Page 67 of What We Break
And just like that, golf becomes chaos.
Not that it wasn't before. But we take it to a whole other level.
Walsh wins the fourth hole by default since his ball actually made it onto the green, so he gets to lead our cart convoy to the fifth tee. What follows is — and I say this with zero exaggeration — the most ridiculous parade of golf carts I've ever seen. Walsh is zigzagging between trees like he's running from the law, Tony's trying to pass him on thecart path while Brennan hangs off the side screaming, and Kowalski's just — straight line, direct route, plowing across the fairway like a man with nothing to lose.
Laine's driving our cart, and she's not just keeping up — she's gaining on Walsh, cutting corners so tight the cart tilts onto two wheels. The woman is an absolute menace behind the wheel.
"This is insane!" she yells over every bump we hit, and she's laughing, hair ripping loose from her ponytail, cheeks flushed, eyes bright.
"This is the best part!" I yell back, one hand clamped on the roof, the other braced on my seat, zero percent concerned about dying.
She whips around another corner and I slide hard, grabbing the roof frame to keep from flying out entirely. "You guys do this often?"
"Only when we give up on actual golf!"
"So... pretty much every time?"
I laugh and nod because — yeah. Yeah, pretty much.
The fifth hole becomes a sprint. Literally. We're all jogging between shots, clubs in hand, like some deranged golf decathlon nobody asked for. Laine turns out to be surprisingly fast, which — okay, why am I surprised? The woman spends twelve-hour shifts on her feet. But watching her run across the fairway with a seven-iron in her hand, ponytail swinging, legs eating up the grass like she's got somewhere to be?
Something else entirely.
I stay behind her because the view from the backside is fucking spectacular.
Also because I like watching her move. The athletic grace, the determination, the way she's completely committed to this ridiculous game we've invented. She's not holding back, not worried about looking stupid or getting sweaty. She's all in.
This woman, I think.This fucking woman.
"Laine!" Tony calls from about fifty yards away. "Your ball's over here!"
"Thanks!" She changes direction mid-run, and I follow her.
"You're good at this," I tell her when we reach her ball.
"The running or the golf?"
"The running. The golf still needs work."
She laughs and lines up her shot. No practice swing, no checking her stance, just swings and connects. The ball goes about seventy yards and lands in the rough, but she's already running toward it before it stops rolling.
"Come on!" she calls back to me. "We've got a race to win!"
By the sixth hole, we've completely abandoned any pretense of normal golf. Kowalski hits his ball, it bounces off the cart path and ricochets toward the clubhouse. Instead of taking a penalty, he just runs after it, yelling "I'm still in play!"
Brennan's ball lands in a sand trap, so he hits it out while jogging, sending sand flying everywhere. Walsh loses his ball entirely but finds someone else's and decides that counts.
And Laine? Laine's having the time of her life.
She's not worrying about her form anymore, not asking for advice, not getting frustrated when her shots go sideways. She's just running and swinging and laughing every time something ridiculous happens.
Which is constantly.
"Reid!" she calls from about thirty yards ahead of me. "I think my ball just hit that squirrel!"
"Is the squirrel okay?"
"The squirrel's fine! But I think it stole my ball!"
