Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 104766 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 524(@200wpm)___ 419(@250wpm)___ 349(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104766 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 524(@200wpm)___ 419(@250wpm)___ 349(@300wpm)
“Miniature golf?”
“Ohhh, mini golf. I was confused for a second.” He pulls a face. “My brain wasn’t thinking golf when you said putt-putt. Don’t know why.”
I hang a right out of the nail salon parking lot, driving toward the outskirts of town where a well-known miniature golf course lives.
I put my blinker on and take another right at the next intersection. Another three miles down the road and we’re there, pulling into the parking lot and assessing the crowd.
Not bad.
It's not crowded in the least, which is perfect.
We make quick work out of paying-which I beat him to this time- and selecting our equipment.
“Would they have clubs long enough for you?”
“Clubs? They’re called putters.” He laughs, watching me. “You don’t golf at all, do you?”
“Um, no. But I do enjoy the occasional mini session.”
I choose a lime-green ball, and he chooses neon orange.
“Game on,” he says at the first hole—a par 2—tossing his ball to the artificial grass beneath our feet. “Ladies first.”
I nod my head, stepping forward. My ball thuds onto the ground next to his, and I spread my feet shoulder-width apart as if I were about to tee off on a world-renowned golf course.
I wiggle my ass for good measure as if that would help me get a hole-in-one.
It doesn’t.
My ball flies down the fairway and bounces off the concrete wall, rolling back in my direction in a decadently undignified fashion.
“Fuck,” I utter, hoping he doesn’t hear me.
“Cursing already, Tess? It’s been three minutes.”
My nose turns up, and I ignore him, walking toward my ball once it stops rolling and lining up my tap again. It gets close to the hole but doesn’t go in.
One more tap.
Then another.
“Shit.”
“That’s two.”
“No, that was four.” I pause. “Oh, you were counting my swear words.”
He laughs, moving into position to take his swing, his ball rolling ever so steadily toward the hole in the ground, stopping at the rim of it.
“Damn.”
“That was one.” I’m smugly enjoying this new game.
Two taps and his neon ball sinks in. I can’t help admiring his smooth, tan biceps when he leans over to retrieve it.
We move on to the next hole, and I don’t sink this one quickly, either. I’m aware this might have been a bad idea, considering I suck at miniature golf.
“I don’t remember being this bad at Putt-Putt,” I tell him as we walk to the fourth hole, crossing a tiny bridge over a man-made babbling brook. I can see balls on the bottom, lolling around, waiting to be recovered.
Drew lifts his putter to his lips and blows on it as if it were a smoking gun.
“We can’t all be good at everything. I’m sure you have other talents.”
I roll my eyes, but secretly, I mentally begin listing my other talents.
Dancing.
Baking—I make killer cakes and can decorate like a pro.
Um.
I can roller-skate.
I used to play soccer.
I’m not afraid of heights or spiders.
Shit, those aren’t talents, but raise your hand if you think they should be!
“Besides football, what else do you do?” I wonder out loud.
“I like science. I’m fascinated with the solar system.”
My brows go up. “That’s certainly a fun fact.” And unexpected. “If you weren’t playing football, what would you be doing with your life?”
“I’d still be in college, obviously—majoring in science. Maybe I’d be an engineer? It’s hard to imagine, though, since I wasn’t really allowed to think for myself.”
He says it so offhandedly it doesn’t sink in, but when it does, I pause over the ball I’m about to putt and look up at him.
“What does that mean?”
“It means…” He isn’t sure how to respond. “Never mind.”
Now my hands are on my hips, and my foot is propped up on the concrete curb, the putter being used like a walking stick.
“You were going to say something, so say it. What did you mean when you said you weren’t allowed to think for yourself?”
“You knew my dad.”
Four words.
Small words that pack a punch.
I nod slowly.
I did know of his dad but hadn’t ever met the man in person. If I had, I’d probably have wet my shorts. He was a shrewd asshole of a guy, according to Grady, who spent the most time at the Colter household.
“I don’t want to disrespect his spirit by speaking ill of him, but…” He shrugs. “My dad wanted us to play ball. So we played ball, end of story. He wasn’t even around much, but if he caught wind that we were doin’ something else with our time?” He whistles low. “There was hell to pay.”
You know. You see people like Drew Colter…and his brothers playing the same sport. And you never wonder what it’s like behind closed doors. All you see are four good-looking (like, seriously good-looking) brothers who grew up in a wealthy family with a famous father and a beautiful mother—and you never stop to think about the emotional toll the pressure may have put on them.