Page 87 of Put a Rink on It

“Use my card. Treat yourself.”

“Thanks, we will.” Kaity giggles.

Marina twists to loop her arms around my neck. “Play good golf.”

“That sounds weird.”

“I’m a hockey WAG. I don’t know golf lingo.”

She presses her lips to mine, pulling away way too soon. I trap her against me, drawing out the kiss, stopping when it’s counterproductive because I’m the one getting turned on.

Marina pushes from my lap. “Have fun. Be good.”

She bats her eyes. “Aren’t I always?”

Kaitlyn stands at the doorway of the living room, Marina behind her, waiting for something unknown to me. “Well?” she blurts.

“Well, what?”

“I didn’t hear a declaration of your love, Mr. Romantic.”

Thankfully, Kaitlyn misses Marina going rigid.

I clear my throat, hoping this rings genuine and not awkward. “I love you, Marina.”

“Love you, Nero,” she mimics.

Why do I wish the significance behind it were different?

I blame the obsession I have with my fake fiancée for my brain not working correctly.

It’s February. In Tahoe. Snow covers the golf course.

When Dad invited me to “play golf,” I hadn’t considered we wouldn’t be able to play outdoor golf. Instead, we’re playing on a simulator. And nine holes into it, there’s no “playing good golf” happening. At least on my end.

My dad’s a skilled player, and not only in relation to me. He’s hit par on nearly every hole and understands the game. He’s trying to beat his score from the last time he played this course on the simulator and in real life.

In the spring, summer, or fall. When the course is open for play. Not that I’ll be rushing to get onto it when it’s open because I’m bored. It’s so, so, so slow. Like painstakingly unhurried, the complete opposite of the game I play for a living. I can’t understand what my teammates see in it.

According to my dad, a simulated game goes faster than a real game. My brain can’t process that thought. We’ve been here for about an hour, and it feels like all I’ve done is stand around and watch my dad enjoy hitting a ball on a fake course.

One might think my hockey skills would translate to the golf course, but alas, they do not. Not even close. Sometimes, I don’t make contact with the ball when I swing. What’s up with that?

I blame standing still for so long, watching my dad take his shots, and not being on the go while trying to shoot. All of it is messing with my concentration and skills. And don’t get me started on the obstacles in my path. Five two-hundred-pound opponents have nothing on sand traps and water features. Fake ones, no less.

I gave up keeping score by hole four, when I surpassed more than par for nine holes, though the screen is happy to project how many strokes I take. Thank goodness we have a private suite. Less embarrassment. I couldn’t imagine if people recognized me and saw how pathetic I am. I’d be the laughingstock of the league if it got out.

I’ll be lucky to finish the game—if I don’t give up before the end—with an intact ball in my possession. Seems I’m taking my aggression out on the balls, hitting them a little too hard for my dad’s liking.

The one good thing about this afternoon has been chatting with my dad. Surprisingly, the country club golf vibe doesn’t translate to the golf simulator. He looks the part, but the entitlement and haughtiness are missing. He’s shown me which clubs to use and hasn’t cracked any criticism about my performance, which he’d be well within his rights to do.

“You’re up, Nero,” Dad says, his tone chipper with excitement.

“Great. Where’s the hole for this one?” It’s a dumb question. Where the ball is supposed to go and where it ends up never match.

Dad hits a button to give me a “flyover” view of the course and shows the hole over hundreds of feet away. Like the ball will make it half that far, considering there’s a small creek in the path, and I’ve yet to master the art of making the ball arc. Or whatever golf term is appropriate. The one time I made it to the green was pure luck, and even then, I couldn’t putt to save my life.

I choose the driver from my rental set. It’s easy to spot because it’s the tallest and has the largest head. Supposedly, it’s to hit the ball farthest off the tee, but I’m calling bullshit. Of course, it could be user error and not the club, but it’s easier to blame the rented club than take responsibility for being a shitty golfer.