Page 76 of Nash

At first, I only played to have time with my father. The only hours I had his attention were when a golf club was in my hand. I hoped if I could win games, I could win my daddy’s heart.

Maybe I was driven, maybe it was genetic, or maybe I just needed a father. I became a young champion, and it went to my dad’s head.

He coached me, then bet on me, screamed at me when I rarely lost, and mocked me when he made me cry about it.

The worst day was the afternoon I was awarded the Junior Player of the Year trophy. At the banquet, I overheard my dad telling one of my teammates she could be better than me. That he could coach her and “show her a few things.” She was nineteen, my dad was preying on her, and something broke inside me.

He loved golf more than me. He loved himself more than me. He loved any other woman more than me, his first daughter.

That day, I gave up on him, the game, and love and never looked back.

It gives me a lump in my throat now, but I play through it like the pro I could’ve been.

Before I take my next swing, I glance at Nash.

He keeps giving methatlook. It’s one no other man has given me. It’s the one that admires me, respects me, cares for me, and desires me, too. It’s the one that says, “I’m so goddamn turned on watching you beat this man’s ass; I’m kissing yours tonight.”

It also reminds me of the objective. Why we’re really here.

So I pull back on the power in my swing. I let Turner match my drives and shots. Nash? He’s too amused to give a shit. But what’s really amusing is Turner is so invested in our bets and game, that he’s forgotten about Nash. All his focus is on me, and that’s the plan.

“Tired now?” Turner mocks after the fifteenth hole—the one I let him tie. “You know women don’t have stamina like men. It’s proven.”

“Yeah,” I put my putter in my bag, “I read that too. It was on the cover ofFull Of Shitmagazine. But here…” I take out my 7-wood. “Let me break your hand so you can feel the pain of childbirth and show us how much stamina you have.”

Daisy giggles.

You know, even if this fucker were going to live to see tomorrow, I think I’ve ruined his chances of ever getting lucky with her.

“Bitch,” Turner mutters, and I can’t stop him.

Nash charges toward him, his hand aiming for his throat, choking him as he lifts Turner’s toes off the ground. “Say that again to her so I can choke you on your last word.”

“Hey, hey, hey.” Some guys on the cart path stop.

But Nash only squeezes Turner’s throat harder, shaking his jugular in his grasp. “Is this what you want?” Nash sneers, “A piece of me? A glimpse into my eyes before I kill you right in front of her?”

“Do it,” Turner coughs. “Show them who you really are.”

“Guys, guys.” One of the other players runs over. “It’s just a game. Calm down.”

“Nash,” I soothe his name. “My king, I’m a proud bitch, so let him go.”

Nash drops his hand and Turner. Angrily, he glances around, then at me. It’s not like Nash to lose his shit, and now I see one of the reasons he didn’t want me here.

He’s too protective of me. He forgets his mission if I’m involved. So, I keep us focused.

“They’re fine,” I tell the man rushing over. “They’re fine, upstanding gentlemen who just forgot themselves because the wagers are so high.”

I direct my question at Turner. “Right? We have ten thousand that says I can eagle the last three holes.” I cock a brow at him. “Each.”

“Thirty thousand?” The other player is shocked. “That’s too much. No wonder you guys are losing your shit out here. Who do you think you are? Duncan Monroe?”

“Better,” I answer him and Turner. “I’m his daughter.”

Turner’s nostrils flare. I’ve sharked him again, and he’s furious but also hooked. “You good for it?” he challenges.

“She is,” Nash answers as if he’d bet millions to watch me win.

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