Every December [Soon to be Self Published]

Chapter 19

Austin

"You hold the club like this," I instruct, showing her the proper way to have her hands arranged. "This is your 9 iron."

"They're numbered?" She gives a questionable glance at me from the golf cart parked next to the row of slots to practice swings.

"Of course they are. See?" I show her the number engraved on the bottom side of the club. "You've got your irons, woods, and your driver and putter. Each one has a purpose depending if you're hitting short or long distances."

"You must think I'm the biggest idiot. I've only heard of a 9 iron."

"I wouldn't know how to read a pulse, so we're even. Now," I say, showing her how to hold the club, "every movement of your arms, elbows, and hips matters. Like this. I swing the club sharply. The air whooshes from the motion. "Fluid, right?" I hold the club out to her. "Want to take a shot?"

"It's not going to look like anything you just showed me." Lydia takes the club. Her shoulders round forward and her hands are all wrong, but I take the opportunity to touch her and slide my hands down the sleeves of her coat, correcting her grip. A soft laugh leaves her mouth. She knows what I'm doing.

"Like this," I say in her ear. Beneath the flirting, I'm keeping an eye on her. There's no expectations just the two of us doing something that doesn't involve being at the house or at the care facility.

She adjusts and changes hand position, following my lead. "How's this?"

"Better. Once you get the hang of it, it becomes second nature. I had no idea what I was doing the first time I golfed."

"You were ten. I don't think anyone expected much."

"Here. Look at my feet. I know you're limited with your injury but shift your left foot if you can." I don't want to push. I just want to show her a slice of my world. I step out of the way. "You're ready. Not quite for the Women's Invitational Open, but maybe with some lessons."

She takes her shot, missing the ball entirely. Nothing but a lot of air. "Try again," I say patiently, thinking ahead to warm sunny days where we could do this all day. "If you're in a game, you say 'Mulligan' which is a chance to replay the stroke."

She lifts her gaze to mine. "You're a Mulligan."

"If you're ever at one of my games I dare you to yell that out loud." My shoulders round in laughter and she shimmies her hips and re-positions her hands. I get out of her way. The grounds around us are spotted with snow, though the paths are clear. Neon golf balls lay in the snow in front of us. The indoor driving range at this course is full, which is fine, I can golf in any weather.

Another swing and a miss. She eyes the greens that stretch in front of us. "And people actually get the ball beyond those flags? How far away are they, anyway?"

"Fifty yards...the one with the red flag is a 150 yards, and the other is 200. That one way back there is probably 300."

"Care to show me?"

"I'll be showing off, but if you're okay with that..." I take the club out of her hand. I set up the ball and swing. The ball launches between the 150 and 200-yard flags. "Easy."

"To you." She laughs and takes a mock swing without her leg barely moving.

We stick to the driving range until the balls in our bucket are gone. We get another basket and I take her on the cart over to the putting area. Lydia's focus turns away from me and she's determined to get the ball in the hole.

The putting green is small. There's no obstacles, no hazards like water or bunkers. She limps around, not stopping until the ball finally goes in. "Yes," she says, giving a small fist pump with her club.