Page 29 of How to Score Off Field

What now?

What is there to do in this town?

The beer garden? Eh, no, we’ll be drinking enough tonight. There’s no need to start so early in the day.

The zoo? Eh.

Lunch? Possibly.

Shopping? Absolutely not.

I don’t want him to think of me as a girl who shops on a weekend instead of doing something practical with my time even though I’m totally the girl who likes to shop on the weekends. I also enjoy going to the library, but we won’t get into that. Let’s just say I have a lot of free time on my hands…

Miniature golfing?

Hmm, that could work. It would certainly keep us busy, and we’ll probably laugh.

“Fancy a Putt-Putt?” I ask with a little laugh, climbing into the car and strapping myself in.

“Putt-Putt?”

I can see by the look on his face that he has no clue what I’m talking about. Or at least, it’s not registering in his brain.

“Miniature golf?”

“Ohhh, mini golf. I was confused for a second.” He pulls a face. “My brain wasn’t thinking golf when you said putt-putt. Don’t know why.”

I hang a right out of the nail salon parking lot, driving toward the outskirts of town where a well-known miniature golf course lives.

I put my blinker on and take another right at the next intersection. Another three miles down the road and we’re there, pulling into the parking lot and assessing the crowd.

Not bad.

It's not crowded in the least, which is perfect.

We make quick work out of paying-which I beat him to this time- and selecting our equipment.

“Would they have clubs long enough for you?”

“Clubs? They’re called putters.” He laughs, watching me. “You don’t golf at all, do you?”

“Um, no. But I do enjoy the occasional mini session.”

I choose a lime-green ball, and he chooses neon orange.

“Game on,” he says at the first hole—a par 2—tossing his ball to the artificial grass beneath our feet. “Ladies first.”

I nod my head, stepping forward. My ball thuds onto the ground next to his, and I spread my feet shoulder-width apart as if I were about to tee off on a world-renowned golf course.

I wiggle my ass for good measure as if that would help me get a hole-in-one.

It doesn’t.

My ball flies down the fairway and bounces off the concrete wall, rolling back in my direction in a decadently undignified fashion.

“Fuck,” I utter, hoping he doesn’t hear me.

“Cursing already, Tess? It’s been three minutes.”

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