"You were right. You do suck at this," my best friend teases me after the little, white ball that I swung with the stick, misses the tiny hole by ten feet.
Okay, more like twenty feet.
I trudge over to the black golf bag, grab the largest stick available so that I can whack him with it. He promised me he wouldn't tease me this time.
I forget what the golf club is called, even though the golf expert here has told me the name of it countless times.
I figure since I'm no good at the sport anyway, what's the point in wasting my brain storage on it.
Once he realizes what I'm trying to do, he backs away quickly, an amused grin intact on his lips.
"Okay, okay," the buzz cut boy surrenders, his hands extended out in front of him, his grin annoying as ever. I drop the club back into the bag and he warily adds, "I'm sorry for telling you the truth."
"You promised me that you wouldn't make fun of me," I warn him. My warning is unconvincing as I, too, am wearing a smile on my face.
We end up in a cat and mouse chase around the green in attempt that I smack some decency into his head. Fortunately for him, my hand never manages to make any contact since his height is way beyond mine. I think it's completely unfair, considering he's two years younger than I am. I do, however, regard myself as pretty tall for a woman.
After chasing my best friend for about a minute around the our part of the course, a burly man in all black approaches us, telling us to hurry up and finish our hole. Apparently, we were holding up the line of next golfers.
Marco and I both apologize to him before he jogs off. And like I always do, I rave to Marco about their British accents. Their accents never get boring to listen to!
For the past nine weeks of this past semester, he reacted the same way every time I did this. He would roll his eyes and shake his head slowly. And when I attempt to do the accent in a public place, which my British accent is pretty legit, Marco would burst my bubble and tell me that I would never pass for a native Brit since I absolutely despise tea. But then I criticize him for stereotyping, and he lets me win the quarrel.
I quickly swat at Marco's arm and run off to finish what I started while laughing obnoxiously and triumphantly.
When we finally make it to the last hole, the London sun is setting, painting the sky a bright orange hue. Marco makes an eagle, or whichever bird he calls it, and he confidently shrugs his shoulders, mentally saying to me "I don't know how I do it."
One shot. He made it in one freaking shot. Seriously. This guy is a freaking robot.
Marco is the type of guy who is good at everything. I mean, everything. The athletic genius plays multiple of musical instruments. He's always receiving the highest score on tests and finals. He finishes his ten page papers on time, sometimes even weeks before the due date. The guy is a freaking Beethoven mixed with Einstein, Tiger Woods, and David Beckham.
Plus he is not bad to look at.
I even developed a theory that Marco might be a robot disguised as a human to take over Earth. I highly doubt it though. The Marco I know would never intentionally hurt anyone. Despite what he's been through.
"I shouldn't have let you convinced me to come here," I say to Marco as he takes off his golfing gloves and rearranges the golf clubs in the bag from smallest to largest.
I forgot to mention that Marco is quite the neat freak. Freak is too extreme. Neat friend. Marco is quite the neat friend.
"Oh, come on. Give yourself a little credit. This is only your fourth time playing .. And you have to admit it was fun watching you try to swing."
He finds my suffering so entertaining.
"I'm not wasting another day of my last week in London golfing again," I tell him.
"Fine, fine," he nods as he lifts the golf bag onto his large shoulder, and we start walking towards the wooden country house.
We literally take two steps before someone's voice halts us.
"Excuse me?"
We both turn around at the same time and my eyes widen in complete shock at the handsome lad wearing a white polo shirt and khaki pants, his hair covered with a white Nike cap.
I saw the same guy plastered on a folder with the four other boys in Target just a week before arriving in London. I wanted to get it so bad.
"I saw your eagle there," he continues to explain his reason for stopping us. "It was very impressive."
"Uh, thank you," Marco answers nonchalantly, his composure not phased by the man talking to us. Meanwhile, I'm looking up in the air looking for an eagle.
"Are you in a league?"
"No, uh, I'm not."
"I think you'd do very well," the blue eyed boy compliments my best friend. "What's your name?"
Is this really happening right now? This is some crazy shit going on. And I'm pretty sure I'm clean right now. Not that I would ever want to take drugs since it's stupid and completely meaningless in life.
"Marco," my best friend takes the celebrity's hand and shakes it before letting go and putting one arm around my shoulder. "And this is Ellie."
Are we being punked right now? My best friend is introducing me to a celebrity. A freaking celebrity.
Holy shit balls.
"Elaine, not Ellie," I say, my voice more taciturn than usual.
"Nice to meet your acquaintance, Elaine, not Ellie," the boy smiles at me and I return the gesture. His smile is perfect. No wonder he's in a boy band. I'm sure his singing voice is a more prominent reason why he's in a boy band but who could resist such a condemningly enchanting smile?
"What's yours?" Marco stupidly asks and before he can respond to the question, it is answered by someone else.
"Niall!" The same burly man calls out. He was the same man we ran into earlier. His lungs are gasping for air as he spoke. "Sorry .. I couldn't .. find .. the golf ball. Must have .. flew in .. the water .."
"Oh, well," Niall casually replies. We'll just have to tell'em when we get up there."
The silence is filled with the man's heavy breathing. Niall returns his attention back to us, Marco mostly.
"Marco, I just wanted to mention that I have a few connections in league if you're interested," Niall inquires and I turn to my best friend, whose face has completely turned into a shade of white.
He's always wanted to play professional golf, either that or soccer, so I wouldn't expect anything less of his reaction. I can still remember him forcing me to watch the PGA Tour one Saturday because his favorite golfer finally had a chance to win the damn thing. Unfortunately, his favorite didn't win, a guy named Bubba Watson did. I remember his name because one, Bubba is an extraordinarily hilarious, yet charming name, and two, Watson is the surname of Emma Watson aka the actress who plays Hermione Granger.
Voila!
"Uh, I don't know what to say," Marco says, his light hazel eyes dazzling with a mix of excitement and disbelief.
"You know Rory, I'm assuming?" Niall asks.
"Yeah, I know him!" Marco exclaims but turns down his volume of eagerness by clearing of his throat. "Well, I mean, I know him but I don't know him, know him."
He's such a dork for memorizing everyone in the golfing universe. Well, I guess, I'm not one to talk. I am a big football dork myself.
"I'm having dinner with him tonight at Alesandro's. Did you want to join us?" Niall's invitation floors me and I'm not sure how I'm handling this right now. Forget me. How is Marco handling this?!
Knowing Marco, and I think I do, he will decline this brilliant offer because he doesn't like receiving help from others. There's a chance he could finally live his dream - getting paid to do something he's actually passionate about. But he wants his own success. He would never want the easy way in. This amazing opportunity could be the big break in his life, but he'll never fully consider it if he doesn't do it himself.
He could be one of the youngest pro golfers to play in the PGA Tour! At age nineteen, he would definitely take the world by storm.
Well, the golf world anyway.
So in Elaine Woods fashion, I answer for my best friend.
"He'll definitely be there!"
Niall Horan is clearly confused as I tell him that Marco will be there. The kind lad gives Marco his cell number on a light baby blue handkerchief and instructs us to text him his number so that he could give him the address of the restaurant.
"It was nice meeting both of you," Niall Horan shakes Marco's hand again before leaving with his bodyguard, I'm assuming.
I look up at my best friend whose face is still baffled at what just happened. Stepping in front of him, I try to shake him out of his trance by waving my hand in front of his face. But nothing, no reaction. Unsuccessfully, I'm not able to find a way to pull him out of his shocked state. Once his light toned eyes look into mine, he looks angry almost.
"I'm not going to that dinner," he solemnly says, taking off with the golf bag before I can ask why.
Is he serious? I roll my eyes.
He's not going to have dinner and share small talk and bring up the slightest chance of him being sponsored for becoming a professional golfer.
And Niall Horan is going to be there, so that's always a plus. Well, for me. It's not like I'm going, but it's still nice to ponder the thought. Having a meal with one of the world's most desired teenage heartthrob. Uh, duh.
As his best friend, I understand why he doesn't want to go. He's a firm believer that the road to success has to be done with absolutely zero help.
But also as his best friend, I am not going to let him miss this opportunity by forcing him to that dinner. Even if I have to drag his thrice-my-size body myself.
Author's Note:
I love this new fresh start from OIAL and TIAL. New characters, new plots. Ultimately, I chose to write a fanfic of Harry because I didn't want to pair Zayn up with another girl when he has Mia. Lol. That's just the way I'm thinking. But I do plan to write another Zayn fanfic. (:
Anyways...I don't have any specific actress to play Elaine (you can always picture yourself as her, I do that with books all the time. Lol). But I picture Wentworth Miller to be Marco (a younger version). He's in his 40s but he still looks hot. Lol.
Please vote and comment !! I really, really would love it if you did. It would spread the love. (: