Placing hers on the ground, she walks over to me, her heels digging into the grass. I hold mine out for her, expecting her to take it, but she doesn’t.
My brows furrow. "What are you doing?"
She walks around me with purpose until she’s standing behind me, her chest pressed against my back.
"What are you doing?" I repeat, more teasing in my tone than the last time, but she doesn’t humor me with a response. Instead, what she says simply annoys me. I’m beginning to think I should’ve picked the older woman instead.
"Teaching you how to swing a golf club." Her arms lace around mine, her hands over mine as we hold the grip.
Her knees bend inward with mine. "Keep them bent."
She nudges me a little more, and I allow them to buck. "Hips back," she says, and I do it, realizing to outsiders just how ridiculous this would look, especially with our height difference.
I even see someone over the other side with their phone out, taking pictures, and I already know what the headline will read when the press inevitably get their hands on it.
Jones, emasculated by singer at a driving range as she teaches him how to play golf.
And the funny part is, I wouldn’t even care. My name would be in the news for something other than my temper.
A rare occurrence, these days.
I humor her, listening to her instructions, keeping my position exactly how she wants it, and when her arms come back with mine to swing the club, I miss.
On purpose, of course, but I still miss it.
"Who’d have thought a professional athlete would be unteachable?" She returns to her club and now-empty bucket before tucking them both under her arm.
"So, youdoknow who I am," I tease. "You remember me from my game the other night."
It’s not a question, but a fact.
Her expression sours. "Not even a little bit. I come from a football town, so unless you play in the NFL, I probably still wouldn’t have a clue who you are. I was dragged to your game by a friend, but I couldn’t tell you anything that happened." She shrugs. "Have you always played for that team? How long have you been a basketball player?"
"What is this? Twenty questions?"
"I don’t think we have enough balls left for twenty questions. What’s next on the list of things for us to do?" she asks, and I swing my club, connecting it with the final ball, before she heads toward the exit without me.
Collecting my things in a hurry, I follow behind her.
For someone with such short legs, she sure walks fast.
Or, she just doesn’t want to be seen with me.
That’s more likely.
And there it is. My least favorite recurring thought, dragging itself out from whatever mental pit I usually throw it into.
This time, I just don’t have it in me to fight it off.
"Anyone home?" She waves her hand in front of my face, and I realize I’ve probably been staring at her for long enough to be deemed creepy.
"Sorry?"
"What’s next?"
"Uh, let me check." I reach for the pocket in my suit jacket, fumbling for the stack of small envelopes, finding the next one.
I slide the card out of the envelope and hand it to her before I can change my mind.
