She takes her shot, and the ball curves perfectly around a small obstacle and rolls to a stop two inches from the hole. “I was very competitive about it.”
I watch her sink the easy putt, and something in my chest loosens. This is the most relaxed I’ve seen Freya in days. She’s been distant since we signed the contracts, returning my calls hours late and giving one-word answers to my texts. When I finally cornered her into agreeing to this date, she seemed reluctant, like spending time with me had become a chore.
But now, watching her celebrate a mini golf victory with a little fist pump, she looks like herself again.
“Your turn, hotshot,” she says, stepping aside with a grin.
I line up my shot, trying to remember the last time I played any kind of game just for fun. In my world, everything is competitive, but the competition is always serious. There are deals worth millions, contracts that can make or break careers.
This is different. The stakes are imaginary, the rules are simple, and the worst thing that can happen is I lose to my fake fiancée at mini golf.
My ball bounces off the edge of the course and rolls into the rough.
“Oh, that’s tragic,” Freya says with mock sympathy. “Maybe you should stick to renewable energy.”
“It’s been a while since I’ve done anything that doesn’t involve spreadsheets.”
“When’s the last time you took a weekend off? Like, actually off, not working from home or taking calls?”
I have to think about this. “I honestly can’t remember.”
“Ben.” She gives me a look that’s part concerned, part exasperated. “That’s not normal.”
“It’s necessary. You don’t build a billion-dollar company by taking weekends off.”
“But you did build it. It’s built. Don’t you think you’ve earned the right to play mini golf on a Saturday evening?”
I retrieve my ball and take another shot, this time managing to get it on the green. “This is work, remember? We’re here for the photos.”
“Right now, at this moment, are you thinking about photos or are you thinking about getting your ball in that hole?”
She’s right. For the past ten minutes, I haven’t thought once about social media or image management or business deals. I’ve been focused on two things: the simple challenge of getting a small red ball around absurd obstacles, and the way Freya’s face lights up when she makes a good shot.
“The hole,” I admit.
“Good. That’s progress.”
We move through the course slowly, and I find myself genuinely invested in the game. Freya is indeed excellent at mini golf, but I’m improving with each hole. More importantly, we’re talking the way we used to—easy conversation about nothing important, the kind of comfortable back-and-forth that used to fill our study sessions in high school.
“Remember when you tried to teach me to play pool?” Freya asks as we approach the windmill hole.
“You were terrible at it.”
“I was not terrible. I was strategically challenged.”
“What does that even mean?” I laugh. “You spent more time trying to figure out the physics of the shots than actually taking them.”
“That’s because I’m an artist, not a mathematician. I think visually, not… trajectory-ly.”
“Trajectory-ly isn’t a word.”
“It is now.” She lines up her shot at the windmill, waiting for the blades to create an opening. “God, we spent so many hours in your basement rec room.”
I remember those afternoons clearly. Freya sprawled on the couch, sketching or watching a movie while I studied at the small table, both of us comfortable in the silence but always aware of each other. Sometimes she’d get stuck on a concept and start talking through it out loud, and I’d find myself listening to her explain color theory or composition instead of focusing on calculus.
Those were some of the happiest hours of my teenage years, though I never would have admitted it at the time.
“You always had paint under your fingernails,” I say without thinking.
