Kiss My Putt - Tara Sivec Page 0,1

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