Page 42 of Putting Out
“Reilly Carr.”
“Oh. Reilly Carr. My good-ness. The Reilly Carr who is play-ying in the Amer-i-can?”
“That Reilly Carr,” she answered between clenched teeth.
“The Reilly Carr who can only hit the ball two hund-dred and eighty yards on her best day?”
“Yep. That’s me.”
“The Reilly Carr who has a meager sixty-two days to prep-pare?”
“Right again.”
“Well, pull up my susp-spenders and call it a flood! This is a surp-prise.”
Reilly pulled the phone away from her ear to sneer at it. Putting it back against her ear, she kept her tone as mild as possible.
“It really shouldn’t be. You called me.”
“I sup-pose I did.”
“What do you say, Odie? Want to come back and see if we can pull a few extra yards out of my swing? I hear they’ve got this new thing called…”
“Tech-nah-logy! Why, yes, they do. Tech-nah-logy can save you, Reilly. Tech-nah-logy can take you places you’ve only dreamt of. Tech-nah-logy can be your friend rather than the enemy you’ve always treated it as.”
“Technology is my friend,” Reilly repeated dully. “I’ll be in Little Creek to-mor-row. We’ll talk.”
The click of the phone being disconnected was goodbye. Pop and Kenny were grinning at her like fools.
“All I can say is you two better be right.” Reilly stormed upstairs. She was going to need some warmer clothes if she was going outside to hit the ball. And hit the ball she would. Because if somehow she started hitting the ball farther on her own, she was going to have the sheer pleasure of telling Odie Manning to go stuff it in person.
Two hundred and eighty yards. She was pretty sure she didn’t hit one ball that went farther all day.
Damn it.
