Page 120 of Scoring the Player
“I’m just finding a rhythm,” I lie.
“Whatever you say.”
“Deal?” I ask.
He nods, then rests both hands on his club to watch me tee off. The last hole of the Valley U golf course is a par three. The green is a straight shot less than two hundred yards away, but there’s a lake in the middle of it. And since my short game is atrocious, I need to get close to the pin in one if I have any hope of tapping it in for three.
Inhaling slowly, I glance down the fairway and adjust my stance.Here goes freaking nothing.I don’t drop it in the water, so that’s something. Paul hits a beauty, putting his ball within a foot of the pin.
He doesn’t say a word as we drive up to the green. Or when I march toward my ball with a look of desperation on my face. I pace back and forth, checking my line and saying about a million silent prayers. I take my best shot, which goes a foot wide and two short.
Paul taps his ball in and then stands back to wait for me. “One more shot. You can do it.”
His encouragement gives me a little extra pep in my step. My hands tremble as I grip the putter, but I take a deep breath and let it fly. I hold my breath as the ball circles the hole and rolls inches away. I groan and let my head fall back.
I don’t hear Paul approach. He claps me on the shoulder and then chuckles when he removes his wet hand. “You’ve got grit, kid. You just don’t quit, do you?” He laughs again. “Dahlia’s mom and I would be delighted to have you as part of the family.”
“You would? But I thought…”
“I was messing with you. I’m old. I gotta get my kicks where I can these days.” We walk back to the cart and he unzips a side pocket on his golf bag and pulls out a red jewelry box. “This was my mother’s. I know it’s probably not as fancy or expensive as the one you picked out, but I know Dahlia’s always liked it.”
“Thank you.” I open the box and stare down at the ring. It’s perfect. “Thank you so much. You just happened to have this with you today?”
There’s a twinkle in his eye as he says, “I had a feeling that’s why you asked me to come this weekend.”
I surprise us both by hugging him. Then I remember I’m soaking wet. “Sorry.”
“Yeah, maybe you want to shower first and then meet us for dinner,” he suggests.
“Good idea.”
“Go.” He tips his head. “I’ll tell Dahlia you’re meeting us there.”
* * *
When I get to The Hideout, Dahlia’s waiting for me in a booth by herself.
“Hey,” I say, kissing her and then dropping into the seat across from her. “Where’s your dad?”
“He said to send his apologies, but he was tired from today, so he was going to order room service at the hotel, but he gave me two hundred bucks to order whatever we want.”
“Oh, that’s too bad.”
“Did you guys have fun today?”
“Fun might be a stretch, but not because your dad isn’t great. I’m a terrible golfer,” I admit.
She’s obviously holding back a laugh. “I heard. I’m sorry. Thanks for being such a good sport anyway.”
“It was nothing.” The water glass feels great against my beaten-up hands. “Tell me about your day.”
She does as we order food, then wait for it. And she’s still talking about it when we finish and pay. I love that she had such a great time. Seeing her excited is even worth the blood, sweat, and tears I shed today.
We head back to her house after dinner. Both of us are quiet, soaking in our last night at Valley together. Dahlia heads to LA for a summer internship with Eddie Dillon’s wardrobe team, and I’m moving north. I’ll be back to visit her in the fall, of course, but it’ll never be quite like this.
In her room, she plops down on the bed. “What do you want to do?”
“I have a few ideas, but first, I have two gifts for you.”
