Page 31 of The Dating Game

She’s already at the front desk talking to the guy there. He’s smiling at her, clearly enjoying having her attention on him. I’m about to head over when another guy steps up behind her; she can’t see him but I watch in disgust as he blatantly checks her out, then turns and gives a friend standing across the store a cocky grin.

“Watch this,” he mouths, then he turns back to Brooke to make his move, tapping her on the shoulder. I can’t hear what he says from where I’m standing, but I can see the way Brooke’s stance takes on a defensive quality. Sure she laughs at something he said, but it looks like forced, polite laughter to me.

Or maybe that’s wishful thinking.

Maybe I justwanther to not like this guy hitting on her.

I should go over there and act like a jealous boyfriend, right? Completely overreact to her talking to a guy. That would be annoying, and the perfect adjustment to my original botched plan for the day.

I’m not moving, though. That scene in the parking lot of Twist and Shout plays in my mind. I can’t be Grant.

Brooke says something else, and the guy frowns, but nods. He turns to go, then pauses to grab something from his pocket. It’s his wallet. He slides a card out of it and passes it to her. It’s easy to read his lips this time: “In case you change your mind,” he says.

Brooke rejected him then. I’m far too pleased by this.

I start walking again, watching with continued pleasure as she takes the card and puts it not in her pocket, but in a glass jar with a drawing for a free lunch from the attached bar and grill.

I’m smiling as I approach her.

But itmeans nothing.

“Oh, hey, Will,” Brooke says. “I’m just finishing up. Felix is adding me to your tee time and getting me some clubs.”

“Great. Thanks, Felix.” I smile at him, but he doesn’t smile back. He looks extremely dejected by my appearance at Brooke’s side.

Ten minutes later we’re situated in our cart, ready to drive over to the first hole. I typically like to walk when I play golf, but on weekends this course requires players to ride due to the higher volume of golfers.

“So how long have you been a golfer?” I ask as we set off.

“As long as I can remember,” she says. “My dad loves golf, so he taught me and my sisters to play. People used to say to him that he must be sad to not have sons, and he’d always ask them what he couldn’t do with a daughter that he could have done with a son. I take them golfing, he’d say. We watch sports together. They all know how to play poker and they’ve seen all nineRockymovies twice. I don’t hunt and I don’t fish, so tell me, what am I missing not having a son?”

I chuckle. “Your dad sounds like a great guy.” And also, why didn’t I think of taking her fishing or hunting?

Maybe because I don’t fish or hunt.

But still. Those clearly wouldn’t have been better second date dud options.

I should have done more research. I only picked golf because Kimberley, the last woman I dated, groaned every time I even said the word.

“He is a great guy,” Brooke agrees. “One of the best I know.”

We’ve reached the first tee, so I park the cart and get out. As a general practice men tee off first in coed golf, because our tees are further back. So I step forward and get my ball ready, taking a few practice swings before finally letting my driver connect with the ball, sending it straight down the center of the fairway.

“Nice shot,” Brooke comments, and suddenly I’m a dog and impressing her is the bone. My metaphorical tail wags for a beat before I force myself to bury that bone and focus.

Brooke selects the driver from her bag and heads toward the ladies tee.

I follow her, an idea for Operation Dating Game popping into my head. If there’s one thing my mom hates my dad doing it’s giving her unsolicited advice.

Brooke uses a golf ball to stick her tee in the ground then takes a practice swing.

Here I go.

“Ooh, watch that wrist, you’re really overextending.”

Brooke pauses her practice swing to look back at me. “I’m sorry?” she asks.

“I said you’re overextending your wrist.” I demonstrate the motion. “Right at the top of your backswing. It’s a lot harder to square up the clubface when you do that. You should try and fix that.”

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