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Built in the ’70s by a retired pro-golfer, SIG offers the best of both worlds—a public course on one side for anyone who wants to play, and a private course on the other side for members only. That private golf course was specifically designed for a pro-golfer to train on. It’s hard as hell, and if you can manage to get anything close to two over par for a round of eighteen holes, you’re ready for the pro tour. Very, very few can get anything even close to under par on that course. Members pay the fees just for bragging rights that they play on a course professionals use, sometimes get to bump elbows with those professionals when they’re playing, and get their own private caddie to carry their shit for them and do all their golf course bidding.
Forcing my feet to move before I draw attention and someone wonders why there’s a man standing out in the driveway staring at the course like a creeper, I make my way up the drive and onto the sidewalk in front of the clubhouse, taking a left to walk by the front of the pro shop. Glancing inside one of the windows, I see it’s empty and all the lights have been turned off, save for the glow from the drink cooler with a popular soda company advertisement lit up above the cooler doors.
I specifically came over to the island at this time, because SIG doesn’t have a set closing time. It closes as soon as it gets dark and you can no longer see your ball unless it’s a foot in front of your face. I’m about fifteen minutes away from that moment, and I knew the likelihood of there being more than a handful of people still at the course would be slim.
Making my way around the corner of the building, I walk past the practice putting green and the rows of golf carts that have already been parked, washed, and locked up for the night, thankful that nothing has changed since the last time I was here. Now that I’ve made it to my destination and don’t need a disguise, I stop next to the row of carts, pull my sunglasses off my face, slide my hat around so the brim is facing backward, and hook the dark shades on the collar of my shirt. The quiet, peaceful night with the sounds of the waves crashing in the distance is suddenly interrupted by a thwack that makes me look up.
It’s been nine days since Bermuda and the “meltdown of all golf meltdowns,” according to the media. I haven’t touched a golf club since I launched my wedge in the pond. The sound of a club connecting with a ball is enough to make my dick hard on any given day, but especially today, when I didn’t even realize how much I miss the game until I hear that sound.
And especially when my eyes trail across the grass to about a hundred yards away where the driving range starts, and I see who’s hitting a bucket of balls. Even from this far away and with her long blonde hair pulled through the hole in the back of her golf hat that shields part of her face, I would know that woman anywhere. And not just because she’s using the same obnoxious bright-pink set of clubs she got at a garage sale with her first paycheck from SIG.
I took a chance coming here at this time, hoping she still kept up with the same tradition of ending her day of work and releasing all her rage after dealing with stupid people by whacking the shit out of fifty golf balls. I’m glad to see that chance paid off, even if I’m nervous as hell and my goddamn hands won’t stop shaking. I thought they were sweaty and my palms were feeling prickly because I’ve never gone this long without wrapping my hands around the grip of a club and they were going through withdrawals or something. Now I realize I have to keep shaking them out and wiping them on Bodhi’s shirt, because I’m starting to think I should have called first before I just showed up here like this. I’m walking unarmed up to a woman—who has probably made lists of all the ways she wants to kill me—while she has a weapon in her hand that I fucking taught her how to swing like a champ.
Birdie stretches out her arm that holds her driver, tapping on one of the balls she dumped a few feet from the tee and bringing it closer so she can bend over and grab it. My feet start moving on autopilot as I watch her place her ball on the tee, stand back up, and start getting into position. I’ve seen her drill a ball off the tee a million times. I taught her how to drill a ball off the tee. My brain, heart, and dick all remember what it’s like to watch Birdie Bennett tee off, and they make damn sure I move faster, closing the distance across the lawn until I can get close enough for a better view, even if I was just contemplating turning around and running before a 9-iron gets imbedded in my skull. I’m like a dying man in the dessert who sees a body of water. Except it’s a body of water that looks great from a distance but will rearrange your face if you drink it. Birdie is my body of water, and I need a goddamn drink before I pass out, so… goodbye, pretty face.
