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  TARA SIVEC

  Kiss My Putt

  Copyright © 2020 Tara Sivec

  Kobo Edition

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system without written permission from the author, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  License Notice

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be resold or given away to other people. If you wish to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Disclaimer

  This is a work of adult fiction. The author does not endorse or condone any of the behavior enclosed within. The subject matter may not be appropriate for minors. All trademarks and copyrighted items mentioned are the property of their respective owners.

  Edits by KD Robichaux

  www.facebook.com/AuthorKDRobichaux

  Interior Design by Paul Salvette, BB eBooks

  bbebooksthailand.com

  Cover Design by Michelle Preast Illustration and Design

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  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Golf Glossary

  About the Book

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Golf Glossary

  Apron: The short grass that separates the putting green from rough or fairway.

  Back Nine: The last nine holes of an 18-hole golf course. Playing the “back nine” is referred to as “heading in” (towards the clubhouse).

  Birdie: A hole played one stroke under par.

  Bogey: A hole played one stroke over par.

  Caddie: A person hired to carry clubs and provide other assistance.

  Cart Girls: A golf course beverage cart attendant, delivering drinks and snacks to golfers on the course.

  Cart Path: The route around a golf course, usually paved, which the golf carts should follow.

  Clubhouse: The main building or structure of a golf facility which can, but does not necessarily, include the pro shop, food service, locker rooms, bar, offices, and more.

  Driver: A type of club generally used to strike the ball the farthest. The club is usually used off of a tee, but is occasionally used in the fairway.

  Fairway: The closely mown area between the tee and green.

  Green: The closely mown putting area around the hole.

  Par: The score a player is expected to make on a hole, either a three, four or five.

  Picker: A caged utility vehicle with a front-end contraption to scoop up balls. Rotating discs are pushed into motion as the vehicle moves, acting as a broom that sweeps the balls off the ground and places them into collecting baskets.

  Pin: The tall marker, usually a metal pole with a flag at the top, to indicate the position of a hole on the green.

  Pitching Wedge: This club has a face angle of more than 50 degrees and is used for short, arcing shots.

  Purse: A sum of money offered as a prize at golf tournaments.

  Rough: An area outside of the Fairway. The grass is longer making it harder to hit the golf ball cleanly.

  Starter: An employee of a golf course who controls pace of play by directing players to the first tee at appropriate times. Other responsibilities include providing course information and helping players with any other golf-related issues.

  Tee Box: The area where players hit the ball from at the start of a hole.

  Water Hazard: Any kind of open water source, from lakes to streams to ocean to sea or even drainage ditches on the course are termed as water hazard.

  “Palmer ‘Pal’ Campbell has epic breakdown on the 18th hole of the Bermuda Open! Video at 11.”

  After spending my entire pro golfing career being known as the quiet, controlled, no-nonsense golfer on the tour, there’s nothing more humiliating than throwing all of that down the drain—or into a water hazard—on national television. Needing some place to hide, to lick my wounds and figure out what I even want to do with my life once this blows over, I can only think of one place I need to be. Summersweet Island, where everyone treats me like one of their own, and they’ll all be happy to have me home again.

  Well, except maybe one person. It’s been two years since I last set foot on Summersweet Island or spoke to anyone there. But I’m sure Birdie Bennett, my best friend since I was 15 and the clubhouse manager of my favorite golf course, has had plenty of time to forgive me for that tiny little misunderstanding where I blocked her on social media and blocked her in my phone. Oh, and I guess I kind of, sort of accused her of being a stalker. It’s fine!

  Once my sexy, spunky, former best friend gets over the shock of seeing me again and stops trying to drive a 9-iron into my skull, I can finally let her know I’ve also kind of, sort of always been in love with her…

  For James.

  You can stop bugging me for a golf book now.

  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 cl
ub 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 the norm going forward. There were also a few emails sprinkled in uninviting me from upcoming tournaments I’ve been working my ass off to compete in.

  There are plenty of professional golfers who have temper tantrums, but Palmer “Pal” Campbell isn’t one of them. I was taught at a very early age to respect the game and to respect the course you’re playing on. I’ve gotten all of my endorsements and the popularity I have, because I keep my mouth shut, my head down, and I play the game, period. I don’t shout, I don’t argue, I don’t fight with other players, and I never lose my temper if I shit the bed on a shot. Most people think I’m an asshole just because I’m not outwardly friendly and I don’t have a humorous bone in my body with people I don’t know and trust. Which makes the nickname I got of “Pal” when I first came on the pro golfing scene quite the oxymoron, but that’s fine with me. And it was fine with my endorsements and the tournament commissioners until I actually became an asshole in front of the entire world today.

  When Bodhi finally finishes laughing after I decided to ask that stupid question out loud, he trails off with a humming sigh before reaching over and patting the top of my knee.

  “The bad news is, you came in dead-last at the Bermuda Open that you’ve never placed lower than second in during your entire career. Instead of taking home a one-point-six million-dollar purse, you’re taking home just enough to pay for our flights home, and you had the meltdown of all meltdowns on national television,” Bodhi says, turning his head to look at me.

  “But?” I ask, after several quiet seconds where he doesn’t say anything else and just sits there blinking at me.

  “But what?”

  “You gave me the bad news, which thanks for that by the way. It’s not like I haven’t been replaying every moment of what I did in my head for the last few hours, trying not to break out into a cold sweat. But now you’re supposed to give me the good news to make me feel better,” I remind him.

  “Oh, there’s no good news.” Bodhi laughs, shaking his head. “You broke your pitching wedge over your knee and then threw it in the pond, yanked one of your shoes off your feet and chucked it in after, along with a very delicious bottle of sparkling water I was in the middle of enjoying, and shouted at the top of your lungs for your dad to ‘eat shit’ three feet from every television network in the world.”

  I groan, dropping my head in my hands, the nausea coming back nice and strong.

  “Actually, you shouted ‘Eat my shit.’ You were very specific about that,” Bodhi adds. “Oh, wait! There is good news.”

  I swallow back the vomit long enough to look up as Bodhi pulls his phone out of one of the many unnecessary pockets of his cargo shorts and turns the screen toward me.

  “The video of your mental breakdown is now on every single website with a Top Ten Golf Meltdowns list. You’re number one on all of them, so look at you winning something today!”

  Before I punch the grin off his face, rock music starts playing loudly from his phone.

  “And look at how fun this one is,” he continues, bringing the phone up closer between us. “This website put the part right when your shoe launches out of your hand on a loop and set it to Buckcherry’s ‘Crazy Bitch,’ so it looks like you’re throwing it over and over. Someone also already set up a GoFundMe to have T-shirts printed with your face on them saying Eat My Shit. This is all very exciting, Pal. You’re getting extra sprinkles on your ice cream tonight for making a day of golf fun for me for the first time ever.”

  Snatching the phone out of his hand, much like I did with his water bottle earlier, I cut off the video and toss his phone into the cubby under the dashboard with my own.

  Bodhi sighs and turns his head to look at me. “I know you’re well aware of how much I enjoyed what happened here today, since I’ve been telling you for years if you kept bottling things up, you were going to explode one day. But seriously, man. What the fuck happened? You’ve never come in dead-last. And you haven’t placed anywhere below third except for that one time two years ago when—”

  “Don’t,” I cut him off, shooting a glare in his direction.

  “Right. We don’t talk about that qualifier you lost two years ago, or why you lost it, or who made you lose it, because it was a blip on the radar, and that tournament didn’t count for anything. This, my friend, was not a blip on the radar.”

  I sigh in annoyance, because I already know how significantly I messed everything up today.

  “Can we talk about what happened at the turn to the back nine now?” Bodhi asks after a few quiet minutes of us both just silently staring out at the setting sun and listening to the crashing waves in the distance.

  I was having one of the best days of golfing in weeks. Six under par going into the back nine, and all I had to do was keep up the momentum, keep my head in the game, and I would’ve had this win in the palm of my hand. And then my dad decided to get in my ear when I switched out my driver for my wedge. My shot had landed right at the edge of the fairway by the spectator rope and entirely too close to where my dad was standing. It made it pretty easy for him to whisper his bullshit at me while my back was to him and I was trying to decide what to do with my shot. My game went downhill fast after that. Hearing his constant nagging and annoying comments every time I needed to go near the spectator rope, which was often since all my fucking shots went into the rough after that, just made things worse. When one of my shots splashed right into the center of the water hazard on the last hole—something I haven’t done since high school—my dad wouldn’t shut up about how epically I screwed up today. I completely lost my composure for the first time in my career.

  “Dale Campbell decided the 10th hole was the best time to tell me, ‘Don’t mess anything up today. Be on your best behavior, and for God’s sake, smile more. The reality show will be using footage from today for the pilot episode.’”

  Bodhi’s mouth dro
ps open in shock just as widely as it did when I broke my club in half.

  “That dick,” he mutters. “I was busy talking to one of the other caddies a few feet away; otherwise, I would have punched him in the mouth for you. You told him no about the reality show. Many times. Over several months and very loudly with a lot of swearing.”

  “I know. It’s bad enough I haven’t been able to go out in public without cameras following me around in years. I don’t need one inside watching me eat, sleep, train, watch Netflix in my underwear, shit with the door open, or have sex.”

  Bodhi snorts.

  “Fuck off. I have sex,” I mutter, crossing my arms in front of me.

  “Okay, sure.” He laughs again.

  “Shut up. It happens.”

  “Yep, gotcha.”

  “Sometimes. Every once in a while….” I trail off, trying to remember the last time I had a day off or even enough hours to myself where I had the energy to do anything other than sleep or make mental lists of all the reasons why I hated my life.

  The only sex I’ve been having lately involves my hand and fantasies of the blip I’ve banned us from ever discussing.

  “I can’t believe he did that to you in the middle of one of the biggest tournaments of the summer. No wonder you told him to eat your shit. No one else’s shit would do in a situation like this.”

  Bodhi shakes his head, and the serious look on his face makes me laugh. Some of the panic starts to slip away when he speaks again.

  “What do you want to do?”

  For the first time since I woke up this morning, my mind goes completely blank. No one’s ever asked me that question before. Not about anything serious. And I know Bodhi is dead serious, and he’s not just talking about what I want to do for dinner when we get off the green. He’s asking me what I want to do with my life.

  I’ve never been given any other option besides golf. I was born with a natural talent that I’ve been told over and over again I should be grateful for. It’s allowed me to travel the world, it’s provided me with more opportunities than I could have imagined, and I’ve made more money than I ever dreamed. And I’m miserable. I’ve been miserable since the first time a camera was aimed in my direction and I couldn’t just play golf and enjoy the game. It became a job, a chore, something I had to do instead of something I loved doing. I became a “yes man” to everything my dad demanded of me, because I was all he had in the world, and I felt like it was my job to fill all the voids in his life and do whatever I could to make him happy.