Page 99 of Not Safe for Work

We’re in the middle of a tournament and I ended up on a team with Diane and two other white men whose names I’ve already forgotten. Ted? Chris?

Lan and Gabrielle are both on other teams, and Rafe was grouped with his father; Paul Stuart, another VP; and Bruce, WMC’s CEO.

When Rafe found out, he swore under his breath, and the cold look in David Gallagher’s eyes suggested he heard his son’s protest. I’m not sure if they’ve spoken since the incident in the restaurant.

To make up for it, Rafe has been sending me a stream of texts all day that alternate between complaining about the tedious conversation and ogling me. His team is playing behind ours, so at least we can share the occasional glance when there’s a backup.

Diane wiggles her butt, adjusting her stance as she peers into the distance, preparing for her shot.

Rafe: Your legs look sexy in that skirt. I can’t wait until they’re wrapped around my head later.

Rafe: Oh FFS… they want my “thoughts” on the merger between WMC and SynEng. KILL. ME.

I search through the trees, but Rafe is still on the tee box of hole 10.

Diane swings and hits her ball with a thwack, sending it straight down the middle of the fairway, where it lands just a few feet from the hole. Of course, she’s an amazing golfer. Is there anything this woman can’t do?

Ted and Chris (or whatever their names are) blow out appreciative twin whistles as Ted (or maybe it’s Chris) steps up to the green. Diane returns to where I wait with my driver gripped in a hand. I stuff my phone back into the pocket of my bright yellow golf skirt.

“Wow, you’re really good,” I comment.

Diane picks up her water bottle and takes a long sip. It’s sweltering under the peak of the midday sun. When I discovered I was grouped with her, it took me about six holes to stop panicking. I’ve finally managed to dial down my nervousness from a stroke-inducing one hundred to a manageable palm-sweating ten.

“I had to get good,” she says. “More deals are done out here than inside the walls of any boardroom.”

I know it’s true, but I hate hearing it. It’s just another barrier standing in my way.

“You’re taking lessons, right?” she asks, assessing me with a critical eye.

“I have in the past,” I venture. “But I’m not really sure golf is my thing.”

“You’re up!” Chris/Ted (Chred?) calls from the tee box. I nod at Diane and make my way up the gentle slope. With my driver angled in front of me, I stretch my arms and drag up the tips from said lessons over the years. It’s been a while since I’ve been out on the links, and I’m definitely rusty.

I pull back and swing, connecting to the ball with a satisfying crack. It goes flying down the middle, veering slightly and landing about ten feet short of the green. It’s not a terrible shot. I’m a little bit impressed with myself.

When I turn around, Rafe and his team are just pulling up. He’s gorgeous in pale grey shorts and a fitted teal polo. The shade is glorious against his tanned skin and dark hair.

After giving him a quick wave, I hop back into the cart with Diane.

A few seconds later, I feel my phone buzz in my pocket.

“You know, I asked to be paired with you today,” Diane says as I’m about to reach for it.

“You did?”

She steps on the gas, and the cart lurches down the path.

“I noticed you on the first day, and the way you stood your ground against David’s boy was inspired. It’s obvious you know how to handle yourself in this world.” I try to hide my shock. That stupid Ferris wheel argument with Rafe impressed her?

“And the way you took on David himself in the restaurant? I doubt anyone’s put him in his place like that in years.” She barks out a gleeful laugh, and I sense that Diane Hart and I are kindred spirits in more ways than one. “You need that kind of fearlessness to succeed.” Again, I try to control my reaction. I was convinced she must’ve thought I was a monster, talking to him like that.

She guns the cart as we bump over the fairway. “I was also very interested in your test scores. Did you know that in a room of a hundred respondents, you are the only one who scored ‘listener’ as a leadership style?”

My heart lurches, wondering if she means this as a good thing or a bad thing. What did my tiny act of rebellion garner when I’d chosen the answers I wanted rather than what I thought they wanted to see?

“I was?”

She nods as we pull up to the green. One-half of Chred has just knocked his ball near the hole, and I’m up next. I choose an iron and give my ball a light tap. It lands on the green with a plonk and rolls about three feet from the hole. While I wait for Diane and the rest of Chred to putt, I check my phone.