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I saw Bobby briefly before I was whisked in a golf cart to the eleventh hole where our foursome will start the tournament. My coffee and I are first to the tee. I didn’t get to play the course before today because I had to finish the descriptors for the entire Irish Country Lass line for Lawson Graham Premier Sportswear before I left L.A. I’m operating on maybe four hours sleep since I’ve yet to master the art of snoozing on planes.
I pat my cheeks. “Wake up, Gilly.”
Wind off the Atlantic packs a bite, so I slip on a jacket. With my trusty seven iron, I begin a regime of stretches.
Across the tee box, movement catches my eye. A man large enough to snap Treat in half wheels his golf bag on a pushcart up the small rise. He’s wearing a baseball cap withThe Chieftain’s Sonlogo embroidered on the front. I should probably dig mine out to represent.
What department did Bobby recruit this guy from? The man’s build screams scene shop, possibly electrics. I can easily picture him climbing a ladder with a monster stage light in each hand.
When my teammate swivels to position his cart at the edge of the tee box, the back of his cap comes into view. It rides too high on his head, forcing the brim down at a steep angle. A bound lump of straw-colored hair bulges out of the opening in the back of the cap.
“Man bun alert,” I whisper low enough so the wind doesn’t carry my voice.
Treat gave that particular look a go last year. Godawful. His coiffure read more barista-in-training than senior manager of an international sportswear company. My fingers were sticky for days from the copious amounts of hair spray and gel it took to keep Treat’s saggy sack of hair on trend.
“Chieftain’s Son!” booms a voice from behind me. Bobby fist pumps and kicks a leg out the side of the golf cart he’s driving like a maniac up the path. A man I’d peg to be around my dad’s age with a dour face and iron gray hair rides beside him.
Bobby leaps from the cart, leaving his passenger to slide across the seat in order to hit the brake. He sprints over and crushes me in a hug. “Here’s our birdie queen.”
The goofy hummingbird I met in L.A. sheds the all-business, executive producer skin he wore back at the clubhouse.
“Come meet Doolin.”
A closer look reveals Doolin as a nice-looking man who wears golf clothes well on a slender physique. He offers a hand. “Doolin Byrne. You’re very welcome here to our team. Rumor has it you’ll be putting Bobby to shame.” I love Doolin’s Irish accent. Bobby should trade his California sound for Oirish.
Bobby rubs his right temple. “Stay away from her drives, and you’ll survive the round.” He nods at Man Bun, who turns his back to us. Our silent teammate arranges the clubs in his bag on the pushcart. “You’ve met J, I see.”
“Actually, no.”
Jay selects a club and takes a few practice swings, still not facing us. He’s wearing jeans and aChieftain’s Sonlogo baseball jersey. Someone thinks appropriate golf dress code does not apply to him.
“Already in the zone, I see,” says Bobby. “J is into this book calledThe Inner Game of Golf.It’s some type of Zen in your core approach to the game.” A phone alarm buzzes in Bobby’s pocket. “And we’re off.”
Jay tees up a day-glow yellow ball, steps back, and points his club toward the fairway. Without a glance in our direction, he addresses the ball and executes a tee shot with hesitation and a hitch at the top of his backswing that sets my teeth on edge. The sheer power behind his motion launches the ball high in the air and, lucky for the Zen master, centers it nicely on the fairway.
Only then does he look at us. “Morning,” he says with a wave. The tilt of his cap brim shadows his face. I catch a glimpse of a strong chin with a cleft in the middle. Instead of coming over, he wheels his pushcart to the path and stands apart.
Something about his brush-off behavior harkens back to Treat. Despite my disgust with his Lanie cheat, I felt two years of investment in him called for discussion about my relocation to Ireland. How much would it even affect Treat if I vanished from Lawson Graham Premier Sportswear?
Said conversation died on the vine. Since the L.A. tournament, my so-called “boyfriend” has been nothing more than an out-of-office reply on email with two exceptions. First, a bouquet of tulips appeared on my doorstep with a note.
G-
Kudos on being my wingman for the Irish Country Lass shoot.
No signature. Did Treat think the florist was in fact a P.I. charged to fly back to Lawson Graham with the scandalous reveal the boss’s son sent his fashion copywriter flowers?
The only other contact was a brief text volley where Treat explained he was off with Papa Lawson to court fall retail placements for the Irish Country Lad and Lass sportswear lines. I mentioned the renewal of Bobby’s offer to me, to which Treat replied, “Some guys need to hear no twice.You’re right where you belong.”
Where I belong. Where Treat wants me to stay because it suitshisneeds, not mine.
It was in that moment I realized how low my supply of trust in Treat had already waned. Watching him slam Lanie Blesch against a tree felt more like confirmation than shock. No doubt he’s off with his dad, but my gut tells me Lanie is also in the mix. I’m dying to casually work the spokesmodel question into a conversation with Bobby. How many levels of petty have I sunk to by hoping Lanie lost the gig?
“Ladies first,” says Doolin, fanning his arm across the tee.
I tee up and send my ball soaring through a cornflower blue sky.
Behind me, Doolin lets out a long, slow whistle. “So, Bobby wasn’t blowing sunshine up our asses. That’s one grand shot.”
