Page 195 of The Fall
Two hours later, we’re all alone at the tees of an oceanside driving range. “Golf lesson time,” he announces.
This is definitely not what I had in mind. I thought we’d be tangled in sheets right now, not out here and fully dressed. I glare at the long stretch of green before us, bordered by the endless blue of the ocean.
“I’ve never held a real golf club in my life.” Mini-golf doesn’t count. “Hockey sticks, yes. Baseball bats, sure. But this?” I pick up one of the clubs, testing its weight.
Blair takes it from me, replacing it with a different one. “Start with this. It’s a seven iron, forgiving enough for beginners.”
“We’re really going to do this?” I ask, eyeing the bucket of balls at our feet.
“Trust me,” Blair says. “You’ll love it.”
I doubt that, but I love him, so I’m willing to try. “I thought following you would involve less clothing,” I tease.
“The day is young.” He moves behind me, and his hands guide mine into position on the grip. “This way,” he says, his voice dropping lower. “Right hand below left. Thumbs pointing down the shaft. Now for your stance,” he continues, nudging my feet apart with his own. “Shoulder width. Knees slightly bent.”
I follow his lead, mimicking his posture as best I can. “This feels weird.”
“That’s because you’re used to being on skates. This is different.” He steps back to assess me. “Not bad. Now watch me.”
He tees up, centers himself above the ball, and swings, fluid power snapping through his body. The ball soars straight, arcing into blue sky and over the beach before dropping somewhere near the 200-yard marker.
“Show-off.”
He shrugs, but his eyes are shining. “Your turn.”
I take a practice swing, trying to copy his fluid motion. My club whooshes through empty air, awkward in my hands. I keep wanting to hold it like a hockey stick.
“Here,” Blair says. His body curves around mine again, hands repositioning my grip. “Relax your shoulders.” I’m hyperaware of every point where we connect.
When he steps back and I swing for real, my club connects with the ball with a satisfyingping. My shot isn’t pretty; it slices right and doesn’t go half as far as Blair’s, but it’s airborne and traveling down the range.
“Not bad.” He picks up another ball and places it on the tee. “Again. This time, keep your left arm straighter.”
I reset my stance, focusing on the corrections. “So is this what you do in the off-season? Trade ice for grass?”
“Sometimes. It’s different enough from hockey to be a break, similar enough to keep me sharp.” He watches my form with critical eyes. “You’re too tense,” he says, tapping between my shoulder blades. “Your body knows how to move athletically. Trust it.”
I roll my shoulders back. “What else do you do in the off-season?”
“I fish. Swim. Read more than I get to during the season.” His eyes track my movements as I position myself over the ball.
I swing again. The ball goes straighter this time. Progress.
“Better,” he says with an approving nod. “Cody used to say I was boring in the off-season.”
I tee up again but pause before swinging. “I don’t think you’re boring.”
“No?”
“No. Thoughtful. Intentional.” I turn back to the ball, trying to remember everything he’s told me. “I like that.”
“Good to know,” he says, and a warmth enters his voice.
This time when I swing, the ball sails straight and true, landing a respectable distance from Blair’s.
“See? You’re getting it.” He kisses my cheek.
I want to freeze this moment: the pride in his gaze, the sun catching the edges of his hair, the way his smile crinkles the corners of his eyes. “Just call me Tiger Woods.”
