"I'm not on the ice."
"Exactly, which means something's up. You're gruffier than usual."
"Gruffier? That's not a word," I tell him.
"It is."
I roll my eyes and don't answer him.
He laughs. "All right, keep your secrets. But I'm kicking your ass today, so whatever's got you twisted up better not affect your swing."
"My swing is fine."
"We'll see," he says.
Top Golf is packed, and as soon as everyone sees Lincoln Beckett has arrived, all eyes are on us. I like coming to Europe because no one knows me here. Maybe a couple of Swedes, Fins, or Russians, but the public don't. It's the same when Lincoln comes to America. They have no idea who he is. It's nice not having all eyes on you for a moment. Except now they are. All on him, not me.
Thankfully, Lincoln called ahead and got us a private room with a city view. Perks of being a Premier League striker with a recognizable face.
We order food, coffee for me, and some overpriced smoothie thing for him.
"I thought you were on holiday?" I ask. Nodding at his drink.
"Gotta stay looking good for the cameras." He smirks, rubbing his flat stomach. The guy is vain. There are images ofhim on the side of buildings in his underwear. "Got to give the people what they want, which is me without my shirt on."
I shake my head at him as we grab our clubs.
Lincoln sets up first, punching numbers into the screen with the confidence of someone who's done this a hundred times. He lines up his shot and swings. The ball sails out and lands dead center in the yellow target.
"Show-off," I mutter.
"Jealous."
"Not even close." I step up and line up my own shot. My shoulders are tight, my mind is elsewhere. Jo in that dress. Jo under me. Jo walking out without a word. I swing harder than I mean to. The ball veers left and misses the target completely.
Lincoln whistles. "Told you. Twisted up."
"Shut up."
"What happened last night?" he asks. Leaning on his club. "And don't say nothing because I've known you your whole life and you don't miss shots like that unless something's in your head."
I grab another ball. "Just tired. Jet lag, probably.”
"Bullshit."
"Drop it, Lincoln." I glare at him.
He holds up his hands. "All right, all right. But for the record, you're a terrible liar."
He's not wrong.
We fall into a rhythm. Hit balls. Talk shit.
The sun climbs higher, burning off the morning clouds, the food arrives, and we eat between swings. Lincoln tells me about his pre-season schedule, the new midfielder they signed, the endorsement deals his agent is negotiating. I listen. Nod. Offer the occasional comment. But my mind keeps drifting back to her. The way she tilted her chin up to meet my eyes. The way she said my name when she came. The way she fit against me in thedark like she was meant to be there. And then the way she left. Like it meant nothing.Like I meant nothing.
"You're doing it again," Lincoln says.
"Doing what?"
