Page 79 of Triple Play
“Humble.” I chuckle.
“Confident. There’s a difference.”
Twenty minutes later, I’m in Jordie’s truck with Wyatt riding shotgun and me in the back, and I’m already questioning thisdecision because the way they keep looking at each other, then back at me, suggests this wasn’t a spontaneous invitation.
“You two planned this,” I say.
“So, what if we did?” Jordie adjusts the rearview mirror so he can see me better. “We discussed. Strategized. Coordinated our calendars.”
Wyatt turns in his seat to look at me, and there’s something different about him today. Lighter. The shadows under his eyes are still there, but they’re not as deep, and when he smiles—actually smiles—it transforms his entire face.
“Thanks for last night,” he says quietly. “I slept through the night. Haven’t done that since—” He stops. “In a long time.”
My chest does something complicated. “Anytime.”
“I’m gonna hold you to that.”
The way he says it, low and serious with heat underneath, makes my stomach flip.
Jordie catches my eye in the mirror. “See? Big guy’s in a good mood. You’re a miracle worker, Hart.”
“Or maybe I’m just a decent human being who doesn’t like watching people suffer.”
“Potato, potahto.” He turns into the mini golf parking lot. “Either way, we’re celebrating. Wyatt slept. You survived Grant’s tantrum. And I get to spend the afternoon with two of my favorite people.”
The mini golf place is one of those overly themed ones with a pirate ship, a windmill, and obstacles that look like they were designed by someone on an acid trip. It’s perfect.
Jordie pays for all of us before I can argue, then hands me a purple putter with a flourish. “Your weapon, m’lady.”
“I’m going to spank you with this if you keep talking like that.”
“Promises, promises.”
Wyatt selects a black putter, testing its weight with the kind of focus he probably brings to everything. “What are we playing for?”
“Bragging rights,” Jordie says.
“Boring.” Wyatt looks at me. “Loser buys ice cream?”
“Deal.”
We start on hole one, which involves hitting the ball through a tunnel under a plastic alligator. Jordie goes first, naturally, and sinks it in two strokes with unnecessary flair.
“And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how it’s done.”
“Nobody’s impressed,” I tell him, lining up my shot.
“You’re a little impressed.”
“Not even a little.”
I hit the ball. It veers left, bounces off the alligator’s tail, and somehow ends up back where I started.
Jordie’s grin is enormous. “You weren’t kidding about being terrible.”
“Shut up.”
Wyatt goes next, all quiet concentration. His ball goes through the tunnel clean and stops two inches from the hole.
