Page 65 of What We Break
"Remember, Laine, it's all about the follow-through," Tony's saying as we stand on the third tee. "Think of it like... like you're stirring a giant pot of soup."
"Soup," Laine repeats, adjusting her grip for the fifteenth time. She's been studying everyone's stance, trying to mimic different parts. Walsh's foot position. Brennan's grip. Kowalski's backswing. She looks like someone handed her a scalpel and told her to do heart surgery.
"Big, smooth circles," Tony demonstrates, making these exaggerated stirring motions with his arms.
I want to help her. I can see exactly what she's doing wrong — she's overthinking it, micromanaging every muscle like she's running a board meeting with her deltoids. Just let it flow, woman. But every time I open my mouth, she gets this look. This jaw-set, don't-you-dare, I-will-figure-this-out-myself look.
Which I love about her, honestly.
But Jesus Christ, it's painful to watch.
"Can I show you something?" I finally ask. "You can tell me to fuck off if you want."
She turns, one eyebrow up. "Show me."
I step up behind her. Close. Close enough that her back is right there against my chest, radiating warmth through my shirt, and my brain short-circuits for a second because — focus, Reid.
"May I?"
She nods, and I settle my hands over hers on the club, nudging her grip a fraction. She shivers. Not from the breeze. Definitely not from the breeze.
"Relax your shoulders," I murmur near her ear. "You're holding all your tension here." I run my hands down her arms — light, easy — and she takes a breath. A real one. "Power comes from your hips, not your arms. And stop thinking so hard. Just let it flow."
"Easy for you to say." Her voice comes out a little thin. A little breathless.
Good. I'm not alone in this.
"Try it."
I step back. Reluctantly. Immediately hate the two feet of air between us, which is ridiculous — I was standing perfectly fine over here thirty seconds ago. She takes a breath, sets up, swings.
The ball sails maybe fifty yards. Still not great. But straight. Right down the fairway.
"Better," I say.
She turns and grins at me, and that fucking flippity feeling is back.
"Maybe you should be my coach instead of Tony."
"I'm a much better coach than Tony."
"And more hands-on."
God, this woman.
She sets up again, takes her backswing—which actually looks pretty good now—and swings through. The ball shoots off at a ninety-degree angle and nearly takes out a guy on the adjacent fairway.
"FORE!" I yell, while the guy dives behind his cart.
"Sorry!" Laine calls, waving apologetically. Then she turns to Tony, completely deadpan. "I don't think soup stirring is working for me."
"The soup was a metaphor," Tony protests.
"A dangerous metaphor. I almost killed that man with soup energy."
I'm laughing so hard I have to lean on my club for support. God,she's funny. She's funny and competitive and she doesn't take herself too seriously, and I am so completely fucked.
The fourth hole is where Laine's competitive side finally shows up.
