.

“That’s it! You’re fucking fired, and you know what else? You can eat my shit! That’s right, my shit. Eat. My. Shit!”

Tess is howling with laughter, bent over at the waist, and clutching her sides, and I’m just standing here with my mouth open, wondering what in the hell I’m watching and if this is some kind of hidden camera, prank show or something. Or maybe there was a crazy outbreak of golfers at the tournament secretly being given meth, and now they’ve all gone mad. That’s the only explanation for the very public meltdown I’m currently watching, although the secret meth seems to only be affecting one golfer in particular. Suddenly, I’ve forgotten all about my dumpster fire of a vacation and the little white lies I’ve told, and now my head and my heart are filled with one thing and one thing only, and that is sooo not good for me.

“Look at good old Putz, losing his shit in front of the entire world. God, it gets funnier every time.” Tess giggles.

“Wait for it,” Murphy mutters. “Putz takes his shoe off and throws it in the drink in three, two, one. Weee, look at it go!”

What’s really funny is the fact that the nickname of Putz that Murphy gave to Palmer Campbell two years ago caught on nicely with my friends and family. Pal. Please, give me break. He’s the worst pal in the universe. Putz is definitely more fitting.

“Look at his caddie’s face when he rips the poor guy’s water bottle right away from his mouth. Priceless!” Tess snorts.

I met Bodhi Armbruster once, and I adored everything about the guy. He was laid back, easygoing, and he made me laugh every time he bitched about how boring golf was. The only thing that makes me crack the tiniest of smiles while I watch my former friend and one of the most professional, serious, quiet, and respectful golfers I’ve ever seen toss item after item into the water hazard, is the sight of Bodhi throwing his head back in laughter and being the only person in the entire crowd who claps appreciatively through the entire meltdown.

ESPN plays the video three more times. It’s the first time in two years I’ve allowed myself to stand still and watch something with him on it all the way through. Of course, I’ve seen snippets of videos and a few seconds of different shots he’s taken here and there or interviews he’s done at tournaments that were playing when I walked through the bar and Tess wasn’t fast enough to change the channel. I can handle seconds and snippets every once in a while without feeling like someone just punched me in the stomach and I got the wind knocked out of me. I didn’t need a three minute and thirty-seven second clip played three times in a row to remind me how hot Palmer Campbell still is. Or to remind me of all those times I got him to come out of his stoic, rigid shell and show a little life and passion. Just like in the video, but with more laughter and less “Oh dear God, what have I done?” And I definitely didn’t need that clip to remind me how much I still hate him.