Page 80 of Triple Play
“Show off,” Jordie mutters.
“Just playing the game.”
By hole three, a pattern emerges. Jordie is aggressively competitive but terrible at hiding his strategy. Wyatt is quietly dominating with the same focus he brings to hockey. And I’m consistently coming in last but having way too much fun to care.
“You’re doing that on purpose,” Jordie accuses at hole five when my ball somehow ends up in the water feature.
“Doing what?”
“Being adorable while you fail. It’s distracting.”
“I’m not trying to be adorable.”
“That’s what makes it worse.” He retrieves my ball and hands it to me with his fingers lingering on mine just a second too long. “Try aiming more to the right this time.”
“I was aiming right.”
“More right.”
“There’s a wall there.”
“Trust me.”
I do. My ball bounces off the wall, curves around the obstacle, and actually goes in.
“Oh my god.” I stare at the hole. “That worked.”
“I know things.” Jordie’s grin is smug. “I’m not just a pretty face.”
“Debatable,” Wyatt says, but he’s smiling.
Hole seven has a ramp that you’re supposed to hit the ball up to reach the elevated green. Jordie overshoots it. Wyatt makes it look easy. I hit it too softly, and it rolls back down.
“Here.” Wyatt moves behind me, his chest against my back, his hands coming around to adjust my grip on the putter. “You’re choking up too high. Lower. Like this.”
His hands are warm, calloused from hockey, and he smells like clean laundry and something woodsy. I can feel every breath he takes against my shoulder blades.
“Now pull back—not too far—and follow through.”
He guides the movement with me, our bodies moving together, and when the ball rolls up the ramp and onto the green, I’m not sure if I’m breathless from success or from the way he doesn’t immediately step back.
“Better,” he murmurs near my ear.
“Much better,” I manage.
When I turn my head slightly, his face is right there, close enough that I could kiss him if I wanted to. His eyes drop to my mouth, dark and intent, before he steps back and clears his throat.
Jordie is watching us with an expression I can’t quite read. Not jealous, exactly. More like… satisfied.
By hole twelve, they’re both openly flirting. Jordie with his constant commentary and ridiculous compliments. Wyatt with those heated looks and small touches—brushing my arm when he walks past, steadying me when I stumble on the uneven turf, his hand on my lower back guiding me to the next hole.
“You’re both being weird,” I say at hole fifteen.
“Weird how?” Jordie asks innocently.
“You know how.”
“We’re just enjoying your company,” Wyatt says, and the way he looks at me makes my skin heat.
