Page 16 of Alfie: Part Two

What the fuck? I would’ve left too. Christ.

“To be clear, I’m all for a drinking limit,” he added. “But a nice Friday afternoon requires a beer or two.”

“I hear you.” I felt the exact same way, especially in the late afternoons when summer was slowly morphing into fall. “My club could use a limit. Slow play is almost always caused by a group of senior citizens hitting the flask too much.”

Shan chuckled as he donned his own cap. He was a Callaway fellow. “One of the reasons I like this place. They’ve designed it to prevent all kinds of slow play. Water bottles available on five, a pop-up café with quick service on nine, you don’t have to rake the bunkers yourself, and the assistance of a caddy once a month—should you need one—is included in the fee.”

I let out a low whistle. “Hopefully, they’ll accept my request to join soon.”

“We can get that sorted, West.” He grinned faintly and came to a stop as we reached the first hole. We only had one twosome in front of us, and they were teeing off right now. “Do you know any members here yet?”

I inclined my head. “I have two acquaintances who recommended me.”

“That’s good, but I daresay my name weighs heavier.”

I had no doubt. I smiled wryly and opened the side pocket where I kept my tees. “I’m not sure I want to be in your debt, O’Shea.”

“And we have lift-off,” he laughed. “Oh, it would be more for my sake. I’m surrounded by children most days. I turned fifty-one the other day, and you know what I got? My grandkids filled my fridge with drawings, and my son gave me a headache. Thank goodness for Kellan and Emilia—but even they are young.”

I smiled to myself and grabbed my driver from my bag. Had the manipulation started yet? By Shan trying to become friends?

I put on my glove too.

“Alfie didn’t know the dial-up sound,” I admitted.

I’d never felt so old as I had the evening I’d played the clip. He’d looked so confused.

“Hurts, doesn’t it? Kellan and Finn don’t even remember a time before the internet.”

I wasn’t surprised. “This is why Generation X is the last good generation.”

“Hear, hear.” Then he frowned. “Except, we’re foolish enough to get married to the youngest millennials.”

I chuckled.Touché.

It became our turn, and I walked up first since he’d requested to go second. I teed up like I always did, and I swung the club twice before getting into position.

It was a par-4 at 320 yards, fairly straight fairway, good wind conditions, and I didn’t have the sun in my eyes. I should get close to the green from here.

I relaxed my stance and tightened my grip, and then I swung back and struck the ball well enough to earn myself a muttered “Goddamn” from Shan.

I squinted down the fairway, and the ball bounced once before rolling forward several yards. That oughta do it. I’d wedge that right up onto the green.

Shan and I switched places, and I put the club back and pulled out my scorecard pad and a pen. These days, I actually preferred tracking on an app, but mostly because I wanted to keep my tracking in one place, and when it rained, a paper card was useless.

“All right, feel free to say what I’m doing wrong,” he said.

“Will do.” I folded my arms over my chest and eyed his stance. Nothing wrong so far—never mind. He sliced the ball, causing it to land in the rough.

He sighed heavily and turned back to me. “As you can see, I’m a notorious slicer.”

Indeed. “Which begs the question—what do you excel at since your handicap is still decent?”

He lifted his cap as if it were a top hat. “World-class putter, if I may say so.”

Then maybe we could learn from each other. I could improve there.

I pointed to his club. “You have the timing wrong. You go slow on the backswing and then drop it too fast. You’re gonna wanna do the opposite. Let gravity do its thing. Try to swing back hard—” I demonstrated by getting into position and pretending I held a club. “Right here, just past the midpoint of the backswing, you ease up. The club carries enough weight to come down with the force you need.” I paused. “You could also adjust your grip. Many who struggle with slicing don’t hold the club tightly enough.”

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