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Authors: M.D. Saperstein
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with myself, I show off with a fist pump, Arsenio Hall style.
“Eat your heart out, Mr. Taylor,” I tease.
He offers me a sexy smirk and I can’t decide if I want to run back over to him and jump him or hide from the blush creeping up my neck.
I do the latter, of course. Still standing down by the hole, close to the windmill, I’m waiting for him to go. I hold my arm out for him to play through, signaling to him it’s his turn. He squats down and eyeballs the hole then licks his thumb and tests the air.
“Who are you? Greg Norman?” I ask jokingly.
He stands up quickly and shoots me a questioning look.
“How do you know who Greg Norman is? I thought you didn’t follow golf,” he asks.
“I don’t really, but I do read and watch TV, ya know?”
He nods in understanding. “Gotcha, but I’d much rather be compared to Phil Mickelson,” he tells me, a boyish smile gracing his face.
My mind starts to do its thing, and I just can’t stop it. Like an unavoidable accident, the useless facts just spew from my lips. “Why would you prefer to be compared to someone who was ranked #3? I mean, okay, maybe Phil had more wins than Norman, but Greg was the shit. Not only was he ranked overall the #2 best player in the world, but he still has his own clothing line and…” I stop myself. Crap, there is no way Jordan is going to want date three after this. Heck, once he learns about my condition, he’s not going to want to have anything to do with me.
“Tiger….Violet….Vi,” I hear him calling me. I look up to confused hazel eyes. Beautiful greenish-brownish eyes. I’m going to miss them when he tells me he no longer wants to see me.
“Oh...um…sorry, I was lost in thought,” I answer abashedly.
“Where…I mean, how, did you know all of that?” he asks, and I can’t quite decide if he is annoyed or fascinated by me.
“Just a really good memory, I guess,” I tell him, then make an exaggerated poke at my temple.
“Wow! That is impressive,” he tells me and I can feel myself breathe a little. So he is not disgusted by me, that’s a start.
“Yeah, it came in handy in school.” I make light of it and change the subject. “So, you gonna take a swing, Phil? You need a hole in one to win and I don’t think Mickelson has ever beaten Tiger!” I mock.
“Watch and learn, Tiger.”
He places his little yellow ball a little off center then steps up. After he takes a few practice swings, he lightly taps the ball and I watch as it glides toward me at the perfect speed, at the perfect angle, to reach it’s destination in a…
“Hole in one, baby!” he hoots and hollers, jumping up and down like a kid. He raises the child-sized golf club over his head shouting, “Victory! Phil takes it for the win!”
I try to hold my smile, but I just can’t. He is absolutely, breathtakingly perfect, and I want to keep him forever.
“How old are you, 15?” I ask playfully, my hands on my hips.
He stops jumping and looks at me, confused by my question.
“28, why?” he answers.
“You’ve had 28 years to get over yourself, acting all crazy like that,” I tease, rolling my eyes.
Jordan drops his club rather ungracefully then begins to stalk his way toward me, stomping through the fake green grass. He has a look on his face; I can’t place it. I think he is pissed. He had to know that I was just kidding, right?
As he gets closer, I begin to get really nervous, so I start stepping backward, retreating for safety. But he is much bigger and his legs eat the ground quickly. I keep backing away until I bump into the freaking windmill at the end of the 18 th hole. Within seconds, he is right up on me.
Our bodies are so close; you couldn’t pass a string between us. He smells so delicious, my brain starts going haywire. I can’t speak. I can’t think. I have to keep reminding myself to breathe.
His hands are still by his sides, and he’s not making any moves, which
“Eat your heart out, Mr. Taylor,” I tease.
He offers me a sexy smirk and I can’t decide if I want to run back over to him and jump him or hide from the blush creeping up my neck.
I do the latter, of course. Still standing down by the hole, close to the windmill, I’m waiting for him to go. I hold my arm out for him to play through, signaling to him it’s his turn. He squats down and eyeballs the hole then licks his thumb and tests the air.
“Who are you? Greg Norman?” I ask jokingly.
He stands up quickly and shoots me a questioning look.
“How do you know who Greg Norman is? I thought you didn’t follow golf,” he asks.
“I don’t really, but I do read and watch TV, ya know?”
He nods in understanding. “Gotcha, but I’d much rather be compared to Phil Mickelson,” he tells me, a boyish smile gracing his face.
My mind starts to do its thing, and I just can’t stop it. Like an unavoidable accident, the useless facts just spew from my lips. “Why would you prefer to be compared to someone who was ranked #3? I mean, okay, maybe Phil had more wins than Norman, but Greg was the shit. Not only was he ranked overall the #2 best player in the world, but he still has his own clothing line and…” I stop myself. Crap, there is no way Jordan is going to want date three after this. Heck, once he learns about my condition, he’s not going to want to have anything to do with me.
“Tiger….Violet….Vi,” I hear him calling me. I look up to confused hazel eyes. Beautiful greenish-brownish eyes. I’m going to miss them when he tells me he no longer wants to see me.
“Oh...um…sorry, I was lost in thought,” I answer abashedly.
“Where…I mean, how, did you know all of that?” he asks, and I can’t quite decide if he is annoyed or fascinated by me.
“Just a really good memory, I guess,” I tell him, then make an exaggerated poke at my temple.
“Wow! That is impressive,” he tells me and I can feel myself breathe a little. So he is not disgusted by me, that’s a start.
“Yeah, it came in handy in school.” I make light of it and change the subject. “So, you gonna take a swing, Phil? You need a hole in one to win and I don’t think Mickelson has ever beaten Tiger!” I mock.
“Watch and learn, Tiger.”
He places his little yellow ball a little off center then steps up. After he takes a few practice swings, he lightly taps the ball and I watch as it glides toward me at the perfect speed, at the perfect angle, to reach it’s destination in a…
“Hole in one, baby!” he hoots and hollers, jumping up and down like a kid. He raises the child-sized golf club over his head shouting, “Victory! Phil takes it for the win!”
I try to hold my smile, but I just can’t. He is absolutely, breathtakingly perfect, and I want to keep him forever.
“How old are you, 15?” I ask playfully, my hands on my hips.
He stops jumping and looks at me, confused by my question.
“28, why?” he answers.
“You’ve had 28 years to get over yourself, acting all crazy like that,” I tease, rolling my eyes.
Jordan drops his club rather ungracefully then begins to stalk his way toward me, stomping through the fake green grass. He has a look on his face; I can’t place it. I think he is pissed. He had to know that I was just kidding, right?
As he gets closer, I begin to get really nervous, so I start stepping backward, retreating for safety. But he is much bigger and his legs eat the ground quickly. I keep backing away until I bump into the freaking windmill at the end of the 18 th hole. Within seconds, he is right up on me.
Our bodies are so close; you couldn’t pass a string between us. He smells so delicious, my brain starts going haywire. I can’t speak. I can’t think. I have to keep reminding myself to breathe.
His hands are still by his sides, and he’s not making any moves, which
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