Short Stack - Lily Morton Page 0,65

clubs,” I say.

Ivo shakes his head. “Sure we should. They could join the badminton rackets, walking boots, and hockey sticks in the garage, which is where your sporting equipment goes to die.”

“I think you have the wrong idea about me. I’m actually very sporty. You’ve just not been around enough to see it.”

“You’re about as sporty as Gemma Collins,” he says calmly, finding the club called a driver and handing it to me.

“Oh, okay, maybe you have been around enough,” I say faintly, and he laughs.

I put the ball on the little plastic tee and stand back.

“What are you doing?” Gabe asks with a thread of laughter running through his voice.

“Checking the direction of the wind.”

“And you are doing that, why?”

“To determine where my shot goes.”

“Okay,” Gabe drawls. “I can’t wait to see where Tiger Woods puts this one,” he says in an aside to Ivo, who snorts.

Glaring at the two of them, I take a couple of practice shots, or rather, I swing the driver about in a vague approximation of what Gabe did, with no idea of why he did it. Finally decided, I aim for the ball. The driver makes a lovely swishing noise, and I do a little two-step of happiness.

“I like this,” I say excitedly. “Where did the ball go, though? I took my eye off it.”

“Well, you’re actually supposed to watch the ball,” Gabe says. “It determines where your shot goes. However, in this case, you’re being a bit ambitious.”

“Why?”

“Because your ball is still on the tee,” Gabe says patiently.

Ivo breaks into peals of laughter.

An hour later, I tramp behind them, telling myself how lovely it is to take a walk in such a beautiful setting. In reality, my feet have blisters on them from the new golf shoes, and my shoulder is aching from hefting the fucking bag along the ten-mile-route march that Gabe appears to be on.

I glare at his and Ivo’s backs as they wander along, talking happily and pausing only to make wonderful shots. Ivo has taken to the sport like a duck to water, which shouldn’t surprise me as he does most things well.

“Have you seen it yet?” I shout, and they stop and look back in surprise as if they’ve forgotten I’m here. “My ball?” I prompt. “We were looking for it.”

“Yes, it’s here,” Gabe drawls, pointing to the bunker filled with sand.

“That’s good, right?” I ask.

Gabe purses his lips and Ivo seems to be pretending to flick fluff off his jumper.

“Not exactly,” Gabe says with the air of someone who has explained this several times. That’s because he has. “The bunker means it’s a harder shot for you to take.”

“I don’t think that can be right,” I say judiciously. “Surely you should get lots of points for that.” They stare at me, so I elaborate. “I mean, it’s most people’s goal to have a holiday once a year.”

“Yes,” Gabe says hesitantly. “And that is relevant, why?”

“Well, most people’s holidays are on the beach. In a way, this ball has attained its holiday goal in one go, ending up on the beach as the other one did in the lake. So surely extra points?”

Gabe shakes his head slowly.

Ivo pats me on the shoulder. “Look on the plus side, Henry,” he says. “You’re rocking that one glove.”

I strike a pose. “Me and Michael Jackson.”

We all stare at the lonely little beach-bound ball. “I think that I’ll keep the clothes and you can golf with just Gabe,” I tell Ivo.

“Oh, no. Why?” Gabe drawls. “Whatever will we do without the fierce element of competition that you’ve introduced?”

I glare at him. “It would have been more of a competition if you’d allowed my points system.”

“Yes, I’ll explain to the committee that the lake and the bunkers are now desirable locations because of most people’s desire to go to Torremolinos.”

Ivo’s laughter floats across the fairway, and I smile. I was right. Exercise and laughter. It’s a potent combination.

A few days later, Ivo lies on the floor in the lounge in a peculiar position.

“What are you doing?” I ask him.

“Stretching,” he says evenly. “Which is what you should be doing.”

“Why?”

“To avoid the agony which will be your leg region after a run if you don’t stretch.”

“Hmm.”

He shakes his head as he crouches and stretches out his left leg. I tilt my head to one side and try not to look up his shorts. I fail. I’m sure he’s wearing a white jockstrap. My cock plumps up, and I adjust myself discreetly. He’s very