Page 69 of How to Ruin Your Ex's Wedding
Pax
I take my time hitting the restroom and returning to the guys. By the time I catch up to them, they are just finishing the seventeenth hole.
Thank god!
The sooner this miserable game is over the better. I’m sobered up a little bit, the walk having done me some good. As have the five bottled waters I’ve forced myself to drink. They aren’t huge bottles, mind you. Maybe twelve ounces apiece, but it still helps.
One thing remains certain, I do not want to go to Hunter’s soiree this evening. Not even one little bit.
“I was wondering what happened to you,” Gregor calls to me as I approach.
“Yeah, I just took a little walk, no big deal.”
“Your score has gotten considerably better since you actually stopped playing,” Hunter says. I fight the urge to flip him off. No matter how hard I try, I can’t figure out what Tabby sees in him.
I step up to the forward tees to take my final turn. Visions of grandeur race through my mind as I prepare my stance and attempt to channel anyone who is better at this sport than me. I look down the fairway, picturing my ball flying through the air and landing just short of a hole-in-one, resulting in a putt so easy, that even I will be able to sink it.
Tee in the ground, ball balanced atop. Legs widened, knees relaxed, the head of the club at the base of the ball, take it back, curve my body, and swing. That solid feeling of ball connecting with metal head travels up the club, through my arms, and into my soul. I watch as it soars through the air, clearing one hundred, then one fifty, and what must be two hundred yards before dropping on the green.
It’s like a fucking modern-day miracle.
Or the power of positive thinking.
Either way, I’m a fucking golf-god right now. I turn to the guys, trying my best not to gloat, probably not succeeding. Gregor gives me a well-deserved high-five. Andrew gives me a chin nod with a “nice shot.” And Hunter pretends he didn’t see it.
Asshole.
The other guys take their turns and we head down to the green.
I hit Gregor in the biceps. “Did youseethat shot, man?”
“It was a helluva lucky shot, brother.”
“Pfft. Lucky, my ass. I mastered the game of golf today.”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself. The fifteen holes before your little break say something else.”
“That was practice,” I tell him, even I know I’m full of shit. But for some reason, I’m going with this.
He rolls his eyes. “Whatever you say.”
We pull up to the green. My ball is a good thirty feet from the pin. Practically a hole-in-one as far as I’m concerned. Until I realize I’m the furthest from the hole and I still have to go first.
I eye the pin from where my ball sits. It seems much further when you’re standing at the ball looking at the pin, and not the pin looking at the ball. I know, from my earlier experiences today, the chances of overshooting the hole are good, so I give my ball a light tap. It rolls about ten feet before coming to a stop.
Shit!
I replace my ball with the marker and wait for the other guys. Gregor sinks his, Andrew and Hunter do not. I’m up again.
Tap.
It goes straight for the hole. I hold my breath, waiting for my redemption of the day.
“You overshot,” Hunter says.
“I did not,” I reply, as the ball does that half-circle thing around the rim of the hole and keeps going. He smirks. I refrain from punching him as a combination of embarrassment and rage courses through me.
I hate this fucking game.
