Page 62 of What We Break
"Never." She eyes the clubs in my hands. "But how hard can it be, right?"
The guys exchange looks. Oh fuck. She has no idea what she just walked into.
"That's the spirit!" Tony claps his hands together. "Confidence is half the game!"
"What's the other half?" Laine asks.
"Luck," Brennan says solemnly.
"And good tees," Walsh adds, pulling out his little baggie of color-coordinated tees.
"And proper hip rotation," Kowalski demonstrates by doing this weird gyrating motion that looks like he's having a seizure.
Laine nods like they're giving her actual useful information instead of complete bullshit. I love that she's taking them seriously. Most people would be backing away slowly by now.
"So who's up first?" she asks.
"Ladies first," Tony says, gesturing toward the tee.
"Oh no." Laine holds up her hands. "I need to watch you experts first. Learn from the masters."
Every fucking chest puffs up. The masters. Jesus. If she only knew what she was about to witness.
"Brennan," Tony announces, "you're up. Show her how it's done."
Brennan steps up to the tee, and Laine watches him like she's taking mental notes. He's got his stance set, club positioned just so, taking practice swings that look almost professional. Smooth arc. Decent follow-through. The whole package.
Anyone watching him up to this point would think he might actually be pretty decent.
Then Brennan starts his pre-shot routine. Step back. Waggle the club three times. Adjust his hat. Step forward. Waggle twice more. Step back again.
"Is he okay?" Laine whispers, and she leans close enough that her breath tickles my ear.
"Physically yeah. Mentally, that's up for debate," I whisper back, and I use the excuse to duck my head closer to hers. She smells like sunscreen and something floral. Not perfume. It’s lighter, like it's just her and whatever lotion she grabbed this morning, and I want to bury my face in her neck, which is absolutely insane behavior for a mini golf course on a Tuesday.
Focus, Garrison. Golf. Friends. Not the way her hair is brushing against your jaw.
Step forward. Adjust his grip. Waggle once. Look at the flag. Look at the ball. Look at the flag again.
"How long does this usually take?" Laine asks.
"We've timed him at four minutes and thirty-seven seconds," Walsh says proudly. "Personal record."
Finally, finally, Brennan swings. The ball shoots off to the right, bounces off a tree, and lands in the water hazard with a splash.
"Fucking tree jumped right in front of it," Brennan mutters, already pulling out another ball.
Laine's watching this whole thing with this little frown of concentration, like she's trying to figure out what went wrong and how to fix it. I've seen that same look on her face when she's listening to a patient.
It's also unfairly attractive. Everything she does is unfairly attractive. I'm starting to think I have a problem.
"My turn," Tony announces, stepping up to the tee.
"Oh good," I mutter. This should be entertaining.
Tony's already got his driver out, which — no. No, no, no. Not on this hole. He sets up, takes a practice swing that damn near decapitates Kowalski.
"Watch it, asshole!" Kowalski ducks.
