Page 23 of Pickled
I selected a seven iron from my bag. “What does that mean?”
“You see the good in people.” He grabbed an eight iron from his bag.
“Lots of people get mugged.” I brushed off the comment and chose to see it as a compliment. I don’t like people, but I do think the majority of them are decent.
Jameson waited for me to hit. I gave the club a light swing, and the ball bounced onto the green. “Sure. Lots of people get robbed, but do muggers break both wrists and leave wallets, with cash, behind? That woman cost him his slapshot and probably his career. I think he can wipe his own ass now though.”
I shuddered. Piper promised that she wasn’t married. “That does seem a little suspicious. Although it’s not as obvious as a crowbar to the knee.”
Jameson smiled. “That move has already been done.” He stepped up to his ball, swung, and we both winced as it dropped like a bomb into the sand trap.
Owens and Riley had already shot and were waiting for us at the green. Owens smiled. “Nice shot, Giddy. I mean, Bailman.” His smile faltered, as though he was waiting for me to explode. Owens was young, and he was fast but still needed a little confidence in his game.
“You know what?” The leather of my glove thudded dully as I clapped him on the shoulder. “I think I’m starting to like the sound of Giddy.”
Owens’ shoulder relaxed beneath my hand. “Really?”
“Yeah.” I tilted my head as though I was thinking about it. “It’s got a nice ring to it.”
Jameson twirled his putter in his hands as he watched the interaction with an amused look on his face. “But only from you, Owens.” I pointed to Riley. “It’s Bailey to you.”
“Fair enough, Bailey.” Riley shrugged. “I don’t care what your name is as long as you score tomorrow night.”
The beverage cart girl came to a stop next to us as Jameson’s ball rocketed into the stratosphere and came to rest two feet beside where he was standing.
“Nice shot, Jameson.” Riley’s voice shook with laughter.
Jameson muttered under his breath. While he set up for his next shot, Owens flirted with the cart girl and returned with four cans of spiked Arnold Palmers. Jameson swung again, and his ball did the same thing, this time landing behind him. “Fuck.”
“It’s a good thing you play hockey better than you golf.” Owens cracked open his can and handed one to me.
I hesitated, but he pushed the can into my hand. “Stop calculating the amount of sugar in it and have a little fun… Giddy.”
Sighing, I cracked open the can and took a swig. It was almost one hundred degrees in the shade, and the cold, sweet drink tasted incredible. “That’s pretty good.” I wasn’t lying. It was thirst-quenching and brought me back to my minor hockey days. Mom wouldn’t let us get sports drinks, but Ace always snuck one from the vending machine. He would share it with me after the game, partly out of kindness, but mostly so I didn’t tell on him.
Before our first game with the Michigan Jr. A team, a big deal at the time, we found bottles of blue sports drink tucked into each of our hockey bags. Mom later confessed that she’d always known about our contraband Gatorade. But she’d thought it was so cute that Ace shared with me that she’d let us keep that “secret” all those years.
After four attempts, Jameson managed to get his ball onto the green. I scored a double birdie. Owens and Riley each parred, and Jameson dropped into the cart with a seven on the scorecard. “I hate golf.” There was a hint of a laugh in his voice, but like any professional athlete, there was frustration too.
“That’s for you. Owens bought a round.” I gestured to the can in the cup holder.
Jameson opened it, took a sip, and grimaced. “Delicious. That’s like diabetes in a can.”
Laughing, I gulped down a few swigs. “At least we’ll have energy for the rest of the back nine. If you’re going to hit every shot four times, you’re gonna need it.” My elbow jabbed into his side.
Jameson raised his eyebrows. “I wasn’t sure about you, Bailey, but I think you’re going to fit in just fine here. Cheers.” He held up his can, and I tapped it with mine. It was so hot we finished the drinks before we made it to the tenth tee. Jameson stopped, and I crumpled the can and tossed it at the wire trash basket. It bounced off the top and landed on the ground. Jameson crumpled his and tossed it. The can sailed through the air and, with a clatter, landed directly in the middle.
“Nice shot,” I said.
“Thank yo—”
“At least you can get something in the hole.” Grumpy Gideon usually kept his surliness inside, but new “team player” Gideon, maybe he could do this shit-talking stuff. It was actually kind of fun.
Jameson narrowed his eyes but laughed. “Pick up your can, and let’s make this game interesting.” He dropped a hundred-dollar bill into the cup holder. “A hundy a shot?”
“Zeesh. What happened to a buck a shot?”
“Says the guy who just signed a ten-million-dollar contract.”
