by Mara Jacobs
“You don’t think he’s handsome?” Katie asked.
“Well, certainly not a gorgeous pretty boy, like…” She didn’t finish her sentence. She didn’t have to. Katie knew she was about to utter Ron’s name. “But, handsome? Yeah, definitely, but in an unorthodox kind of way, you know? Plus, he’s got that whole European thing going on.”
Katie nodded. There was something about him that was riveting to watch.
Darío and his caddy moved from the range to the bunker and chipping area, still in view of the bleachers, but closer to the first hole.
Katie moved to the seat behind her so she could stretch out her long legs onto the bleacher she had previously occupied. With no one behind her, she leaned back, resting her elbows on the hard plastic that was already heating up from the sun. By the end of the day, no one would be able to sit on them with shorts on for fear of losing a layer of skin. A poor man’s chemical peel.
Katie dropped her head back and looked at the blue sky. The morning haze was quickly burning off and the sun played a game of peek-a-boo with the only cloud in the sky. A soothing warmth spread over her, and for the first time in seven months, she felt human. No, she felt like a woman again, and it had been much longer than seven months since she’d felt like that.
She was dressed for maximum sun in a tank top and khaki shorts, revealing a tremendous amount of her long legs. She was pale from the Michigan winter. Hopefully she’d be able to change that somewhat in the next two days. Her feet were adorned in flip-flops that would soon be slipped off for the feel of warm grass beneath her feet when they walked the course. She looked like a beach bum, and after months of wearing a minimum of three layers, it felt great.
Lizzie had dressed more conservatively, being here in a professional capacity. She wore longer black linen walking shorts and a crisp, white sleeveless blouse with cute anklets and black and white loafers. Her dark hair, cut in a short shag, was already starting to curl at the ends from the humidity. For once Katie was thankful to have her baby-fine Finnish hair. At least it would stay put all day in its ponytail.
As the sun came out from behind the lone cloud once more, Katie closed her eyes against the glare and breathed in deeply. The smell of freshly cut grass mixed with the scent of her suntan lotion. It smelled like summer. The thought cheered her immensely. “Thanks, Lizard,” she said quietly, not even sure if her friend heard her. “Thanks for bringing me here.”
She felt Lizzie’s hand on her ankle, giving it a light squeeze, and then it was gone. Lizzie didn’t say anything, and Katie didn’t say any more. She didn’t need to; they both understood how much Katie needed to get out of the Copper Country right now. How, if only for two short days, they could inhabit a world that held sunshine and laughter. Where great golf was played by the game’s best. A world where rules counted and a person played with honor. Where cheating was considered the demise of humanity and was never tolerated.
A world where Ron did not reside.
Lizzie got up to go introduce herself to Chad Curtis as he left the range to head for the pitching area. Katie watched as her friend shook the young man’s hand. The kid was probably no more than twenty. The thought that Chad Curtis was more age appropriate for Amber Saari than Ron fluttered through Katie’s head.
No. No. No. This is not about Ron. This was about a change of scenery, a change of attitude. She could enjoy her two days here and head back to Michigan on Saturday with a new outlook.
But what would really be different when she got back? Ron would still be there with his new baby and his live-in girlfriend. It would be months before their divorce was final, but Katie had no doubt that Ron and Amber would be married the minute the ink was dry. As Hancock High School’s hockey coach and math teacher, it was not wise to be shacking up with a former student, raising their illegitimate child together. Small towns would only tolerate so much, and this pressed its boundaries.
If this had happened to Lizzie, Ron would have been run out of town, tarred and feathered. But whereas Lizzie was beloved in their hometown, Katie was revered, admired from afar. She had seen the sympathetic looks in the grocery store, but she had always been considered unapproachable, and so the possible good thoughts from her neighbors were just that – thoughts.
Those who really knew her – Lizzie, Alison, the crew at The Ingot – knew that beyond her looks was a human being capable of stumbling and falling just like the rest of them. With the scrapes and bruises to prove it.
Determined to put her inevitable return to the Copper Country out of her mind, Katie made her way over to the starting tee, realizing that Lizzie had been chatting with Chad for quite awhile. It was now time for his threesome to tee off. Joining Chad and Darío was an Australian golfer, Barclay Something-or-other. She figured he was either up and coming or down and out because she had followed the Tour for nearly fifteen years and had never heard of him.
As soon as she saw him, she had her answer. He was probably in his mid-to-late forties because otherwise he’d be playing on the Champions Tour, but years of the harsh sun on his face made him appear older. Craggy was the word Katie came up with when she looked at him. He was undoubtedly one of those players on tour who’d played for years on the fringe of the eligibility list, never becoming famous, hanging on until he turned fifty and could play the Champions Tour, yet still making five times what Katie made annually.
They made an interesting threesome. The fresh-faced Chad, the seasoned veteran, Darío, and the world-weary Barclay. Katie found herself looking more forward to watching a simple round of golf than she had anything in a long, long time.
Lizzie joined her, and they made their way to the ropes. With such an early tee time and no superstars, the threesome had a relatively small gallery. At the first hole, it was comprised mostly of people who had staked out spots along the ropes at the tee and who would spend the entire day there, watching every group go through. Katie suspected the crowd would lessen as they followed this group farther out from the clubhouse.
There was a contingency of people who were clearly from Irving, here to cheer on one of their own. But they kept together, all wearing matching tee-shirts with Chad’s face on it. Katie felt a pang of pity for the kid. He had probably died of embarrassment when he’d seen them.
The starter gave them their tee-off order, and the players went through their individual rituals. Darío took off his hat, emblazoned with a club manufacturer’s logo, and approached the other two players.
“Gentlemen, play well.” He shook their hands, looking them squarely in the eye as he did so and giving them both a solemn nod.
His sincere gesture, accompanied by just a trace of Spanish accent, made Katie’s belly do a little flip-flop, and she regretted that they hadn’t had time for breakfast.
She and Lizzie stood on the left side of the tee box so the players faced them as they teed off. Chad hit a booming drive down the middle of the fairway. Barclay hit a drive that was on the same path as Chad’s but some fifty yards shorter.
Darío stepped to his teed ball and Katie’s eyes were drawn to his forearms as they took formation around the grip of his club. Corded muscles and tendons rippled as the sunlight glinted across the smattering of dark hair on his arms.
Katie had never been one for men’s arms. Growing up in a hockey town, and marrying a hockey player turned hockey coach, she had always been a thigh and tush woman, those parts of the male anatomy being so sculpted on men who skated regularly.
She was ready to amend that opinion as she stared at Darío’s hands and arms as he held on to his club. His dark skin, part Spanish heritage, part golfer’s tan, was shown to perfection in the coral shirt.
With a quiet grace and fluidity, he effortlessly swung the club back and forward, making loud contact with the ball. As the entire gallery turned to watch the ball careen through the air, Katie’s head stayed in place, watching Darío’s backswing. Watching Darío watch his ball. Watching Darío cringe and yell out, “Fore, right,” and moti
oning wildly to the spectators walking down the right side of the fairway. Watching as Darío dropped his head, shook it and said something under his breath that Katie couldn’t hear, but certainly understood.
He handed his club to his caddy, and the entire group strolled down the fairway as the gallery began to move. Those who were following the group moved along the ropes, those who were staying, stretched and looked at pairing sheets to see who would be coming next.
“Hey Katie, come on,” Lizzie said.
Katie looked up from where Darío had been. She turned to find Lizzie already thirty yards down the fairway. Shaking herself from thoughts of those strong arms wrapped around something other than a golf club, she followed her friend.
Chapter Two
Pressure is playing for $10 when you don’t have a dime in your pocket.
-Lee Trevino, professional golfer
Mierdra! Another opening drive in the rough! Just like last week. And the week before. And the three before that.
No, he couldn’t think like that. Take it one shot at a time. One hole at a time. One round at a time. Last week was history. Today was a new tournament. A new course. A new chance.
And the same wicked slice off the tee.
Darío followed his caddy, Binky, to his ball, stepping under the ropes as Binky held them up. He hated walking under the ropes. It meant his drive had once again not only not found the fairway, but had probably found the neighboring hole’s fairway.
“It’s okay, Guv, you can handle a shot like this with no problem. That’s your bread and butter. Here,” Binky said handing Darío the required four iron.
Darío’s reputation as the game’s most creative shot maker was a dubious honor, at best. Yes, he was capable of getting out of trouble better than any other golfer, but only because he was in trouble so much of the time to begin with.
“Bah!” He hated being out of the ropes on his first shot. It could be a very long day.
He made a spectacular recovery and managed to par the first hole. His next was better, a birdie, and he was on the tee at the third hole before he realized that the two women he’d seen at the first tee were following his threesome. They were far enough out from the clubhouse now to make no mistake.
“A nice distraction, hey Guv?” Binky, who always seemed to be reading his mind, commented.
Darío had always been a gallery watcher. He knew that many players never looked beyond the ropes that lined each hole, feeling it took away focus. Other players were just the opposite, chatting with members of the gallery through their entire round, feeling it made them relax. Darío fell somewhere in between the two philosophies.
He watched the gallery constantly when it wasn’t his shot. Watched the people that followed his group through all eighteen holes. Looked at the spectators who staked their claim at one hole – usually at the tee or the green – and settled in their lawn chairs content not to leave the entire day.
He never allowed himself to think too deeply about who he was looking for in those galleries. He knew, deep down, that he’d never find him.
“Do you think they’re following our group?” Binky asked.
Darío shrugged, pretending he didn’t care, but that wasn’t quite the truth. “Could be. It is unusual to see two women together out on the course, though, isn’t it?” When Darío had first started on tour, women in the gallery at all were rare. Over the past eighteen years, women were much more prevalent, but they were usually with a man. Two women, without a man in their group, was indeed rare. Except for the case of groupies, which was more common than in years before, thanks to the higher profile of professional golf. And particularly after the whole Tiger incident.
“Suppose they’re groupies?” Binky asked as they stepped to the next tee.
Darío’s eyes followed the women as they walked along the ropes, waiting for the threesome to tee off. “I doubt it. They are not dressed like 20th Holes,” Darío said.
The nineteenth hole was well known in all golfing circles as the bar one visited after a round. The 20th Holes were what the Tour players called the women who pursued professional golfers. Whether they had a one-night stand or a one-carat diamond on their minds, the name applied.
“Besides not being dressed like 20th Holes, they’re already on the fourth hole with us. Groupies don’t usually walk that far away from the clubhouse,” Darío added to his assessment.
“Yeah, that’s true. It’s hard to walk a course wearing fuck-me pumps.”
One of the women had on comfortable yet stylish loafers, while the other had on flip-flops, which she was now taking off and carrying. They were both good looking, but the one with the flip-flops was extraordinary, though she did much to conceal it, wearing a hat pulled low over her face, her white blond hair peeking out from behind in a ponytail.
He loved a ponytail on a grown woman. There was something so sexy about the way it swayed back and forth as the woman walked, in time with the movement of her behind.
It was all Darío could do to concentrate on his next shot as he watched the blonde walk along the ropes of the fairway ahead of him. Her long legs kept a tantalizing rhythm with her ponytail. Her legs, though gloriously long and shapely, were very pale.
“Maybe they’re hometown girls out to see Chaddy boy?” Binky said as they walked down the fairway. Darío thought that Binky’s eyes were following the women as much as his were. He and Binky had been together for many years.
Darío shook his head. “Both women have very fair skin. Either they’re not from Texas, or they’re very conscious of not getting any sun on themselves. But then why wear shorts and sleeveless tops today? No, they’re definitely not hometown girls.”
“Texas is full of blondes,” Binky said. “But most of them have big hair to match their long legs.”
It was true, Texas was full of leggy blondes, but this woman looked more Nordic than Texan. The European Tour currently didn’t have any stops in Sweden, but if it did, the gallery would be full of women who looked like this one.
Well, perhaps in coloring, but even Sweden may be hard pressed to find a woman that beautiful.
When they made the turn at nine, Darío curiously watched to see if the women would continue on with his group. They were back at the clubhouse and many more golfers were now on the course. Phil was due to tee off soon, if he recalled correctly, so he’d probably lose the women to Phil’s threesome.
He was amused at how he thought of the women as his to lose. And pleased when the women kept following.
“Huh. Yep, they’re definitely with us,” Binky said, needing no prodding from Darío.
His mind wandered as to why two women who were not from the area would not only be at the tournament, but be following his threesome. One of his playing partners, Chad Curtis, was from right here in Irving. The other, Barclay Ives, was from Australia. If the women were Australian, they’d have more sun on them than these two did.
Yes, he was definitely overthinking this.
His focus was so intent on the women and why they were following his group, he was startled to hear Binky say, “Hell of a round going today, Guv. Keep it up.”
His mind came back to the game and he realized he was three shots under par through eleven holes. He didn’t even remember making the shots. He pulled his scorecard out of his pocket, happy to see that the shots he recorded for Barclay and Chad matched what the sign bearer had.
Darío was stunned that he’d gone through the last eight holes on autopilot while he and Binky had contemplated the blonde. That was unlike him. He watched the gallery while he played, but never at the expense of total concentration to his game. Besides, when he scanned galleries, it was never a woman he was looking for.
He acknowledged Binky’s compliment, then tried to put the blonde from his mind and focus on his livelihood for the rest of the round. He still had seven holes to play, lots of chances to make some birdies.
His body was fluid and the game seemed effortless. The pure physica
lity of his swing sang to him. His arms and shoulders became one with the club.
“A couple of fine Sheilas we’ve got with us today, hey mate?” Barclay said two hours later as they stood next to each other and watched the Curtis kid putt out on the eighteenth hole.
Darío knew exactly to which women Barclay was referring, but something in the man’s lecherous tone made him shrug ignorance.
“Right behind you, mate. They’re standing together by the ropes.”
Darío snuck a look behind him, but he knew exactly where the women were. Though he had turned his mind back to the round, he had never lost track of the Swede, and was delighted that she was still with the group to the final hole.
“Sí, ees muy preeetty.” He drawled the words, laying his Spanish accent on a little thick. His first few years that he’d played in the States, he’d been able to feign a language barrier when paired with a blowhard like Barclay. It was an easy way to have a nice, quiet, peaceful round.
As he started winning, and became more well known, the fact that he spoke impeccable English became common knowledge and he could no longer play that game. English was the language spoken on the European Tour as well, and Darío had been proficient since learning it as a child. He had been somewhat disturbed recently to realize that he now dreamt in English. It was nearly as innate to him as Spanish, but every now and then, he thickened his accent and pretended not to understand certain words to halt an unwelcome conversation.
It didn’t work in this instance as Barclay kept on. “Did you see the tits on the blonde? Well, both of them, actually, but the blonde. My God, do you think they’re real? And those legs? Can you imagine those thrown over your shoulders?”
Darío was no prude, but his belief was that crude language, such as Barclay’s, was best used between the sheets, not between the ropes. He had never partaken in locker room talk, even as a youth.
The picture Barclay painted was indeed evocative. Just as long as he was in the starring role and not Barclay.
