The Putting Green Whisperer

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The Putting Green Whisperer Page 6

by McCarthy, Zoe M. ;


  Mark and Paul stowed golf bags in their players’ rental cars and crossed the pavement to where Shoo waited.

  Mark raised his arms. “We’re free!”

  Shoo gauged the height of the sun. “If we hoof it, we should be able to get in nine holes.”

  Paul unlocked the car and claimed shotgun. Mark climbed in the back.

  “Hey.” Shoo spread his hands. “I’m driving again?”

  “As much as you borrow my car, the least you can do is chauffeur us.” Paul pulled his door shut.

  Shoo slid behind the wheel. “Don’t give me ‘the least you can do’ baloney. I always fill your tank when I borrow your car.”

  “Here, this should make us even.” Paul handed Shoo a soda and inserted a second can in a console cup holder. “I hope Grady hotfoots it out here.”

  Shoo popped the top on the orange soda and took a long drink. The carbonation burn refreshed his dry throat. “Grady can’t make it. He said Stu’s been practicing for an hour or more after his rounds.”

  Mark pounded Shoo’s seatback. “Then what are you waiting for? Let’s get out of here.”

  “I invited Allie Masterson to play with us.” Shoo adjusted the rearview mirror. No sign of Allie.

  Mark rolled his head against the headrest. “I don’t believe it.”

  “You’re interested in Masterson’s daughter?” Paul said.

  Why did jocks think invitations to females meant more than friendships? He sipped his soda buying Allie time. He checked the rear and side mirrors. No Allie. “She’s a good golfer.”

  Why had he thought including Allie today was a good idea? He jiggled his knee under the steering wheel and raised his gaze to the mirror. If Allie was ditching him like she did at the Carolina Boogie, their friendship was over.

  The rear window whirred, and the car rocked as Mark shifted in the backseat. “Man, her play better not hold us up.” He huffed a breath. “Like she’s doing right now. Come on, man, let’s go. We have little enough time to fit in nine holes.”

  That did it. Shoo wrenched around and leveled a look on Mark. “We can give her a minute, big guy. Wouldn’t you expect that from me?”

  Mark rolled his eyes and grunted.

  Paul peered into his side mirror. “She’s not coming.”

  Where was she? She and Mill finished in the group right behind his. He’d give her another minute, and then they were gone.

  Mark drummed his fingers. “Like I told you the other day, the sprite is not your type. Let’s go.”

  Why was it important to him that the guys liked Allie? He glanced in the mirror. Allie marched across the pavement toward them, her golf bag slung over one shoulder and her ponytail swinging.

  Shoo let out a breath. “She’s coming.” He got out and walked to the back.

  Mark lifted his face to the ceiling and raised his hands. “Thank you!”

  Allie rested her upright bag on the pavement behind the car. Sweat beads dotted her flushed face.

  “What happened to you?” Shoo opened the trunk.

  “Sorry.” She heaved her bag inside. “A shoe spike was missing. I had to borrow one from Dad.”

  “No problem. I’m glad you could make it.” And surprisingly enough, what he’d said was true.

  A cherry scent rose from her heavy breaths and mixed with her fruity-scented hair. Probably not a good idea to tell her she smelled like a fruit basket.

  Allie climbed in the back with Mark.

  Shoo ducked his head inside the driver’s side. “Allie, that’s Mark Hampton beside you, and this is Paul Santini up front. Guys, Allie Masterson.” Shoo slid inside and drove to the main road.

  Paul turned in his seat. “Your dad has a good chance of winning.”

  “Yes. He lives here. He plays the course a lot.”

  Mark snorted. “Home-team advantage, huh.” Mark powered his window closed. “Could we have some air back here?”

  Paul flipped on the air.

  Shoo curbed a sigh. Why couldn’t the guys give Allie a chance?

  ~*~

  So, these were the guys Allie stalked earlier in the week. Paul up front was Purple Shirt. The heavyset guy beside her, Mark, kept shooting side-glances her way. Where was Orange Shorts?

  “How long you been caddying?” Mark asked.

  “Three days.”

  Mark scoffed. “You know, caddying is more than handing your pro his clubs and wiping off his ball.”

  Was Mark trying to scare her? Probably. She was a female horning in on his golf outing.

  “I know most caddy responsibilities,” she said. “But I’d be glad to hear what you guys do to help your players.”

  Paul spoke over his shoulder. “The older players don’t practice much after a tournament day, so we get more time to ourselves than caddies on the regular tour.”

  “Except for Grady’s player,” Mark said. “I’ve caddied on both tours. You’ve got to know your player and keep them on an even emotional keel. Know when to speak and when to keep your mouth shut.”

  Paul chuckled. “I’m sure that’s a challenge for you.”

  Mark mocked choking hands behind Paul’s headrest. Then he sat back. “You should be at the course at least an hour and a half before your player arrives so you can stock his bag with a clean towel, rain gear, umbrella, bandages, aspirin, granola bars, and water.”

  Dad already had those things in his bag, but she could check his supplies.

  Mark aimed his forefinger at her. “And you gotta do a club count. Nothing worse than your player practicing at the range one day, and then forgetting to remove the extra club from his bag. On the day of the tournament he’s over the limit. He gets a penalty for every hole it’s in his bag. Then, you gotta be there for them for whatever they need during their warm-up on tournament day.”

  Obviously, Mark enjoyed expounding his knowledge. As smug as he was, she’d bet he was a good caddy. Most of what he said she knew, but she hadn’t counted Dad’s clubs.

  Shoo tossed her a look in the rearview mirror. “On Wednesdays, you’ll find most caddies on the course measuring distances. You’ve got to have your player’s numbers ready. They don’t want any surprises.”

  Dad knew Prestonwood, but she needed to learn how to walk a course and take notes so he’d be ready for the other courses. Maybe Shoo would let her tag along with him next Wednesday to walk the course at Rock Barn in Conover.

  She’d ask him when they were alone. Heaven forbid that she should ask for help now and Mark offered to show her the ropes. She could almost taste his displeasure with her presence. From spite, he might tell her to do something that would hurt Dad’s game.

  Paul seemed only slightly more enamored with her than Mark. Did they think they’d have to curb their male talk in the little lady’s presence? Male talk she could tune out. Or were they worried she’d be so far behind they’d be yawning and cleaning their golf balls for the third time on every hole?

  She didn’t blame them. As she was finding out, fitting in nine holes was hard for caddies during the tour. And playing golf with gossipy women, or in a group behind slow ladies, felt like waiting for Christmas in January.

  Shoo had taken a risk inviting her. She’d play her best and get him off the hot seat.

  In the front, Paul and Shoo rehashed their players’ games. Back here, Mark seemed to be sizing her up. Allie gave him her everything-OK? smile. Looking bored, he turned his head toward the window. That was fine with her. The blossoming fall colors outside her window interested her more than socializing with Mark. Particularly as it seemed his deodorant had stopped working somewhere on the back nine. She’d win him over, though, as well as Paul, when she could deal with them in fresh air.

  Nobody could bring her spirits down today. Dad sat tied with Chris Reed for the lead. And she and Dad were back on tour together. Not as hired caddy and pro, but as a team. A father-daughter team.

  If it hadn’t been for Karen, the reconciliation would’ve been a long time coming. Karen wa
s the genuine thing. Her faith was as strong as Mom’s. Tingles coursed across Allie’s shoulders.

  Mom would’ve liked Karen. Had she cheered from heaven when Dad chose Karen for his new wife? Like Mom, Karen might not follow Dad while he was on tour, but she worked hard to prepare a relaxing retreat for him on the home front.

  After the tour ended, she’d make an effort to get to know Karen.

  “Do you think your Dad’ll win the tournament?” Mark asked.

  She turned from the window. “Yes. I do. His putting is the most confident I’ve ever seen. And since I last saw him play, he’s changed his swing for the better.”

  Shoo regarded her in the rearview mirror. Probably wondering why, after last night, she’d put together so many positive words about Dad. She’d satisfy his curiosity when they were alone. For some reason, she wanted the guy to know she and Dad had fully reconciled.

  Mark grabbed Shoo’s headrest and shook it, jiggling Shoo’s head. “Is Reed asking for help with his putts?”

  Shoo looked at Mark in the mirror. “When he does, he doesn’t take my advice.”

  “Then I agree.” Mark turned to Allie. “Your dad has an excellent chance for the win.”

  Was she supposed to say thanks to that? If you can’t say something nice…

  Paul peered over the seat. “Your dad’s finish today puts you and Shoo in the same group tomorrow.”

  She glanced at Shoo in the mirror. His approving grin created lines in his cheeks. She flicked her gaze away. No way would she let his killer smile rattle her heart. She needed a calm and steady mentality today so there’d be no flubbing her shots. She had Shoo’s friends to impress.

  7

  On the first tee at Carywood Golf Course, Shoo’s buddies insisted the female lead them off. Allie strode to the tee box. If they only knew. A challenge always improved her play.

  She teed up her ball, took a practice swing, and then gave her drive all she had. It landed where she’d aimed. Hiding a triumphant smirk, she collected her tee and moved off the tee box.

  Paul shaded his eyes from the late afternoon sun and checked out her lie on the fairway. “Sweet!”

  “Nice drive.” Pride tinged Shoo’s comment. He flashed his heart-palpitating grin.

  Mark said nothing. Probably waiting for a few more holes before he passed judgment on her play.

  Paul’s ball dropped yards behind hers and into the right rough. He looked away, disgusted.

  Shoo and Mark executed decent drives. Something about Mark’s swing looked familiar. They collected their bags and headed for the fairway.

  As Paul veered toward his wayward ball, Allie fell into step with Mark and Shoo. “Mark, I noticed your swing resembles Rory McIlroy’s.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. Don’t you think so, Shoo? Of course, I’ve seen only one of Mark’s drives.” Well, two if she counted his drive a few nights ago.

  Shoo regarded her for a moment. “Now that you mention it, Mark does have a McIlroy style off the tee.”

  Mark raised his eyebrows. “McIlroy, huh?” A slight swagger invaded his stride.

  Allie glanced at Shoo. His brown eyes studied her. She faced forward and smiled. Had a little admiration crept into his puzzlement?

  Mark had given her a swing style she could genuinely compliment. Would Paul be today’s challenge? Hopefully, his game would improve.

  By the third green, she’d won Mark over. Her perfect chip, stopping an inch from the cup, had cemented their new friendship. He’d whistled long and loud.

  Of Shoo’s two friends, Mark was Shoo’s competition. Paul was having a rough round, but his true ability lay in his swing inconsistencies. She could probably beat Paul half the time.

  On the next fairway, Allie picked up a small branch that threatened to hamper her swing. As she tossed it, something pricked her finger. She shook her hand against the pain.

  Shoo stepped forward. “What’s the matter?”

  She sucked her finger. “A splinter.”

  “Let me see.” He examined her finger, their foreheads almost touching. “It went in deep.”

  His fingers on her skin were gentle, and his woodsy, jasmine scent beckoned her closer. His proximity was more hazardous than her wound.

  She removed her hand from Shoo’s. “It’s OK. I’ll get it out later.”

  He gave her a withering look. “You can’t play with that plank in your finger. It’ll come in contact with your grip on every shot.” He recaptured her hand, and then looked back at Paul and Mark. “Paul, give me your beat-cancer pin from your hat.”

  “Don’t you have to sterilize it?” Paul removed his hat.

  Mark produced a lighter from his pocket. “I’ve got that covered. Give me the pin.”

  Allie eyed the pin and Mark’s flame. “I don’t know about this, guys. As I said, I’ll remove it later.” She yanked her hand back, but Shoo held on.

  Shoo locked eyes with hers. “I’ll be as quick and gentle as I can.”

  As Mark handed the pin to Shoo, she turned her head away, her heart rate rocketing. She scrunched her face and waited for the painful stab.

  “Got it.”

  Allie whipped her gaze to her hand. “You’re kidding.”

  Mark and Paul crowded in to inspect the result of Shoo’s surgery. Shoo lifted his fingertip, the quarter-inch splinter perched upon it for all to see.

  “Looking at the size of that splinter makes my skin crawl.” Paul shuddered and backed off.

  Allie sucked her finger and then smiled at Shoo. “You’re amazing. I didn’t feel a thing.”

  He produced his killer grin. “Maybe I’m barking up the wrong profession. Dad would probably be happier helping me with med school than the pro-am.”

  “What would Eric Liddell say?”

  Mark rolled his eyes. “He’d say, ‘Let’s get on with the play.’”

  On the fourth hole, Paul made his first decent shot out of a sand trap.

  Allie clapped. “Awesome!”

  “About time.” Paul’s scowl didn’t hide the upward quirk in his lips.

  Shoo gave Paul a thumbs-up, and Mark delivered him a high-five on the way to his own ball.

  Allie joined Paul on the trek to the next tee. “Did Shoo tell you I saw one of your drives Tuesday evening?”

  Paul’s eyes widened. “No.”

  “Great drive off the fifteenth tee.”

  “Yeah, I remember. Where were you?”

  “Out for a stroll.” A hunched-over stroll through the woods.

  “I’m really off my game today.”

  “I know. I hate when that happens, and nothing I do fixes it.”

  His shoulders relaxed.

  Gotcha. Wasn’t playing with golfers who felt good about themselves more fun? She’d take a bow if the guys weren’t watching.

  As they approached the tee, Shoo eyed her, his head cocked in appraisal mode. What was there to figure out? She wasn’t complicated. She loved golf. Appreciated people who loved golf. Liked to encourage people, especially the golfing breed. That summed her up.

  On the ninth green, Mark stood beside her while the others finished their putts. “We’re going for barbecue. You want to come?”

  “Sure. Either I go with you, or Shoo has to take me home before you guys head to the restaurant. My dad drove my SUV home from Prestonwood.”

  Her downwind position awarded her a whiff of Mark’s body odor. Could she ask for a rain check? How would tangy BBQ and acrid BO blend?

  Mark pulled off his golf glove. “We plan to clean up first and then head for the Smokey Pig about eight-thirty.”

  “Great.” If he only knew how great. “Do you like to dance?”

  “Oh, yeah. Call me Gene Kelly.”

  Paul joined them. “Who’s Gene Kelly?”

  “My grandfather. A great dancer from the forties and fifties.”

  She stifled a chuckle, and they quieted while Shoo putted. His ball honed in on the hole and dropped.

  Paul
eyeballed Mark. “Your grandfather was a professional dancer?”

  Allie bumped her shoulder against Paul’s. “I think he’s ribbing us.”

  Mark guffawed. “You never disappoint me, bro.”

  Ignoring Mark, Allie turned to Paul. “Are you up for dancing after we eat?”

  The flag flapped and emitted loud snaps as Shoo returned it to the cup. He headed toward them.

  Paul nodded. “I’ve got a move or two. That’d be fun.”

  Shoo looked from Allie to Paul. “What would be fun?”

  “Going dancing after we finish off the pig,” Paul said.

  “I don’t know.” Shoo wagged his head. “Do you guys like dancing with each other?”

  Mark made a face. “What are you talking about, man?”

  Allie should’ve known better. Dancing would be a sore subject with Shoo.

  Shoo leaned toward her and grinned down at her as if they stood in a bubble while Mark and Paul watched them from the outside. “Let’s just say she gets lost in the crowd.”

  Whoa. Heart alert. No more close-ups for Shoo. His proximity threw off her stability all the way to her knees.

  The three stared at her. She collected her golf bag and headed for the parking lot.

  So Shoo hadn’t tattled. Big deal. He’d done worse. He’d piqued the guys’ interest about her dancing habit. A habit she’d performed once.

  The guys followed her. Shoo redirected his buddies’ curiosity to the best route to Conover, the other North Carolina location on the tour. None agreed on a route.

  Allie appreciated Shoo’s effort to keep her lousy nightclub behavior to himself. But, hello? She’d lived in North Carolina until she was almost seventeen. Why weren’t they asking her the quickest route to Conover?

  She halted and rested her clubs on the parking lot pavement. The men’s conversation faded as they stopped and faced her, their bags resting against their backs at the same angle, making them look like soldier beetles.

  She performed a few soft-shoe steps, ending with one knee bent and her open hand directed at the ground.

  The guys stared.

  Allie straightened. “The three routes are about the same. Approximately three hours. Maybe taking I-40 West all the way is a few minutes faster.” She hefted her bag, turned away from their slack-mouthed stares, and continued to the car.

 

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