Page 21 of Perfect Praise

“I thought you had to pick up golf at the age of two to have any hope of turning pro,” Maren jokes.

Shelley laughs with her and teases her husband, “Right, Josh? Isn’t that why you weren’t able to play professionally?”

“Josh isn’t half bad,” I defend him. I’ve had to play with him enough times in my life to appease people. “Trust me, if he wasn’t, I would have never played with him again. Take Graham, for example, one and done.”

“Oh?” Graham laughs in his good-natured tone. “Maren, I just happen to have a picture in my phone of twelve-year-old Locke at his first tournament.”

I groan. Maren grins happily.

I know exactly which photo it is: the one Graham had my aunt dig up when he needed it for a commercial. I’m practically scowling into the camera with my first ever medal because I placed second.

“Baby Locke?” Maren breathes delightfully, extending her arm out and curling her manicured fingers toward his phone. “Let me see.” Her eyes flash, her smile all teeth, when Graham hands over his phone. I wonder what she looks like when she actually does get mad and is comfortable enough to show someone. “Look at you! You’re like the exact same, just a foot shorter. Same frown. Same haircut.”

“I don’t like change,” I mutter. “And I was pissed off I lost.”

“You got a medal though.” Her foot grazes mine on accident when she crosses her legs underneath the table. I angle my legs farther away from her. “When did you know you were good? Better than normal?”

“I don’t know,” I say noncommittally before I pick up my beer and try to take a long enough sip that will force Maren to focus back on the group.

This isn’t a get-to-know-you game. She’s supposed to be talking to them so I cansit here in peace.

Thankfully, she seems to realize this. Her smile loosens a millimeter when she looks up at me and a silent conversation passes through us unintentionally.

She turns away quickly and hands the phone back to Graham. “I was just telling Locke on the way here that I would’ve liked to see him as a child. That didn’t disappoint.”

“Everyone knew he was special by at least fifteen,” Graham fills in for me. “It’s a good thing his aunt suggested golf to channel his emotions into.”

“Emotions?” Maren’s laugh channelshow can Locke Hughes possibly have emotionsenergy. Then her laugh abruptly subsides as she misinterprets his words. She flicks her eyes to mine sadly and silently apologizes.

“Intensity?” Graham humorously corrects himself. “When Locke wants something, he will not stop until he’s achieved it. Every piece of himself is focused on it. Similar to a lot of great athletes.”

I’m chugging my beer at this point, even though I typically don’t drink. I wish everyone would shut up. I don’t want to sit here and discuss my personality traits or my life or my habits.

Somehow, Maren picks up on this.

“Shelley,” she says, shifting the topic for me on purpose, “what’s the world of sports drinks like?”

Josh and Graham fall into their own conversation. Maren and Shelley gush like they’ve become two best friends.

I’ll sit here, thankful for Maren’s talkative personality, and drink my beer in silence. This is what I was supposed to get out of this arrangement anyway.

I’m not doing it out of the goodness of my heart.

I spent the entiredinner—and car ride here—ruminating on what it would feel like to be liked by Locke.

He keeps such a small circle that I assume it would be extremely hard to become a part of it, to be allowed in. But if you were, just how special that would make you feel. How much it would mean that he trusted you, that he wanted you. If he gave you his attention and you became his focus, just how intentional he would be. It’s hard to even picture the intensity of his eyes falling on you with a look of love, like you’rehis. Because he chose you.

I imagine just the pure weight ofhimwould steady you in the strongest earthquake.

Or someone similar to Locke because, of course, actual Locke hates when I touch him.

Our fingers brushed once when I reached for my glass and he reached for his fork at the same time. Another time my foot accidentally grazed his leg when I crossed mine. He jolted each time like I’d shocked him and then proceeded to make a conscious and obvious effort to avoid all my rogue body parts.

After the third time he leans away from me when I go to pick up my wine, I excuse myself to go to the restroom.

What am I even doing? Why am I wishing Locke would touch me in the most innocuous ways when he clearly can’t stand me?

His relief when I steered the conversation away from him was palpable.

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