Page 113 of The Game Plan
“Since the off-season. Turns out, that’s what all the pros do once their season ends.”
I snort a laugh as we stop at my office.
Cody whistles. “Nice digs, Campbell.”
“Don’t get your grimy fingers on anything.”
He clutches his chest. “I’m offended.”
“You’re full of shit.”
With my keys in hand, we leave the facility and climb into my truck. I’m not even mad Dad kicked me out of practice. Seeing their faces, I didn’t realize how much I needed a guys’ day. And with these two clowns inside, there’s no way anyone would put in the work we need to get a win this weekend.
Q pulled some strings and got us in at the campus golf course, so the drive over is a short one. But it’s enough time for the chirping to begin.
“Since Jacobs is here, I’m assuming we’re playing for fun?” Q quips.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Cody argues, and I chuckle.
Q checks us in, and we head toward the row of golf carts. He tosses the keys to me. The sun is hot over the perfectly trimmed green. The weather is perfect in the high seventies. It’s a relief after so many months of scorching heat.
“Shotgun,” Q calls out, sliding into the passenger seat. Cody grumbles, and we head off toward the first hole. I park along the side, and we grab our clubs.
“Hey, Jacobs, you might want to sit this one out.” Q nods at Cody. “Wouldn’t want to throw off your baseball swing.”
“I can handle it,” Cody deadpans.
But he can’t. His swing is ugly, but it still somehow works. He slices it toward the green with a hack job that makes us pause.
“Told ya,” Cody chides.
And we all take our turns. The first few holes are chaotic—lots of laughs and jokes at each other’s expense. By the third hole, we’ve abandoned our scorecard entirely. For all the trash Q likes to talk, he sucks at golf. He’s hit more bark than grass, and Cody won’t let him hear the end of it. The new goal? Golf like idiots, soak up the sun, forget responsibilities for a while. Oh, and don’t get kicked off the course. I’d hate to see headlines about three former CTU athletes getting tossed.
Cody’s driving now, and I fear for my life. “I have a daughter now, fucker. I’d like to see her grow up.”
“Chill, Campbell,” he retorts as he fishtails on the fairway while Q clings to the edge.
“For the love of God, this isn’t NASCAR,” Q grumbles.
“Speaking of NASCAR, some of my teammates and I went to Bristol in September. It’s nuts. The fans, the drivers, everything.”
“If this is a glimpse, I can only imagine,” I mutter. He slams on the brakes in response, and I nearly go flying.
By hole five, we’ve fallen into a calm after a few drinks. Our shenanigans have lessened, at least for us. There’s a slight breeze, and we lean against the car, taking a moment.
Q squints. “Par three. I could hit that with my eyes closed.”
“Bullshit, motherfucker.” I shove his shoulder. “Your ego is the size of Texas. The only thing you can hit are the pine trees.”
He flips me off, finishing the rest of his cocktail and grabbing his club. We watch as Q lines himself up, inhales and exhales a few quick breaths, brings the club back, and swings.
He slices again. No surprise there.
“Jesus.” I chuckle as Q yells a curse and Cody cracks up.
When Cody settles down, he bumps my shoulder with his. “How’s married life treating you, Campbell? Might as well throw in fatherhood too… It’s like you hit the jackpot all at once.”
I smile, knowing it doesn’t reach my eyes. But even with everything going on, Savannah’s baby blues and late-night feedings, my answer is immediate. “Better than I imagined.” And it is, because I got the girl. The future we talked about when we were naive nineteen-year-olds with the world at our fingertips.
