Kiss My Putt - Tara Sivec
CHAPTER 1
Palmer
“It takes a lot of balls to golf the way I do.”
“You look like shit, Pal.”
From the 18th hole tee box, I turn my head away from the view of the turquoise water in Bermuda that stretches out as far as the eye can see and find my best friend standing next to my parked golf cart. I’ve been sitting here behind the wheel for the last few hours. I take in Bodhi Armbruster’s flip-flops, khaki cargo shorts, old faded baseball cap on backward over his shaggy, sandy blond hair he hasn’t cut in years, and a T-shirt that says Golf Sucks in big, bold letters across his chest. Which is just wonderful, seeing as we’re on the 18th hole of one of the most exclusive and prestigious golf courses in the world.
“You are literally the most unprofessional caddie ever,” I mutter, staring at his shirt.
Bodhi laughs and slides into the front seat of the cart with me, kicking his feet up on the dashboard and crossing them at the ankles right next to where I have my own feet resting.
“My unprofessional yet comfortable attire is not why I trekked all the way out here to find you. You couldn’t have sat around feeling sorry for yourself on the 2nd hole, could you? God, why do golf courses have to be so large? It’s bullshit. No one needs that much cardio.” Bodhi pauses, picking a piece of lint off the front of his shirt. “Besides, I had this shirt on under the pretentious polo I have to wear during tournaments. I still have to stand in solidarity with my people—my golf-hating people. They depend on me to keep the hate alive.”
ESPN voted me one of the top twenty golfers of my time. I’m one of only five players to place in the top three of The National Tour, the biggest golf tournament in the world, more than fifty times in my career. I honestly can’t even tell you the number of other tournaments I’ve won at this point, and I’m only thirty. I have golf shoe endorsements, golf club endorsements, golf bag endorsements, and I’m the poster boy for golfing attire for one of the biggest athletic chains in the country.
And I have a caddie and best friend who absolutely hates the sport of golf.
“I think it’s precious you’re calling me unprofessional. I see you’re still missing a golf shoe.” Bodhi chuckles, nodding toward my crossed feet.
One foot has a black-and-white golf shoe on it, and the other one just has a white sock now covered in grass stains. That “missing” shoe is still at the bottom of the water hazard about three hundred and sixty-five yards behind us. Along with my pitching wedge. And the water bottle Bodhi was holding in his hand that I snatched away from him and hurled in there for good measure.
My stomach churns, and I want to throw up at just how expertly I probably tanked my professional golfing career today. The career I’ve been training for and my father has been grooming me for since the first time he put a club in my hands at the age of three and entered me in my first tournament at six. I also want to laugh so hard my sides hurt at the absurdity of everything I did. My head is a confused mess right now, and no amount of sitting out here feeling sorry for myself, like Bodhi so nicely put it, has helped.
After I stormed off and wandered around on one fucking shoe until golfers, fans, celebrities, television networks, and officials cleared off the course, most people going home, and only the VIPs heading back to the clubhouse to celebrate, I found an abandoned golf cart one of the grounds crew must have left on the apron of the 10th tee box. I drove it back out here so I could be alone and punish myself by replaying every stupid thing I did here today.
“Is there any hope the television networks suddenly had camera trouble all at the same time right at that moment, and absolutely no one had a cell phone on them?”
I don’t even know why I bother asking Bodhi this question; I already know the answer. I turned my phone off an hour ago after seeing the first twenty emails my agent forwarded to me, all from my different endorsements telling me my contracts were on the verge of being terminated if today’s display of behavior was going to be