Page 30 of How to Score Off Field

My nose turns up, and I ignore him, walking toward my ball once it stops rolling and lining up my tap again. It gets close to the hole but doesn’t go in.

One more tap.

Then another.

“Shit.”

“That’s two.”

“No, that was four.” I pause. “Oh, you were counting my swear words.”

He laughs, moving into position to take his swing, his ball rolling ever so steadily toward the hole in the ground, stopping at the rim of it.

“Damn.”

“That was one.” I’m smugly enjoying this new game.

Two taps and his neon ball sinks in. I can’t help admiring his smooth, tan biceps when he leans over to retrieve it.

We move on to the next hole, and I don’t sink this one quickly, either. I’m aware this might have been a bad idea, considering I suck at miniature golf.

“I don’t remember being this bad at Putt-Putt,” I tell him as we walk to the fourth hole, crossing a tiny bridge over a man-made babbling brook. I can see balls on the bottom, lolling around, waiting to be recovered.

Drew lifts his putter to his lips and blows on it as if it were a smoking gun.

“We can’t all be good at everything. I’m sure you have other talents.”

I roll my eyes, but secretly, I mentally begin listing my other talents.

Dancing.

Baking—I make killer cakes and can decorate like a pro.

Um.

I can roller-skate.

I used to play soccer.

I’m not afraid of heights or spiders.

Shit, those aren’t talents, but raise your hand if you think they should be!

“Besides football, what else do you do?” I wonder out loud.

“I like science. I’m fascinated with the solar system.”

My brows go up. “That’s certainly a fun fact.” And unexpected. “If you weren’t playing football, what would you be doing with your life?”

“I’d still be in college, obviously—majoring in science. Maybe I’d be an engineer? It’s hard to imagine, though, since I wasn’t really allowed to think for myself.”

He says it so offhandedly it doesn’t sink in, but when it does, I pause over the ball I’m about to putt and look up at him.

“What does that mean?”

“It means…” He isn’t sure how to respond. “Never mind.”

Now my hands are on my hips, and my foot is propped up on the concrete curb, the putter being used like a walking stick.

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