35 | the rough (part two)

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THIS IS PART TWO OF A DOUBLE UPDATE. PLEASE BE SURE TO READ PART ONE FIRST.

Rebecca took great pride in informing President Sterling, in a voice so loud I heard it over the thunderous clatter of Gordon's clubs, that she'd graduated from Garland University with honors.

Yeah, I thought, in international relations.

I was glad I'd gotten stuck with Gordon's bag.

He didn't attempt to make conversation.

Not even when I proved to be the worst caddy who had ever caddied. Twice, I pulled the wrong clubs out of his bag and handed them over with the unjustified confidence of a blissful idiot. I also dropped a mini pencil when I went to jot down his birdie on the scorecard and completely lost it in the grass.

I was a hot mess.

This became a far more literal self-reflection as the morning sun climbed higher in the sky.

The back of my hideous polyester uniform polo soaked through with sweat. My cheeks were hot as frying pans to the touch. A single drop of perspiration rolled from my underarm to my elbow, unimpeded.

I shivered with discomfort.

The heat was rough, but I took some consolation in the knowledge that Truman Vaughn was perhaps the worst golfer I'd ever witnessed—and I'd once watched Mrs. Sherwood send her putter flying into the man-made pond on the fourteenth hole.

"God damnit," I heard him shout as his ball landed in a sandtrap.

Gordon sighed. There was an amused twinge to it.

Bodie drove the cart down the fairway. Vaughn walked with the rest of us, because he seemed to be in the mood to stomp. Rebecca and Sterling weren't paying attention to his tantrum, though. They were still locked in some pretentious discussion about their mutual love of convincing wealthy people to fork over money for good causes.

We arrived at the sandtrap.

Vaughn turned, saw that Rebecca was busy telling Sterling her life story, and snapped his fingers to get my attention.

"Get me my putter," he said. It wasn't a request, nor a question. It was a demand. "Actually, the chipping wedge. You know what, just bring the whole damn bag."

I tried to ignore the fact that Bodie was in the driver's seat of the cart.

Vaughn's bag was enormous and dark green, with the Garland school crest on one side and the Titleist logo on the other. It pained me to think that this hideous display of school pride had probably cost him more than I made in a week of work.

I hooked my hand under the strap and tried to lift it with all the strength of one tiny bicep. It was twice as heavy as Gordon's.

Compensating for something, aren't we, buddy?

Bodie appeared around the side of the cart.

I braced one foot on the back bumper for leverage and hauled Vaughn's bag up and over the barrier. The bottom end of it hit the pavement with a thunderous clanking of clubs.

"You got it?" Bodie asked.

"Yep," I grunted. "Keep walking."

But Bodie was, well, Bodie.

"Here," he said. "Let me help."

He didn't even give me a chance to wield the attitude. Before I could manage a single word of protest, he'd slung the strap of Vaughn's Titleist bag over his shoulder.

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