Dimitri calls over to her.
âBite me, you fat bastard,â the girl fires back.
I nudge Dimitriâs shoulder. âYouâre always wondering why girls donât consider you good boyfriend material. Maybe you should start by changing your opening line.â
âDude, thatâs Audrey.â
Itâs been a while since Iâve seen her. I take a closer look at the girl behind the wheel, the girl behind the giant sunglasses and baseball cap. âJeez, I didnât even recognize herââ
âDonât even think about it.â
âHey there, Seth,â Audrey calls to me.
âHey,â I call back.
âIâm guessing you two cheap bastards arenât buying anything.â
âTwo bucks for a can of soda is a total rip-off,â Dimitri says. âWhy donât you take your gougemobile somewhere else?â
âSee you losers later.â Audrey shifts the concession cart into reverse and loops around the green. She drives down the fairway toward the golfers waiting at the tee box behind us. When sheâs gone, I check out the situation with my next shot.
âYouâre up,â I say.
âKing of the freakinâ obvious.â Dimitri brushes the grass with his wedge a few times and then gives a crisp stroke. His ball pops into the air. It lands on the short stuff and rolls in an arc toward the hole. It misses by a few inches and curls around to within three feet. Pretty good considering where he was sitting.
I mark my ball, polish it on the bottom of my shirt, and replace it on the grass. I kneel and dangle my putter out in front of me to try to figure out my line.
âOkay,â Dimitri says. âThis isnât the U.S. freakinâ Open. Take your shot.â
I stand over my ball, putter in hand. I rock my shoulders until my club face finds an easy swing that lightly brushes the ground. I draw the putter back and tell my brain to let my stroke happen.
Three short beeps chirp from my pocketâa photo message on my cell phone. I jerk up midswing, and the ball hops off the face of my putter blade. It takes a wider arc to the left than I planned and rolls past the hole. A foot and a half away.
âGimme?â I say.
âHell no,â Dimitri says. âThis is high-stakes golf wagering here. Weâve got a buck riding on this hole.â
I pull my cell from my pocket and switch it to vibrate.
âIf your phone starts buzzing during my swing,â he says, âI reserve the right to a do-over.â
âCan I take a do-over on that last one?â
âFat chance.â
Dimitri sets down his ball so the Nike swoosh points straight at the hole, and he gives a gentle stroke. His ball rolls to the edge and drops in. âThatâs a bogey. Sink yours and itâs a push.â
I make my way around the hole to my ball. As I do, I glance at the message. Itâs from Veronica. The photo is tough to see in the sunlight, but I can make out most of a face and the plunging neckline of a womanâs sequined shirt. Itâs the woman from Applebeeâsâat least, itâs part of her. Her eyes are looking upward as though sheâs talking to someone above the level of the camera. The text beneath the photo says: This is her. Iâll call you later.
âWhat is it?â Dimitri asks.
âNothing important.â
I power off my cell and line up what should be a tap-in, but that womanâs face keeps flashing through my mind. My hands are shaking, but I swing anyway. The ball makes its way to the hole and lips out, rolling farther away than when I started.
âTough break,â Dimitri says. âConcede?â
âSure.â
âAt the tournament, a putt like that could cost you ten grand.â Dimitri fishes his ball from the cup with the head of his putter and kicks mine toward me. âWant to go double or nothing on the next hole?â
âNo way.â I scoop up my ball and
Rebecca Hamilton, Conner Kressley