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Stopping about ten feet away, I watch her get into her stance and address the ball. I see her straighten her arms out in front of her, drop her shoulders, and relax into position, the upper part of her body subtly moving as she takes her usual three deep breaths, thinking about all the mechanics and what she needs to remember to do.
I stop breathing during her backswing, my eyes focused on the curve of her slender waist, the twisting of her hips, the way the muscles in her thighs tighten when she shifts her weight from one foot to the other and starts to pull the club back. It’s like going up the hill of a roller coaster, the anticipation making my heart beat faster and my hands ball into fists down at my sides until she’s brought the club back and up far enough above her right shoulder. Just like I taught her, she doesn’t pause, she doesn’t think, she doesn’t do anything else but follow through the motion like a pendulum. My stomach drops like I just went over the hill as Birdie’s arms come back down, swinging through with enough power and momentum that I hear the whoosh of her club slicing through the air. I finally remember how to breathe again, and my breath hitches as soon as Birdie connects with the ball and I hear the thwack. That sound is one of the most satisfying things in the world to a golfer. That moment when you know you’ve made contact and you can finally take your eyes off the tee and watch your ball sail off straight into the distance if you did it right.
My dick is hard and my balls ache staring at this sexy-as-hell woman in her finishing stance. I’m wearing a ridiculous golf pun shirt, my life is a shitshow, and there is absolutely nothing to laugh about right now. But when Birdie hits the ball and it does not sail off straight down the middle of the range two hundred yards away and instead sails up two hundred yards into the sky and then plummets right back down to the grass a hundred feet in front of her with a gentle thunk before bouncing twice, laughter rumbles low and deep in my chest.
I knew exactly what she did wrong before she even connected with the ball, but it didn’t matter to me, because watching Birdie drive a ball is always a thing of beauty and should never be interrupted, even if she hits it like shit and it goes nowhere. Going by the muttered curses coming out of her and the divots she’s leaving in the grass when she smacks her club into the ground repeatedly a few times, Birdie knows what she did wrong too, and suddenly I forget about how unfunny my life is and my cheeks hurt from smiling so hard.
“Goddamn piece of shit asshole bullshit! My shoulders were perfect… fucking golf.”
Birdie is one of the many people I know who loves golf as much as she hates it. But she’s the only one who can keep me at half-mast and make me want to throw my head back and laugh while she has a tantrum because the ball didn’t do what it was supposed to do, and she knows exactly why it didn’t.
“You got under the ball, because you dipped your right shoulder.”
“I know I dipped my damn shoulder. I don’t need you to tell me—”
She’s so busy being annoyed that someone gave her a golf tip that it’s not until she fully turns around to face me that she realizes who just gave her that golf tip.
“Hey, Birdie,” I whisper, the only way I can say her name out loud without tripping over it or choking on my emotions like a loser.
Her pale-blue eyes widen, and her gorgeous pink lips part with a surprised gasp, and once again I feel like I’m going up the hill of a roller coaster. In the past, whenever I’d get to the island, I always had to brace myself as soon as Birdie got one good look at me. She’d come running from whatever distance it was and launch herself into my arms with her arms and legs wrapped around me like an octopus, telling me I had to stop staying away so long, even if it had only been a week. It’s been two and a half years since I’ve stood this close to her, and she’s definitely not running toward me. She’s slowly taking a few steps back, bringing her driver up and out between us as she goes, pointing the toe of the club at my chest. The shock on her face is replaced with a serious level of pissed off I haven’t seen from her since her sister Wren tattled on us the night we convinced a caddie to give us a case of beer when we were seventeen. Wren led their mom right to us, where we were chugging the beer behind the saltwater taffy store after hours.
