Authors: Mara Jacobs
Those who really knew her – Lizzie, Alison, the crew at
The
Ingot
– knew that bey
ond her
looks was a human being
capable of stumbling and falling just like the rest of them. With the scrapes and bruises to prove it.
Determined to put her inevitable return to the Copper Country out of her mind, Katie made her way over to the starting tee, realizing that Lizzie had been chatting with Chad for quite
awhile
. It was now time for his threesome to tee off. Joining Chad and
Darío
was an Australian golfer, Barclay Something-or-other. She figured he was either up and coming or down and out because she had followed the Tour for nearly fifteen years and had never heard of him.
As soon as she saw him, she had her answer. He was prob
ably in his mid-to-late forties because
otherwise he’d be playing on the
Champions
Tour, but years of the harsh sun on his face made him appear older. Craggy was the word Katie came up with when she looked at him. He was undoubtedly one of those players on tour who’d played for years on the fringe of the eligibility list, never becoming famous, hanging on until he turned fifty and could play the
Champions
Tour, yet still making five times what Katie made annually.
They made an interesting threesome. The fresh-faced Chad, the seasoned veteran,
Darío
, and the world-weary Barclay. Katie found herself looking more forward to watching a simple round of golf than she had anything in a long, long time.
Lizzie joined her, and they made their way to the ropes. With such an early tee time and no superstars, the threesome had a relatively small gallery. At the first hole, it was comprised mostly of people who had staked out spots along the ropes at the tee and
who
would spend the entire day there, watching every group go through. Katie suspected the crowd would lessen as they followed this group farther out from the clubhouse.
There was a contingency of people
who
were clearly from Irving, here to cheer on one of their own. But they kept together, all wearing matching tee-shirts with Chad’s face on it. Katie felt a pang of pity for the kid. He
had
probably died of embarrassment when he’d seen them.
The starter gave them their tee-off order, and the players went through their individual rituals.
Darío
took off his hat, emblazoned with a club manufacturer’s logo, and approached the other two players.
“Gentlemen, play well.” He shook their hands, looking them squarely in the eye as he did so and giving them both a solemn nod.
His sincere gesture, accompanied by just a trace of Spanish accent, made Katie’s belly do a little flip-flop, and she regretted that they hadn’t had time for breakfast.
She and Lizzie stood on the left side of the tee box so the players faced them as they teed off. Chad hit a booming drive down the middle of the fairway. Barclay hit a drive that was on the same path as Chad’s but some fifty yards shorter.
Darío
stepped to his teed ball and Katie’s eyes were drawn to his forearms as they took formation around the grip of his club. Corded muscles and tendons rippled as the sunlight glinted across the smattering
of dark hair on
his arms.
Katie had never been one for men’s arms. Growing up in a hockey town, and marrying a hockey player turned hockey coach, she had always been a thigh and tush woman, those parts of the male anatomy being so sculpted on men who skated regularly.
She was ready to amend that opinion as she stared at
Darío
’s hands and arms as he held on to his club. His dark skin, part Spanish heritage, part golfer’s tan, was shown to perfection in the coral shirt.
With a quiet grace and fluidity, he effortlessly swung the club back and forward, making loud contact with the ball. As the entire gallery turned to watch the ball careen through the air,
Katie’s head stayed in place, watching
Darío
’s backswing. Watching
Darío
watch his ball. Watching
Darío
cringe and yell out, “Fore, right,” and motioning wildly to the spectators walking down the right side of the fairway. Watching as
Darío
dropped his head, shook it and said something under his breath that Katie couldn’t hear, but certainly understood.
He handed his club to his caddy, and the entire group
strolled
down the fairway as the gallery began to move. Those who were following the group moved along the ropes, those who were staying, stretched and looked at pairing sheets to see who would be coming next.
“Hey Katie, come on,” Lizzie said.
Katie looked up from where
Darío
had been. She turned to find Lizzie already thirty yards down the fairway. Shaking herself from thoughts of those strong arms wrapped around something other than a golf club, she followed her friend.
Chapter Two
Pressure is playing for $10 when you don’t have a dime in your pocket.
-Lee Trevino
, professional golfer
Mierdra! Another opening drive in the rough!
Just like last week. And the week before. And the three before that.
No
, he couldn’t think like that. T
ake it one shot at a time. One hole at a time. One round at a time. Last week was history. Today was a new tournament. A new course. A new chance.
And the same wicked slice off the tee.
Darío
followed his caddy, Binky, to his ball, stepping under the ropes as Binky held them up. He
hated walking under the ropes. I
t meant his drive had once again not only not found the fairway, but had probably found the neighboring hole’s fairway.
“It’s okay, Guv, you can handle a shot like this with no problem. That’s your bread and butter. Here,” Binky said handing
Darío
the required four iron.
Darío
’s reputation as the game’s most creative shot maker was
a
dubious
honor
, at best. Yes, he was capable of getting out of trouble better than any other golfer, but only because he was in trouble so much of the time to begin with.
“Bah!” He hated being out of the ropes on his first shot.
It could
be a very long day.
He made a spectacular recovery and managed to par the first hole. His next was better, a birdie, and he was on the tee at the third hole before he realized that the two women he’d seen at the first tee were following his threesome. They were far enough out from the clubhouse now to make no mistake.
“A nice distraction, hey Guv?” Binky, who always seemed to be reading his mind, commented.
Darío
had always been a gallery watcher. He knew that many players never looked beyond the ropes that lined each hole, feeling it took away focus. Other players were just the opposite, chatting with members of the gallery through their entire round, feeling it made them relax.
Darío
fell somewhere in between the
two
p
hil
osophies.
He watched the gallery constantly when i
t wasn’t his shot. Watched the people
that followed his group through all eighteen holes. Looked at the spectators who staked their claim at one hole – usually at the tee or the green – and settled in their lawn chairs content not to leave the entire day.
He never allowed himself to think too deeply about who he was looking for in those galleries. He knew, deep down, that he’d never find him.
“Do you think they’re following our group?” Binky asked.
Darío
shrugged, pretending he didn’t care, but
that wasn’t quite
the truth. “Could be. It is unusual to see two women together out on the course, though, isn’t it?
”
When
Darío
had first started on tour, women in the gallery at all were rare. Over the past eighteen years, women were much more prevalent, but they were usually with a man. Two women, without a man in their group, was indeed rare. Except for the case of groupies, which was more common than
in
years before, thanks to the higher profile of professional golf.
And particularly after the whole Tiger incident.
“Suppose they’re groupies?” Binky asked as they stepped to the next tee.
Darío
’s eyes followed the women as they walked along the ropes, waiting for the threesome to tee off. “I doubt it. They are not dressed like 20
th
Holes,”
Darío
said.
The nineteenth hole was well known in all golfing circles as the bar one visited after a round. The 20
th
Holes were what the Tour players called the women who pursued professional golfers. Whether they had a one-night stand or a one-carat diamond on their minds, the name applied.
“Besides not being dressed like 20
th
Holes, they’re already on the fourth hole with us. Groupies don’t usually walk that far away from the clubhouse,”
Darío
added to his assessment.
“Yeah, that’s true. It’s hard to walk a course wear
ing fuck-
me pumps.”
One of the women had on comfortable yet stylish loaf
ers, while the other had on flip-flops
, which she was now taking off and carrying. They were both good looking, but the one with the
flip-flops
was extraordinary, though she did much to conceal it, wearing a hat pulled low
over her face, her white blond
hair peeking out from behind in a ponytail.
He loved a ponytail on a grown woman. There was something so sexy about
the
way it swayed back and forth as the woman walked, in time with the movement of her behind.
It was all
Darío
could do to concentrate on his next shot as he watched the blonde walk along the ropes of the fairway ahead of him. Her long legs kept a tantalizing rhythm with her ponytail. Her legs, though
gloriously long and shapely
, were very pale
.
“Maybe they’re hometown girls out to see Chaddy boy?” Binky said as they walked down the fairway.
Darío
thought that Binky’s eyes were following the women as much as his were. He and Binky had been together for many years.
Darío
shook his head. “Both women have very fair skin. Either they’re not from Texas, or they’re very conscious of not getting any sun on themselves. But then why wear shorts and sleeveless tops today? No, they’re definitely not hometown girls.”
“Texas is full of blondes,” Binky said. “But most of them have big hair to match their long legs.”
It was true, Texas was full of leggy blondes, but this woman looked more Nordic than Texan. The European Tour currently didn’t have any stops in Sweden, but if it did, the gallery would be full of women who looked like this one.
Well, perhaps in coloring, but even Sweden may be hard pressed to find a woman that beautiful.
When they made the turn at nine,
Darío
curiously watched to see if the women would continue on with his group. They were back at the clubhouse and many more golfers were now on the course.
Phil
was due to tee off
soon, if he recalled correctly,
so he’d probably lose the women to
Phil
’s threesome.
He was amused at how he thought of the women as his to lose. And pleased when the women kept following.
“Huh. Yep, they’re definitely with us,” Binky said, needing no prodding from
Darío
.
His mind wandered as to why two w
omen who were not from the area
would not only be at the tournament, but
be
following his threesome. One of his playing partners, Chad Curtis, was from right here in Irving. The other, Barclay
Ives
, was from Australia. If the women were Australian, they’d have more sun on them than these two did.
Yes, he was definitely overthinking this.
His focus was so intent on the women and why they were following his group, he was startled to hear Binky say, “Hell of a round going today, Guv. Keep it up.”
His mind came back to the game and he realized he was three shots under par through eleven holes. He didn’t even remember making the shots. He pulled his scorecard out of his pocket, happy to see that the shots he recorded for Barclay
and Chad
matched what the sign bearer had.
Darío
was stunned that he’d gone through the last eight holes on autopilot while he and Binky had contemplated the blonde. That was unlike him. He watched the gallery while he played, but never at the expense of total concentration to his game. Besides, when he scanned galleries, it was never a woman he was looking for.