Page 63 of What We Break
"Sorry, sorry." Tony resets, and I can see it happening in real time. The overthink spiral. His stance is too wide, his grip's white-knuckling the club, and he's got that face — that face that says he's about to try to send this ball into low orbit.
"Remember," he calls to Laine, still mid-setup, still not looking at the ball, "it's all in the hips. Think like a helicopter."
"Think like a what now?" Laine asks, shooting me a look.
I shrug helplessly. They have no fucking idea what they're doing, but their confidence? Through the roof. Absolutely stratospheric. It's almost beautiful.
"A helicopter. Rotating motion, smooth and controlled." Tony demonstrates with his hips, and it looks absolutely obscene.
Laine bites her lip, clearly trying not to laugh. "Helicopter. Got it."
She catches my eye, and I have to look away before I lose it completely.
Tony swings, and the ball shoots straight up in the air, comes down about twenty yards in front of the tee, and rolls backward toward us.
"Well," Laine says after a moment, completely deadpan, "that's definitely not what helicopters do."
I snort, trying not to laugh. Walsh isn't even trying—he's doubled over.
"I think your helicopter crashed," Laine adds, and Tony clutches his chest like she's wounded him.
"Harsh, Laine. Harsh but fair."
She grins at me, proud of herself, and I want to kiss that smug little smile right off her face. Later. Definitely later.
"Wind caught it," Tony says, like there's hurricane-force winds on this perfectly calm morning.
"Sure it did," Brennan says, setting up for his second shot.
This continues for the next ten minutes. Kowalski launches his ballinto the parking lot. Walsh's shot goes sideways and nails the golf cart, setting off the horn, which won't stop beeping until the course marshal jogs over and fiddles with it for an embarrassingly long time. We've been doing this every month for years—you'd think some of them would've improved by now. Nope. Same level of hopeless they were three years ago.
I'm the best golfer in the bunch, and that's not saying much. But Dad used to take Jared and me out in the summers, so I at least learned from someone who could actually hit the ball in the right direction.
These idiots watched a few YouTube videos and called it training.
By the time it's Laine's turn, she's been studying all of this with her brow furrowed like she's prepping for a final exam. If she had a notebook, she'd have been scribbling in it. She's fucking adorable.
"Okay," she says, stepping up to the tee. "I think I've got the basic idea."
She sets up the way Brennan did—mimics his stance perfectly. Takes a practice swing that actually looks pretty good. Her form is solid. Back straight, knees slightly bent, grip relaxed. She looks like she knows what she's doing.
Then she steps up to the ball, draws the club back, and...
The ball dribbles about fifteen feet and stops.
"Huh," she says, staring at it. "That's not what I was going for."
The guys are kind enough not to laugh. I'm kind enough not to mention how cute she looks with that confused furrow between her brows.
"Hey, you made contact," Tony says encouragingly. "First time out, that's pretty good."
"Is it though?" Laine asks, staring at her ball sitting fifteen feet away. "Because I was aiming for that flag way over there."
"Details. You got it in the right direction at least," Walsh says, waving his hand dismissively.
"Right. Minor detail." She's already walking toward her ball, this cute little scowl pinching her face together.
I fall into step beside her, and this time I do it — hand on the small of her back. Just for a second. Light. Easy. She glances up at me withthis little smile, and my ribs do something stupid. Like they expand. Like my chest forgot how big it's supposed to be.
