Page 153 of Well Played

“I’m so damn proud of you I could burst! I love you, Leah. I love you so much.” His lips meet mine, and what starts out as alittle kiss soon turns into something that probably shouldn’t be quite so public.

I pull away reluctantly. I run my finger down his cheek. “We should probably save that for later.” I can feel the tears rising to my eyes as I take a deep breath and try to control my emotions. “You did this, Matt. You were here for me the whole time. I couldn’t have done this without you. Stormy and I couldn’t have done this without you.” My voice breaks on the last syllable, and I swipe at my eyes.

Matt grasps my chin and tips up my face so that I’m gazing into his emerald eyes. “You did this, Leah. You worked hard and made this happen. I cannot imagine ever being prouder of anyone.”

I can’t talk past the lump in my throat, so I just nod.

He grasps my hands with his own and heaves in a big breath. His voice comes out shaky when he speaks next.

“I wanted to do this months ago, hell almost two years ago, the moment I fell for you. But I waited because I knew you deserved this moment without distraction. You deserved to feel this glory and I wanted to be there to watch every step.” His eyes gleam with unshed tears. “This is the right time. I can feel it.”

He holds onto my hands as he fluidly moves to get down on one knee.

I gasp and bring my hand to my mouth.

“Leah Rebecca Charles, I can’t imagine loving anyone more than I love you. You are my world. You are my heart. When I wake up in the morning, you’re the first thing I think of, and when I close my eyes at night, your face is what I see. I want that to continue for the rest of my life. I want to be by your side for every obstacle and I want to share my home and my life with you.” He pulls a box from his pocket, and a sense of warmth and contentment fills me before he even opens the box.

He pops open the box with a click and I peer inside. It’s a beautiful ring, oval cut and antique-just the ring I would have picked for myself. But none of that matters. I would marry him tomorrow without a ring.

I finally lower my hand from my mouth. His smile is anxious as he looks up at me.

“Yes! Yes, I’ll marry you! I’ll marry you tomorrow if you want. Or next year, or whenever.” I choke again on my words, and he starts laughing.

He stands up and suddenly I’m swung in the air again. “We can wait sometime between a day and a year, but hopefully soon. I love you so damn much, Leah.”

He puts me down again and gives me along kiss on the lips. It’s not until the kiss ends that I realize everyone around us is clapping.

I duck my head, embarrassed.

“I guess it isn’t every day that they see a woman win a gold medal and get engaged in the same day,” he whispers, and I grin.

“Guess not,” I whisper back as I hide my head in his thick jacket.

When I raise my head again, I glance over at Stormy. She’s watching us with knowing eyes, as if she knew this would be the outcome the whole time.

STROKE PLAY

BY MAIDA MALBY

She’s been playing professional golf for the last year, but Iolana Aguilar feels like a failure. At the Home of Golf, she’ll do her best to recapture her love of the game and fulfill her lifelong dream of becoming a major champion golfer.And her new caddie is just the kilted Scot to help her improve her drive.

1

ON THE TEE

Lana

Adjustingher beanie on her head with clumsy hands swathed in pot-holder-sized mittens for the fourth time, Lana scanned both The Links and Golf Place, two of the roads leading to the clubhouse of The Royal and Ancient Golf Club and the Old Pavilion, where she had been waiting for over twenty minutes. She searched for someone in a hurry to get to the first tee for an eight am starting time at the famed Old Course of St Andrews Links.‘A‘ohe.No one. It was now quarter to, yet there was no sign of her caddie among the handful of golf junkies braving the chilly Scottish winter this second Tuesday of February. Not that she would know what he looked like. The only information she had about him was his name.

Letting out an annoyed huff, Lana took out her putter and hit a ball. It careened towards a hole seventy-odd feet away. Missed. Ugh. She shook off the thick mittens and tossed them near her bag. Her next attempt at a practice putt grazed the cup but did not fall in.Grrr.

“Dinnae fash, lassie. New Tom will be here. Ah swear on his ancestor’s grave,” a deep voice boomed out from behind her. Mac, the burly Scot in his sixties who was the driver of her taxi service for the duration of her stay here placed a large un-gloved paw over the left side of his chest to emphasize his words. He was such a dear, so fatherly towards her since he’d picked her up in Edinburgh on Sunday. Instead of merely dropping her off at the course, he’d insisted on keeping her company until her caddie arrived. A lovable guy. Also borderline unintelligible to her ears.

Lana’s brows rose and met in the middle beneath her knitted hat. In confusion and also in concentration to understand the thick brogue.

Who the heck is New Tom? As in contrast to Old Tom Morris, the golf pioneer?

The name on the email she received from the authorized provider for the golf package she’d paid for in advance was Mitch Morris. Same last name, so a nickname, perhaps.

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