Fore Play

Parker Scott

There’s something beautifully rotten about watching a woman in thousand-dollar heels slice a ball so hard it skips like a stone across the lake and dies somewhere near the gator zone.

She doesn’t blink.

Just tosses her driver to her caddy like it’s diseased, laughs with her girlfriends, and snaps a photo with the sun rise behind her like she’s on the LPGA tour instead of on her third divorce.

From the shade of the cart barn, I take a sip of coffee that tastes more like last night’s bourbon and let the mildew-slick air settle over me.

It’s perfect, really.

The performance.

The cashmere-sleeved delusion.

It’s so fucking Sterling Pines.

Hi. I’m Parker Scott.

Former Tour phenom. Former magazine cover boy. Former somebody.

Now?

I give swing lessons to bored housewives whose husbands write the checks and don’t ask questions.

I rake bunkers. I replace divots. I drink too much, sweat through overpriced polos, and fuck women I don’t like in rooms I’m not supposed to be in.

My office.

The staff showers.

That goddamn broom closet between the wine cellar and the indoor putting green.

You’d be shocked how many women want to get railed where the fertilizer’s kept.

Or maybe you wouldn’t.

It’s not about sex. Not really. Not for them, and definitely not for me.

It’s power. Escape. Spite.

They want a warm body with calloused hands and just enough reputation left to still mean something. And I want to forget what it feels like to lose everything I spent my life chasing.

That’s the exchange.

Mrs. Langford comes on Thursdays. Leaves her panties in the pocket of my rain jacket and never makes eye contact.

Mrs. Dalton sends golf emojis when her husband’s on the back nine with his clients. I meet her in the massage suite, fuck her hard enough to make her cry, and she Venmos me “tips” that pay my bar tab.

I used to be on tour with cameras in my face and corporate tags stitched into every shirt.

Now?

I clock in at 6 a.m., half-hungover, to watch some rich prick’s wife “grip it and rip it” while I pretend not to remember how she begged for it last Tuesday in the locker room steam shower.

The country club eats men like me.

And I let it.

Because I’ve still got the hands. Still got the voice. Still got the name.

Just enough to be dangerous.

Just enough to be fucked.

The door behind me creaks. I don’t have to look.

It’s Jimmy.

Eighteen, max. Smells like Axe body spray and hope. Still thinks he’s going to qualify for state. Still tucks his shirt in and talks about “swing plane” like it’s religion.

Poor bastard.

He hasn’t learned yet that you don’t leave golf—you drown in it.

I take another sip of my cold coffee, wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, and watch a woman in diamond studs tee up another Pro V1 like it’s going to change her life.

It won’t.

But for $300 an hour, I’ll pretend it will.

“You gonna be on the range at eleven, Coach?” Jimmy asks, all bright-eyed and stupid, like optimism isn’t a disease.

Coach.

Jesus.

I nod once, slow. “Tell Mrs. Langley to bring her foot spray. Last time she took a divot big enough to bury her third husband.”

He snorts, too eager, too green. Then hesitates.

“Oh—uh, someone’s here to see you. Said she doesn’t have an appointment.”

I don’t look at him. Just flick the ashes from my cigarette and say, “She look like she’s here to sell me something, or sue me for something?”

Jimmy shrugs. “Neither. She’s… kind of a smoke show, though.”

Of course she is.

Another marketing intern with a degree in brand strategy and a podcast about wellness. Or worse—an influencer looking for a collab and a dick pic to screenshot when it suits her.

I drain the last of the coffee. It tastes like acid and regret.

Just like everything else around here.

“Fine,” I mutter, pushing off the frame. “Let’s go see what fresh hell today’s got lined up.”

The clubhouse is all polished brass and old money lies.

Marble floors, hand-waxed weekly by the same guy who used to clean my cleats on Tour. Didn’t even recognize me when I took the job. Just asked if I wanted my shoes shined.

I told him no.

Didn’t have the heart to say they were Skechers and I hadn’t earned a shine in years.

Kayla’s at the front desk, pretending not to scroll Instagram while she logs member tee times like any of it matters. I nod once. She doesn’t look up.

I head for my office—if you can call it that.

Windowless. Fluorescent-lit. Smells like stale liniment and the last gasp of relevance. There’s a golf bag in the corner with my name stitched into it like that’s supposed to carry weight.

It doesn’t.

Not anymore.

On the way down the hall, I pass the trophy case.

It’s packed with dusted-off plaques from charity scrambles and member-guest bullshit, plus one bronze sculpture of a guy mid-backswing that looks constipated and inspirational at the same time.

But on the top shelf, tucked in the back, there’s a photo no one looks at too closely.

Me. Arnold Palmer. Pro-Am, ten years ago.

I’ve got a tan, a cocky grin, and that glint in my eye—that wild little thing that says, I don’t just think I’ll win. I know it.

I used to walk into every room like I owned the air.

Now?

I walk in hoping no one notices I’m still wasting it.

Funny, isn’t it? I used to think club pros were jokes. Washed-up hacks who couldn’t hack it. Guys who gave up when the heat turned up.

Now I am one.

Teaching lag putting to men with titanium knees and trophy wives in tight skorts. Giving swing tips to kids whose moms flirt like it’s part of the lesson package.

Sometimes they ask me why I’m not out there anymore. Why I’m not still on Tour. Why I’m not competing.

I smile.

I lie.

Say I wanted a slower life. Say I wanted to give back.

What I don’t say is that I can’t watch a leaderboard without hearing the silence after I missed that putt at Augusta.

What I don’t say is I see it in people’s eyes:

That’s Parker Scott. He used to be somebody.

Used to be.

Now I’m just a cautionary tale with a hell of a downswing and enough charm to get laid between lessons.

My hand’s on the door to my office when I hear it—heels on hardwood. Fast. Sharp. Not the tentative click-click of some housewife lost between pilates and Botox. No, this is purposeful. The kind of walk that says I’ve got a point to prove and I’ll walk through your corpse to make it.

Then a voice.

Low. Clean. Cold enough to leave frostbite.

“Are you Parker Scott?”

I turn.

And fuck me.

She’s not what I expected.

Not a housewife. Not a reporter. Not another fresh-out-of-college marketing hire with a social media deck and a fake tan.

She’s all sharp lines, expensive curves, and that impossible cool that says she doesn’t need your attention—she just knows you’re going to give it to her.

Dark sunglasses. Black heels that scream bloodshed. Hair pulled back with military precision. A phone clutched like she’s ready to weaponize it. She looks like she belongs in a Manhattan boardroom or a courtroom cross-examination—not in this sun-bleached mausoleum of mediocrity I work in.

She looks dangerous.

And for the first time in a long time, my cock twitches in actual interest—not routine, not convenience.

Real.

Feral.

Fuckable.

“Depends,” I say, voice dry as the bourbon on my breath. “You selling supplements or suing me for something?”

She drops her glasses just low enough for me to meet her eyes.

No smile. No warmth. Just lethal focus.

“No. I’m here to resurrect your career.”

She says it like a threat.

And I believe her.

She doesn’t move. Just stands there in a skirt that should be illegal, staring me down like I’m the one wasting her time.

I’ve played a Sunday round with Tiger. Stared down Phil on Augusta’s amen corner.

This? This is more intimidating.

“Come again?” I ask, leaning against the doorframe like I’ve got all the time in the world and not a goddamn clue how to handle what’s standing in front of me.

“Because it sounded like you said you’re here to resurrect my career.” I cock my head. “Which is funny, considering I didn’t know you’d buried it.”

She steps forward, slow and controlled. Like a lioness. Like she already owns the kill.

“Your career didn’t need help dying, Mr. Scott,” she says. “You did that just fine on your own.”

I let out a laugh—short, sharp, laced with something between pain and respect.

She’s good.

I cross my arms. “Let me guess. Agent? Publicist? Redemption consultant?”

“Sloane Avery,” she says. “Sports agent. I specialize in lost causes with just enough talent left to be dangerous.”

I drag my gaze down her body.

Tailored as hell. No sweat despite the Florida heat. Not a blonde extension or designer tennis bracelet in sight.

She’s not here for clout.

And she’s definitely not here to play.

“You must be lost,” I mutter. “Rehab center’s down the road.”

She doesn’t blink. Doesn’t bite.

“I’ve watched every recorded swing of yours from the last two years,” she says. “Your posture’s still solid. Rhythm’s buried in booze and regret, but it’s there. Tempo’s shot. Conditioning’s laughable. Motivation is… let’s call it comatose. But the talent?”

She steps closer.

“It’s intact.”

I look at her. Long enough for it to become something else.

Not sure whether I want to kiss her or kick her out.

Instead, I say, “What makes you think I want to be found?”

She doesn’t miss a beat. “Because you haven’t left.”

Her voice is calm. Measured. Like she’s laying out an equation.

“You’re still here,” she says. “Still on a golf course. Still close enough to the game that it haunts you. If you really wanted to disappear, you’d be bartending in the Keys and fucking yoga instructors.”

I don’t tell her I’ve considered it.

Twice.

I just smile.

Lazy. Sharp. The kind of grin that used to melt panties and earn sponsorships.

She doesn’t flinch.

Strike one.

“You talk a big game,” I say. “But I’ve seen your type before. Suits with pitches. Pep talks. Big plans. All thinking they can fix what’s broken.”

She moves in close enough for her perfume to hit me—spiced jasmine and sharpened steel.

Her voice drops.

“I’m not here to fix you, Parker. I’m here to bet on you.”

That stops me.

Just for a second.

Because no one bets on a man this far gone.

She pulls out a leather folder like it’s a goddamn contract with the devil.

“Three months,” she says. “I break you down. You get one shot at Q-School.”

I laugh—short and bitter. “And you get… what? A headline? A hard-on for lost causes?”

She tilts her chin.

“My name. At the top. As the woman who brought Parker Scott back from the dead.”

She says it like she’s already writing the speech for her acceptance award.

I should tell her to go to hell. Should tell her I’m fine right where I am—buried.

But I don’t.

Because part of me—the stupid, rotted-out part that still wants—doesn’t want to watch her walk away.

She closes the folder. Doesn’t smile. Just turns like she already knows I’m going to follow.

“I’ll be at the range at six a.m.,” she says over her shoulder. “Don’t waste my time.”

Then she walks off in those fuck-you heels like she owns the place—and maybe she does.

And I tell myself I won’t show up.

I tell myself I’ll get blackout drunk, sleep through the morning, and prove her wrong.

But the thing is—

I’m tired of being right about how far I’ve fallen.

And she looked at me like I wasn’t done yet.

That kind of look is dangerous.

And I’ve never been good at avoiding danger.