Page 18 of American Beauty

I pull out a bill and hand it to her, nodding toward their cart. “For your trouble.”

The blonde’s smile falters a fraction before she covers it with another sugary grin and takes the money. Her friend tries to salvage the moment, tucking a stray piece of hair behind her ear. “We’ll be around if you change your mind.”

I offer a polite smile. “No need but appreciate it.”

They linger for a beat, like they’re waiting for me to change my mind. When I don’t, the blonde gives a small nod. The two of them leave, their conversation hushed as they saunter back to their cart.

My father smirks, leaning against his club. “The ladies have always loved you and your brothers.”

I smirk, tossing my glove into the cart. “What can I say? We take after our dad.”

He lets out a low chuckle. “Flattery won’t help you win this round, boy.”

I shake my head, grabbing a bottle of water from the cooler. “I’m not interested in chasing women anymore. Or in being chased.”

“You’re not the man you were before you met her—and that’s not a bad thing.”

“Magnolia’s the only woman who has my interest.”

“Funny how fast life shifts when the right woman shows up.”

He’s right—this is a change for me. There was a time when I would’ve taken the bait from the cart girls, let them giggle and flirt, perhaps even walked away with a number scribbled on a napkin. But now? My mind is on one woman… a woman who’s not within my reach.

I take a long drink, letting the cold water settle the restless energy running through me.

“Your turn,” Dad says, gesturing to the tee box.

I breathe in, rolling my shoulders back, but even as I step up to take my swing, my thoughts drift somewhere else thousands of miles away.

The driver connects with a sharp crack, but the ball slices hard to the right, vanishing into the rough.

Fuck.

It’s hard to restrain a groan as I shove my club back into the bag.

My father smirks, amusement flickering in his eyes. “Solid technique… if you were aiming for the trees.”

I bite back a response as we climb into the cart. This isn’t like me; I play better than this.

I steer the cart toward the next hole, rolling to a stop near the tee box. My father climbs out first, taking his time selecting his club, stretching his shoulders before stepping up to the ball. He’s methodical, patient—a golfer who plays smart rather than flashy. And today, he’s playing well.

He lines up his shot, his posture relaxed. With one smooth swing, he sends the ball soaring down the fairway, landing on the short grass.

“Nice one.”

He smirks, setting his club back in the bag. “Try to keep up, son.”

I grab my driver, planting my feet on the tee. I should be able to crush this. Golf has never been my best sport, but I’m an athlete with precision, control, focus. Those are my strengths.

I exhale, drawing the club back in one smooth motion, and swing. The sound of contact is solid, but the second I look up, I can see it’s wrong. The ball slices hard to the right, veering off into the rough, where it disappears into the trees.

Fuck. Me.

My father chuckles, shaking his head. “What’s this? My son, the legendary athlete, getting outplayed by his old man?”

I grip my driver tighter, forcing a smirk. “You wish.”

He laughs as we climb back into the cart, and I can sense his eyes on me, assessing.

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