Page 33 of Curveball: The Baby and the Grump

“Deal,” she says, smiling. She’s obviously been here more than once because she doesn’t even hesitate before heading in the direction of the bathroom. I glance over the course and see other players laughing and having fun, swinging clubs at each other and missing balls left, right, and center. I guess she must know what she’s talking about.

I linger in the line for tickets, trapped behind a couple who are taking the longest possible time to decide what they want to do. I fold my arms and stare distantly into the course, willing them to hurry up.

Eventually they do, and I saunter up to the counter. It’s not as complicated as the couple made it seem, but the woman who sells the tickets to me is creepily in character as a Revolutionary War widow. I doubt she gets paid enough to be so committed to this role, and if her grumpy attitude as she uses the credit card machine is anything to go by, she definitely doesn’t. Once I’ve paid and got my tickets, she slumps back into the seat in the corner as I walk away.

At this rate, I’m starting to feel like we should have just taken the risk and gone bowling instead. This had better be worth it.

When Freya comes back, I have to bite my lip to stop myself from reacting too hard. She’s wearing a light-green dress and little cardigan that does nothing except draw my attention to her breasts. That, and the way the skirt floats around her legs makes her look even more wonderful than ever. My heart leaps into my mouth at the sight of her, and I feel like I’m about to forget how to speak.

She’s better than anything I could have asked for.

I hold up two tickets, and she takes one from me with a flourish.

“Are you ready to get your ass kicked?” she asks with a grin.

“Hey, who’s the professional sportsman here? I wouldn’t be too confident.”

“You might be a professional at playing ball, but you’ve got nothing over me at mini golf.”

“Hey, did you just want to come here because you thought you’d win?” I say in mock horror as we pick out our clubs.

“Sure did!” She winks, and I let out the most dramatic sigh I can muster.

“All right. Game on.”

The first two holes are pretty basic, your standard kind of ninety-degree angles and hidden inclines. We both score pars, and I can feel the competitive edge heating up.

Hole three is where it starts getting interesting. We stand at the foot of a water well. For a hole in one it looks like you’ve got to tap the ball into one of the buckets and cross your fingers that when it comes out the other side, it’s going to fall exactly into the channel leading to the hole.

“After you,” says Freya, holding our scorecard in her hand and waving it as if trying to psych me out.

I step up to the little black circle on the green that represents the tee. I’ve never really seen the point of real golf, but as a professional sportsman I take all my games very seriously. I line myself up, put my eyes on the prize, then take a swing.

I hit it way too hard, and it flies over the green, past the water well and into a little groove that puts me at least two more hits away from the hole. I stand frozen for a second, then Freya hands me the scorecard and smiles as if to say Now watch how it’s done.

She takes a swing, and the ball sails straight into one of the buckets. I groan as we both watch it make its way around the mill. It rolls painfully slowly out on the other side, then snakes into the hole. She lets out a squeak of joy and jumps towards me, stretching out her arms as if she’s about to leap into mine. Then she sees that I’m not smiling and holds herself back, and I kick myself again for my absolute failure to show her what she means to me.

“Good job,” I say weakly, putting my hand out for a high five. She gives me one then shrugs in sympathy.

“Hey, don’t worry,” she says. “I’m sure you’ve got at least one hole in one in you.”

“Oh, yeah?” I say, disproportionately bitter about her winning. Maybe competitive sport wasn’t our greatest idea. “And how many do you have in you?”

She grins. “I’ve got the advantage. This is my home field.”

We wander over to the next hole and, determined not to be outdone, I line myself up for the hit again. I take my time, focusing on my swing, plotting out the course I want the ball to take. As a pitcher, I’m not really known for my hitting, but we don’t really have to be. We’re there to throw. That’s the point of us.

But that doesn’t mean my pride will let me lose without trying.

On the one hand, it’s interesting to see just how good Freya is at this and to see how alive she is when she scores well — but on the other, she’s damn good at this. It’s not making me feel good.

She takes her hit, and her ball goes sailing into the hole to give her another hole in one. Eventually, I get my ball in, scoring me a nasty bogey.

This becomes an unhappy pattern, Freya beating my ass harder and harder with every hole as I get grumpier and grumpier about it. Fortunately for my dignity, she doesn’t score any more holes in one until I manage to get one of my own.

We’re all the way up to hole fourteen before I finally get there. My heart is absolutely not in this anymore as I line myself up for the hit. Freya rubs my arm supportively, hiding the score from me. “Go on, Jackson. You can do it.”

Somehow, she’s managing not to be smug about any of this, even though she’s winning. In fact, as my ball soars over the green, under the falling-down miniature of North Bridge and straight into the hole, she cheers in delight for me.

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