Page 119 of Scoring the Player
It’s another few seconds before she finally starts walking that way.
Paul laughs softly when she’s out of earshot. “I’m impressed.”
“Why’s that?” I move to stand closer to him but keep my gaze on Dahlia as she approaches Keira.
“We saw Keira and Lincoln last summer at a tournament. She wouldn’t go near them.”
“Second time’s the charm, I guess.”
“You’ve been good for her.”
I’m surprised by his words. I tear my gaze away from Dahlia and look at him. “I’m trying. She’s incredible and I like reminding her.”
His head nods slowly and he rests his weight on the golf club.
This is my shot to ask him while she’s not around, so I take a deep breath. “Actually, sir, I wanted to ask you something before she gets back.”
“All right,” he says.
“I bought a ring, and before I head up to Minnesota, I’d like to ask your daughter to marry me.” I get it out all at once. I had a much more eloquent speech prepared, but I kinda feel like I want to throw up.
“Is there a question in there somewhere?”
Before I can answer, Dahlia comes running back. Her smile stretches out across her entire face. “Oh my gosh. She’s so nice. She even invited me to golf with them.”
“That’s amazing. You’ll have so much fun.”
“I’m not leaving you two,” she says, like she’s offended I’d suggest otherwise.
“Felix and I can handle eighteen by ourselves. Can’t we?” her dad asks.
I swallow thickly. “Yeah.”
Oh shit. That sounds ominous. Is he going to interrogate me for the next few hours? Who am I kidding? Of course, he is.
“Yeah,” I say again more convincingly. “We’ll be great. Don’t worry about us.”
“Okay.” She steps forward and kisses me. “Have fun.” Then she looks to her dad. “Take it easy on him, Daddy.”
He waves her off. I have a real bad feeling as she takes off with Keira and Lincoln, but at least one of us is going to have a good time today.
Paul slides his club into his bag, pulls off his glove and sticks it in his back pocket, and then looks at me. “I like you, Felix. I’ll tell you what. You beat me today and I’ll buy dinner tonight to celebrate.”
“And if I lose?”
He just grins.
Fuuuuck.
* * *
By hole three, I stop keeping score. By six, I have blisters (even on my gloved-hand). And by thirteen, my shirt is so wet, I look like I dumped a beer over my head (and believe me, I thought about it).
Paul is cool and collected as I tee up on eighteen.
I wince a little as I grip the club. “New deal. I get par on this one and you at least think about it. You don’t even need to buy dinner.”
He chuckles. “Par, huh? You haven’t gotten close to par all day.”
