Page 19 of The Sweet Spot

Max hasn't flinched at the words. I knew he wouldn't.

Game recognizes game.

What a cocky ballplayer.

“Not an athlete? Try saying that to my one-hundred-mile-an-hour fast ball.”

JB stands in front of me, blocking my view of Max, but giving me a great view of JB's ass.

Stop looking.

“Okay, you two. Can we stop the trash talk? We're only on the first swing of the first hole.”

I take a step back and stand beside my caddy, Graham.

JB's shoulders relax, and he makes his way to the tee. “Gonna take all of your advice, Coach.”

“Coach?” I say with disdain.

As per usual, it doesn't faze him. He just hums to a beat in his own head and sets up the shot.

My fingers tingle, desperate to be back over there guiding his hips, but I don't need to.

His feet are positioned well.

His grip is perfect.

His stance is perfect.

He waggles his big, juicy—I mean, firm and muscular—ass once before taking a breath.

Why are my fingers still tingling?

When he swings, it has more fluidity than earlier, and the ball holds its line.

Impressive. Not that I'd tell him that.

When the ball lands about twenty yards behind mine, he says, “Where’s that trophy? It's ours.”

“Don't get excited. It's one shot.” I step forward and tap him on the shoulder as I look at our two white balls sitting in the fairway.

“Can I get a little excited?”

“No.”

He grins and steps back, and as I move away from the tee and pull myself up onto our golf cart. That's when I catch JB looking at the catfish on the back of my skirt. The design follows the same pattern at the front with the mouth gaping open in an unfortunate spot.

Right at one of my holes...

Stop thinking about nice holes, Whit

“JB,” I warn. His eyes slowly come up to meet mine. I point at him. “Eyes up.”

“What? I was looking at the fish.”

“You were looking at my ass.”

“It's not my fault it's on your ass.”