Kiss My Putt (Summersweet Island 1)

Maybe when I disappear into the rough to get my damn ball as soon as someone finds it, I could just sneak away through the trees and get the hell out of here. It’s not like anyone would notice. I’m currently in last place. My name isn’t even on the leaderboard.

Bodhi and I continue walking in silence until we see a crowd of people gathered around in the rough about 250 yards away from the tee in the area where my ball went. We start heading that way, when over in the crowd someone shouts, “Got it!”

I can see one of the officials through the small crowd of spectators behind the rope in a large cropping of trees with his arm high up in the air so I can spot him. The officials are easy to pick out of a crowd, because they’re all wearing bright red polos and khakis. They’re like a bunch of Jakes from State Farm wandering the course all day.

Another red polo official starts backing spectators away from the area, being very careful that no one touches or moves the ball in any way. I’ll have to decide if I want to play it where it lies, tee off again, or move it two club lengths to the left or right, each one costing me a damn penalty shot. My eyes are down by the official’s sneaker-covered feet, trying to see where my ball is before I get up there so I can start making a game plan in my head. My eyes are down and moving quickly through the weeds as I walk, another official lifting up the spectator rope for me so I can go under it. I finally spot my ball sitting right at the base of a damn cypress, and I shake my head as I walk right up to it, stop, and put my hands on my hips, staring at the stupid ball, wondering why it can’t just do what it’s supposed to.

“Thanks for finding it,” I say to the official, finally looking up at him.

“Oh, I didn’t find it, Mr. Campbell. It was this young lady.”

The fifty-something-year-old man lifts his arm out to point to the other side of the trunk of the giant, bald cypress. My eyes follow the direction of his arm, and then my stomach drops right down into my goddamn feet, right along with my heart. And possibly my bowels.

“Man, you’re away from me for not even two full days, and you’re already losing your balls.” Birdie shakes her head at me. “It’s a good thing I keep a close eye on your balls, huh?”

She winks at me, and I have to close my eyes for a second and shake my head, opening them back up to realize I’m not high from Bodhi’s second-hand pot smoking and I’m not dreaming. She’s really here, in San Francisco, standing six feet away from me, making jokes about my balls.

And she looks so fucking beautiful I want to drop to my knees, wrap my arms around her waist, and cling to her, apologizing for every stupid thing I ever did to hurt her. She’s got her blonde hair loose and wavy around her shoulders with little braids circling the crown of her head, keeping her long bangs from bothering her as the wind gently blows through her locks. A VIP badge is around her neck, draped down the front of her and hanging against her stomach. She’s wearing another one of those short romper things, this one bright orange with tropical flowers on it, with thin little straps over her shoulders and her long, gorgeous legs on full display. She’s got on a pair of sandals that wrap around her delicate ankles and tie into a bow in front.

Jesus, she’s stunning.

She looks just like any other golfer’s wife or girlfriend but a thousand times better, because she’s mine. She looks like she belongs here. And I curse myself a thousand times in a thousand different ways for never asking her to come with me. To be here standing off behind the spectator rope, knowing she’s watching, supporting me, cheering me on, and loving me. Because fucking hell, I know she loves me, even if she hasn’t said it. Her being here right after I walked away from her when she begged me to stay is proof of that.

Why in the hell did I never ask her to come with me?

Spectators are still walking back and forth not far away, rushing to another hole to watch someone who doesn’t keep hitting their balls into the rough, while an official still keeps the small crowd of people waiting for me to take my shot held back about fifty feet from us.

“What are you doing here?” I ask softly, not even caring that people are waiting for me.