Page 11 of Shots on Net

“My dad owns golf courses so I grew up playing,” I admit. “You’re holding your club wrong.”

Zeke glances at me and then back down to his hands, nonplussed. “This is how everyone is holding it.”

Stepping up to him, I lean over and adjust his hands. If I were hitting on him, I would have done this from behind: wrapped my arms around his smaller frame and physically showed him how to do it. I would have lingered, fingers on his, and maybe pressed my back against his a little more than would be necessary. But I’m not hitting on him, so I do none of those things. I show him how to hold the club and back up, trying not to notice the way his hair catches on his eyelashes when he blinks, or how he smells like rain.

This time, when his ball goes in, he inhales sharply and looks at me, disbelieving. “Why didn’t you show me that eight holes ago?”

“Because I want to win, obviously. I’m not going to help the enemy.”

He laughs at this, shaking his head and motioning for me to hand him the scorecard. “Oh yes,” he says, dryly, “there does seem to be a high probability of me beating you.”

He hands the card back and I tuck it into my pocket. There is a little bit of a bottleneck on this hole, which features a massive windmill. Zeke, standing next to me, watches the lazy rotation of the blades for a moment before turning to face me. His arm brushes mine again, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

“Did you know Holland has over 1,200 windmills? It’s known as the Land of Windmills.”

I stare at him. “Why do you know that?”

“Why not?” He shrugs. “I did a report on Holland once, back in elementary school. Did you know that the Dutch are considered the world’s tallest people? Oh! And Holland has the world’s longest ice-skating race.”

I can’t remember something I learned in class last week, let alone some random facts from an assignment I did in elementary school. “That’s cool.”

“It is! You’d fit right in, in Holland.”

He nudges me with an elbow, to let me know this is a joke. When he smiles again, his eyes are big and blue, and take up half of his face. He’s nothing like the sort of guy I’d usually go for; when I pick up guys on a dating app, they’re typically bigger, muscle-y dudes. Guys that look a little bit like me, and are only interested in a quick fuck. Zeke looks nothing like these men—he looks like someone whose hand you hold while you make plans for the future. He’s not my type, and I don’t even have to ask to know I’m not his.

We play the next few holes in comfortable silence; the crowds slowly disperse around us and the sun slowly sinks. We’re meandering, not trying to race through the course, but going slow and enjoying ourselves. This is, without a doubt, the most fun I’ve ever had outside of hockey. It’s fucking embarrassing how much I don’t want today to end.

“Are you hungry?” I ask Zeke, distracting him enough that he hits his ball wrong and it hops over the lip of the course and bounces down the sidewalk. “Sorry.”

“Damn.” He half-jogs to retrieve his ball, while I wait. When he returns, he has to brush his hair out of his eyes again as he lines up his shot. “Yeah, I could eat.”

“We’re almost done.” I look around, noting that there is a concession stand near the last few holes. I point to it. “Want to eat before we go home?”

I watch him bite his lip and look toward where I pointed. “Uhm, yeah. That sounds fine.”

He looks put out. It’s the same expression that was on his face earlier, when I caught him eyeballing the mini golf prices. I had already been planning to pay, and wouldn’t have suggested grabbing food unless I was going to cover that too. He is obviously under the impression he’ll be buying his own.

We finish the game; I go to return our clubs and balls while Zeke peruses our scorecard. He holds it up when I step back up beside him, one eyebrow raised in question.

“I feel like you fudged these.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night.” I snatch the card back and shove it into my pocket. “What are you hungry for?”

“I’m going to have some…,” his eyes flick rapidly over the menu, “french fries.”

Sighing, I step forward to order. “Hi. Can we get a large order of french fries, two loaded nachos, two hot dogs…and a funnel cake. Please. Oh, and two large drinks.”

Zeke’s already large eyes are wide and I feel him nudge my arm as he holds out a credit card. I pluck it from between his fingers and hand mine over instead. The kid behind the counter, unconcerned, scans it and hands it back. I shuffle Zeke out of the way, stepping to the side so we can wait for our food.

“Why did you—I can pay you back for the fries.”

“No.”

He doesn’t respond, but ducks his head and puts his card back into his wallet. I don’t want to argue about money; I want to keep enjoying the day and not have him worry about how he’s going to afford it. I want to be invited to more days like this, and if I have to buy that privilege, so be it. Our food comes—two heavily loaded trays—and we each take one over to a vacant picnic table. Zeke pulls his french fries off one of the trays and nudges the rest over to me. Amused, I push it back toward him.

“I’m not going to eat all of this, Zeke. That’s for you. Except for the funnel cake,” I point to it, sitting on the corner of his tray, “I want some of that.”

Bending, I reach for the nachos and pop one into my mouth. Zeke is sitting in silence, not eating. I can feel his eyes on the top of my head and ignore him. I want him to eat; something tells me his manners will prevail and he won’t let the food go to waste, even if he’s not happy with where it came from.

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