Two Under Par by Kevin Henkes Page B

had. He vowed he’d never have another.
    â€œNice out, isn’t it?” King asked. “A real hummer.”
    â€œYep,” Wedge replied, still sharpening the stick.
    â€œNow that things have cleared up, you and I are going to fix the castle. We’ll make it as good as new.”
    Since King didn’t pose it as a question, Wedge didn’t feel inclined to answer. He simply flung the stick into the bushes and followed King down to the shed by the course.
    â€œYou know,” King said, “I apologize for the other day. I really jumped the gun and let my excitement carry me away.”
    â€œDon’t mention it,” Wedge said in monotone.
    â€œI guess I wasn’t thinking.”
    â€œI guess.”
    â€œI’m not sure how to say this,” King said, stopping at the door to the shed, fiddling in his pockets for the key. “And I hope I’m not jumping the gun again, but I, uh . . . I love you, you know.”
    Sally was the only person who had said those words to Wedge before. Ever. It felt strange to hear them from someone else. But it felt oddly good, too. And something tingled inside Wedge.
    â€œI do.” King unlocked and opened the door. Inside, on the floor, were the broken pieces of the castle, a can of gold paint, and some plaster.
    Wedge followed King inside. A surge of regret swept through Wedge as he scanned the objects. In a cabinet by the cash register, King rummaged for something. “Here we are,” he said, grabbing a paint brush and a putty knife. He handed them to Wedge, but before Wedge could take them, King took them back. “Wait a minute,” he said, glancing at his watch. “I’ve got an idea. Let’s play a round or two of the course. We’ve got the time before we open. We can fix the castle later. What do you say?”
    Wedge thought a minute. “I say sure.”
    They played three rounds of miniature golf. King won every time, but Wedge improved his score with each round. And he actually enjoyed himself. He laughed. He joked. He got excited when he had a good shot. And he completely forgot about Sally, who was sunbathing on the side of the house in a new bikini she had bought in Madison.
    King helped Wedge with his stance. The proper way to grip the putter. How to hit the ball from certain angles on particular holes to avoid the obstacles. And how hard to hit it. “You’ve got to put a little more juice into it this time,” King instructed Wedge, their first time around on the sixth hole. The cup on the sixth sat on an incline. Wedge took a deep breath and smacked the ball as hard as he could. The ball sailed into the trees way beyond the cup. “Not that much juice,” King chuckled. Then he showed Wedge just the right amount of power to put into his swing.
    When they had finished, King told Wedge that the record for the course was eight under par. “I shot it one morning last month,” King said, raising and lowering his eyebrows like Groucho Marx does on the late show. “I had four holes in one.”
    â€œFour?!”
    King nodded.
    â€œI wish I’d get one hole in one.”
    â€œYou will,” King said. “Sally has.”
    Wedge felt a tinge of jealousy. “Sally?”
    â€œIn fact, she shot it the first time she played. It was our first date.”
    Wedge remembered their first date. How could he forget it? Sally had tried on about ten different outfits before she decided on one—a bright Hawaiian-print blouse and her tight jeans. She doused herself with more of her deadly lilac perfume than usual (Wedge’s head swam for hours after she left). And she bought a new pair of earrings for the occasion—little, silver, dangly ones in the shape of golf clubs. “The guy I’m going out with is a golf pro, or something,” she told Wedge, getting his hopes up. It was Judith Mills who ended up telling Wedge the truth—that Sally had gone