by Tara Sivec
“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.
“Hey, Tess, is the bar open yet?”
Mark is back, popping his head in this time from the hallway that leads to the bar, and Tess moves out from behind the counter, telling Mark she’ll meet him there. Turning around to walk backward out of the pro shop, Tess blows me a kiss.
“Sip and Bitch at the Dip and Twist tonight?”
I nod, blowing a kiss back.
“Tonight is definitely a Sip and Bitch night.” We agree on a time to meet at the ice cream stand my mom owns, and I let her know I’ll text my sister the info.
Tess turns around with a flounce of her short red hair and disappears to make Mark a drink. After she’s gone, it’s not until I hear the crinkling of a bag that I realize I’m still standing in the same spot, still staring at the television that has now moved on to a commercial.
A strawberry thumbprint cookie suddenly shows up in my line of sight, and I take it out of Murphy’s hand, shoving the entire thing in my mouth at once.
“Greg told me he’s got a new golf pro starting in a few weeks, and he put you in charge of him.”
I nod, chewing the rest of my cookie and swallowing before I answer him. “Yeah, I found out about that a month ago. I’m going to start getting his schedule organized so I’m not scrambling at the last minute. Oh and Greg stopped me this morning and said something has changed and I’ll need to help the guy out with something other than his schedule at SIG, and that if I can handle it, the promotion is mine. Whatever that means. That’s all he quickly rattled before he had to leave,” I explain to Murphy, referring to the thirty-second chat I had with the owner of the golf course earlier this morning when he was rushing out the door for a doctor’s appointment.
“I hate golf pros,” Murphy mutters.
We’ve had a bunch of golf pros over the years, some good and some bad, some assholes and some really nice people. Not all golf pros are professional golfers who have played on The National Tour. It’s rare a golf course can afford someone like that. Most golf pros range anywhere from just someone who really likes golf and is good at it, to someone who is certified as a coach in golf training.
“You hate everyone. I’m sure this guy will be fine. I’ll talk to Greg when he’s back tomorrow about whatever this extra job is I have to do.”
I try to let out a lighthearted laugh, but it comes out as more of a choked grunt. Nothing is funny now that I can’t get the image of that perfect ass in fitted golf pants out of my head and the sheer amount of bicep power it must have taken to break that club over his knee. His arms are definitely bigger. He’s been working out.
For shit’s sake, Birdie, you’re not allowed to think about Putz and definitely not like that! Get it together!
Another inhuman sound comes out of me, and Murphy shoves the entire bag of cookies in my hands with a grunt, knowing one cookie is nowhere near enough for me right now, and I’m sucking it up as best as I can.
“Get off my practice putting green, you dipshits! Do you not see the sprinklers running?” Murphy leans over and bangs on the window above the computer then charges out the door before I can tell him not to scare anyone away. Again. Three of the phone lines start ringing all at once, two foursomes come in to check in for their tee times, Tess pops in to tell me the vodka delivery from this morning never came, and the announcer on the television still set at a thousand decibels decides now is a great time to say Palmer Campbell’s name a dozen times in a row.
I silence my scream by shoving two cookies in my mouth at once, snatch the remote off the counter to mute the stupid television, and get to work.
After Sip and Bitch tonight, Putz Campbell can go right on back into the far recesses of my mind where he belongs, and where he shall stay forever and ever, along with Hawaii and Bradley, and the dirty, X-rated sex I will never have.
Sip and Bitch time better get here fast.
CHAPTER 3
Palmer
“You drive me crazy.”
Setting foot on Summersweet Island is like stepping into a time warp. It’s almost like the show Riverdale Bodhi makes me watch whenever we have downtime, but without all the secrets, lies, teenagers acting and talking like grown-ass adults, and murder stuff. You know it’s present day, because people have cell phones and Amazon Prime and all that, but there’s one grocery store, one school, no stoplights, no Starbucks or any chain establishment of any kind, and the only way to get around the island is by golf cart or bike.
It’s absolute heaven to me.
As soon as we got off the ferry while the sun started to go down, Bodhi headed to the public beach so he could hit on women packing up their beach equipment for the day by offering to help them carry it. I’ve seen it happen so many times over the years, and seen it work so many times over the years, that I have absolutely no desire to witness it again. Instead, I slowly make my way up toward Summersweet Island Golf Course, taking in the old familiar sights I hadn’t realized just how much I missed until now.
Shaped like a bean someone plopped down into the Atlantic a few miles off the coast of Virginia, Summersweet Island is around four square miles, has about 700 year-round residents, and has two main roads: Ocean Drive that I’m currently on, which takes you vertically up the middle of the shortest length of the island east to west, and Summersweet Lane, crossing perpendicularly in the middle of Ocean Drive, taking you across the longest length of the island from north to south.
Ocean Drive will take you from the ferry dock—golf cart and bike rentals and public beach down on the lower west bank—to the golf course and the one “fancy” hotel on the other side of the island up on the east bank. Summersweet Lane’s north and south banks are for the permanent residents and where the homes, long-term cottage rentals, school, vet clinic, hospital, and other residential necessities are located. The small stretch of Summersweet Lane right smack in the middle of the island is what everyone considers downtown. That’s where you’ll find three bars, one diner, one pizza pl
ace, one Italian restaurant, the best ice cream stand in the entire world, the grocery store, three small motels, short-term cottage rentals, and a handful of other tourist spots and places for the locals to hangout, unwind, or grab provisions until they can get to the mainland or get a delivery.
Not wanting to chance being recognized as soon as I got off the ferry, whether by a local or a tourist who’s a fan, Bodhi and I have been staying over on the mainland, hunkered down in a hotel room for the last week since we got here, so I could make arrangements with Greg before I did anything else. Just as Bodhi predicted, Greg was more than thrilled to hear I was coming home for a while. As soon as he called it that in regards to me, I knew I was making the right decision.
He was shocked I wanted a job at the course, and I explained to him about my endorsements drying up and how it would give me something to do that paid while I figured out how to get my public image back in tip-top shape. Since Greg had seen what happened live from the comfort of his living room where he wondered if his wife had roofied the whiskey he’d been sipping, he understood my predicament, gave me a temporary job, and told me he might even have a way to fix my public image problem that we could talk about when I got here.
It feels weird as hell walking up Ocean Drive, crossing over Summersweet Lane, and seeing people I know but having to keep my dark sunglasses on my face and a fitted golf hat on my head with the brim pulled down low over my brow so they don’t recognize me. I made Greg swear he would keep things quiet until I got here, and I want to make damn sure it stays quiet and word doesn’t get back to the person I’m heading to see before I can tell her myself first, in person.
Owning absolutely nothing but golf attire, all of it I’ve modeled at some point for the athletic chain I endorsed, I decided to borrow a T-shirt from Bodhi to beef up my pathetic attempt at a disguise instead of wearing one of my signature fitted collarless polo shirts. I threw his white shirt on with a pair of my dark gray golf shorts, since I refused to borrow a pair of his cargo shorts on principle alone. And because I’m six-foot-two compared to his five-foot-nine, have twenty-five more pounds of muscle than he does, and those abominations to the male wardrobe would never fit me. I don’t really feel like a traitor to golf, since Bodhi’s shirt says Golf: The classy way to avoid responsibilities. Only Bodhi wears this shirt ironically, because he honestly thinks people play pro golf to avoid getting a real job. I’ll just look like a regular, average Joe golfer, heading to the course.
I finally look up from the sidewalk when I get to the entrance of SIG and I have to pause and take a moment for it to sink in that I’m really here. I never lived on Summersweet Island aside from the few summer months when I was out of school and my dad rented a cottage. I wasn’t a local; I was a soon-to-be high school freshman with a very promising golf career ahead of him, whose father moved him to Virginia at the start of that summer to attend one of the best private schools on the mainland and train at one of the best golf courses in the country on the island off the coast. SIG and everyone here adopted me, looked out for me, and never once made me feel like I didn’t belong.
Built in the ’70s by a retired pro-golfer, SIG offers the best of both worlds—a public course on one side for anyone who wants to play, and a private course on the other side for members only. That private golf course was specifically designed for a pro-golfer to train on. It’s hard as hell, and if you can manage to get anything close to two over par for a round of eighteen holes, you’re ready for the pro tour. Very, very few can get anything even close to under par on that course. Members pay the fees just for bragging rights that they play on a course professionals use, sometimes get to bump elbows with those professionals when they’re playing, and get their own private caddie to carry their shit for them and do all their golf course bidding.
Forcing my feet to move before I draw attention and someone wonders why there’s a man standing out in the driveway staring at the course like a creeper, I make my way up the drive and onto the sidewalk in front of the clubhouse, taking a left to walk by the front of the pro shop. Glancing inside one of the windows, I see it’s empty and all the lights have been turned off, save for the glow from the drink cooler with a popular soda company advertisement lit up above the cooler doors.
I specifically came over to the island at this time, because SIG doesn’t have a set closing time. It closes as soon as it gets dark and you can no longer see your ball unless it’s a foot in front of your face. I’m about fifteen minutes away from that moment, and I knew the likelihood of there being more than a handful of people still at the course would be slim.
Making my way around the corner of the building, I walk past the practice putting green and the rows of golf carts that have already been parked, washed, and locked up for the night, thankful that nothing has changed since the last time I was here. Now that I’ve made it to my destination and don’t need a disguise, I stop next to the row of carts, pull my sunglasses off my face, slide my hat around so the brim is facing backward, and hook the dark shades on the collar of my shirt. The quiet, peaceful night with the sounds of the waves crashing in the distance is suddenly interrupted by a thwack that makes me look up.
It’s been nine days since Bermuda and the “meltdown of all golf meltdowns,” according to the media. I haven’t touched a golf club since I launched my wedge in the pond. The sound of a club connecting with a ball is enough to make my dick hard on any given day, but especially today, when I didn’t even realize how much I miss the game until I hear that sound.
And especially when my eyes trail across the grass to about a hundred yards away where the driving range starts, and I see who’s hitting a bucket of balls. Even from this far away and with her long blonde hair pulled through the hole in the back of her golf hat that shields part of her face, I would know that woman anywhere. And not just because she’s using the same obnoxious bright-pink set of clubs she got at a garage sale with her first paycheck from SIG.
I took a chance coming here at this time, hoping she still kept up with the same tradition of ending her day of work and releasing all her rage after dealing with stupid people by whacking the shit out of fifty golf balls. I’m glad to see that chance paid off, even if I’m nervous as hell and my goddamn hands won’t stop shaking. I thought they were sweaty and my palms were feeling prickly because I’ve never gone this long without wrapping my hands around the grip of a club and they were going through withdrawals or something. Now I realize I have to keep shaking them out and wiping them on Bodhi’s shirt, because I’m starting to think I should have called first before I just showed up here like this. I’m walking unarmed up to a woman—who has probably made lists of all the ways she wants to kill me—while she has a weapon in her hand that I fucking taught her how to swing like a champ.
Birdie stretches out her arm that holds her driver, tapping on one of the balls she dumped a few feet from the tee and bringing it closer so she can bend over and grab it. My feet start moving on autopilot as I watch her place her ball on the tee, stand back up, and start getting into position. I’ve seen her drill a ball off the tee a million times. I taught her how to drill a ball off the tee. My brain, heart, and dick all remember what it’s like to watch Birdie Bennett tee off, and they make damn sure I move faster, closing the distance across the lawn until I can get close enough for a better view, even if I was just contemplating turning around and running before a 9-iron gets imbedded in my skull. I’m like a dying man in the dessert who sees a body of water. Except it’s a body of water that looks great from a distance but will rearrange your face if you drink it. Birdie is my body of water, and I need a goddamn drink before I pass out, so… goodbye, pretty face.
Stopping about ten feet away, I watch her get into her stance and address the ball. I see her straighten her arms out in front of her, drop her shoulders, and relax into position, the upper part of her body subtly moving as she takes her usual three deep breaths, thinking about all the mechanics and what she needs to remember to do.
My dick is hard and my balls ache staring at this sexy-as-hell woman in her finishing stance. I’m wearing a ridiculous golf pun shirt, my life is a shitshow, and there is absolutely nothing to laugh about right now. But when Birdie hits the ball and it does not sail off straight down the middle of the range two hundred yards away and instead sails up two hundred yards into the sky and then plummets right back down to the grass a hundred feet in front of her with a gentle thunk before bouncing twice, laughter rumbles low and deep in my chest.
