Kiss My Putt (Summersweet Island 1)

“What the hell was I even thinking leaving Birdie and playing in this tournament?” I mutter as we continue walking until we get up to the 5th hole tee box, and Bodhi sets my bag down off to the side, reorganizing my clubs while Rick Michaelson tees off.

“I have asked you that repeatedly since your stupid ass got on the ferry two days ago,” Bodhi reminds me.

He pulls his phone out of his pocket to check it again, smiling when he sees something, and then quickly puts it back as we hear the thwack of Rick driving his ball off the tee. The crowd cheering, clapping, and shouting his name when his ball sails at least 350 yards right down the middle of the fairway fills the air. Something I haven’t been able to successfully do since I got here yesterday morning.

Seriously… what in the hell am I doing here?

The reason I started hating my job so much in recent years was because of being in the public eye and having to play on TV instead of just relaxing and enjoying the game. And here I am, putting myself through it all over again, shitting the bed in the most epic way, and I’m only on the 5th hole, not wanting to be here, not wanting to golf, hating every second I’m not on Summersweet Island with the woman I love, who asked me to stay.

And I fucking walked away from her, for what? Because I thought I had to impress her? Birdie doesn’t have a shallow bone in her body, and I am a complete asshole for thinking she would even care or judge me about anything. I should have asked her to come with me. At least then I’d have the promise of her lips, and her body, and her smile at the end of this miserable day to make everything better. I’ll have nothing at the end of this day except a boner from thinking about her, a pain in my chest from remembering the look on her face when I walked away from her after she begged me to stay, and a best friend snoring on the pull-out couch with a joint still smoking in the ashtray on his chest and a piece of half-eaten pizza clutched in his hand.

Bodhi hands me my driver, usually the deadliest out of all my clubs until today, as soon as Rick and his caddie step to the side to wait for me to take my shot. Stepping into the tee box, I try to block out the sounds of people talking in the distance as they walk between holes, someone sneezing, someone else coughing, and the buzzing motor of the damn blimp flying overhead and filming. I shut it all out and focus. I set the club face of my driver two inches directly behind my ball. I check my stance and check my grip. I’m doing everything right, but it all feels wrong. Birdie’s face when she begged me to stay flashes through my mind and I have to squeeze my eyes closed for a minute.

Stepping back from the tee, I take one last practice swing before getting into position again, taking a few deep breaths again, and trying to focus again. I can hit this damn ball just as well if not better than Rick. I pull back my arms, and Birdie’s face when I told her I had to go flashes through my mind on my downswing, and I know my ball is going to slice right before my club even connects with it. With a muttered curse, I don’t even bother staying behind the tee to see where it went. Gasps from the crowd and a collective “Ooooh”—but you know, in the bad way—tell me all I need to know.

I walk back to my bag and do not chuck my club into the crowd like I want to, handing it to Bodhi like a gentleman, since there are currently three cameras aimed in my direction. And since Birdie did such an amazing job putting my image back on the right track.

Fuck! What am I doing here?

The radio on the hip of a golf course employee not too far away crackles to life as Bodhi takes my club from me.

“Anybody got eyes on that ball yet? It went into the rough where spectators were walking and not paying attention. A few people are starting to look for it.”

Bodhi snorts quietly as he shoves my club into the bag before pulling the strap back up onto his shoulder.

“If there weren’t cameras on me right now, I would punch you in the face,” I whisper as we start walking down the fairway.

“Oh, please do! Pretty please? I’m so bored I want to diiieee-uh,” he complains, dragging the word out like a toddler as he hefts my bag up higher on his shoulder while we walk.