Page 37 of Ship Happens

“Are hippos extinct?” Owen asks.

“Not yet,” Jacob informs him. “But they’re on the endangered list.”

“I’ll need to figure out a way to speed up the process, then,” Owen adds, lining up yet another shot.

“Here,” he hears Jacob say behind him, not realizing that he’s stepping closer until it’s too late to say anything. “I mean . . . is it okay if I help?”

“I know what to do.”

“How far above par are you again?” Jacob asks with a sarcastic gleam in his eye.

Owen sighs, relenting as he stands straight, inviting Jacob to do whatever it is he’s going to do.

“You’re holding on to the putter too tight,” Jacob starts to say. What Owen doesn’t expect is to feel Jacob stepping in line behind him, his strong chest pressing against Owen’s back briefly before he readjusts, bringing his arms around Owen’s thinner frame.

Owen can’t help the hitch in his breath, the way his body feels both repulsed and warmed by Jacob’s touch.

“Sorry,” Jacob says, realizing what he’s doing. “Loosen up, that’s why your timing is so off. Here. If you keep yourself relaxed, and with a bit of patience—”

“I am patient!” Owen insists, only to realize he’s further proving Jacob’s point.

Jacob turns his head, his voice steady in Owen’s ear, his breath warm at the nape of Owen’s neck, goosebumps spreading up and down his arms. “First, we wait . . . and then . . . we swing . . . now!”

Jacob controls Owen’s arms as he strikes the ball, the putter hitting it perfectly. They both watch as the mouth of the hippo opens again, the ball coasting toward the back of the mammal’s throat to a small opening that carries the ball to the other side of the green.

“Yes!” Owen exclaims, pulling away from Jacob, throwing his arms high into the air. “I am so fucking good at this game!”

“You realize there’s the entire other half of the hole, right?” Jacob asks with amusement, voice soft. “The hippo was just the first obstacle.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Owen says, feeling his cheeks flush with embarrassment. “I beat the hippo.”

“You sure did,” Jacob says playfully. “Are you going to do the rest of the hole?”

“Can’t I revel in my victory for just a bit longer?” Owen asks. “Must you sour my mood with needless questions?”

“Not if we want to catch up with everyone else.”

Owen’s brows furrow. “Everyone’s done already?”

“Not too long ago? Kaitlyn wanted me to come and find you.” He looks at the watch on his wrist. “They said they’d meet us at the arcade when we were done.”

Owen doesn’t know how to feel about the fact that Kaitlyn had Jacob come back for him, if it means anything at all.

Making his way to the other side of the hippo—where his ball has deposited itself between two rubber plants—Owen manages to maneuver it into a better position. And after just a few more swings, he gets the ball to bounce off the barrier wall at just the right angle, watching it roll into the hole with a satisfying sound.

“Yes!” Owen hisses through gritted teeth, pumping his fist.

Jacob pulls a folded piece of paper and a tiny pencil out of his back pocket. “That’s got to be, what? Thirty over par?”

“Don’t you want to lie?” Owen pleads impishly. “For ol’ times’ sake?”

Jacob smiles amusingly as he writes something down. “We’ll say twenty-five.”

“Your generosity is overwhelming.”

“It’s honestly kind of surprising how your hand-eye coordination has just not improved a single bit since I left. Aren’t you a tattoo artist?”

“Okay!” Owen points, knowing that Jacob is teasing him. “You know, I could argue that you’re being ableist right now. It’s obvious that my arthritis has hindered my ability to play Putt-Putt well.”