Hoax in One

| prologue |

I may be a ball of sunshine, but why in the hell must everything made for women be pink or teal?

There's a place and time for them, of course—they are two of my favorite colors—but something about them makes other people (men) not take you seriously. Especially when your sports equipment is covered in it.

My manly black and gray set of clubs had been delayed in shipping so I was lugging this pink monstrosity of a golf bag behind me.

I hated playing with rentals, but I was in the mood to hit the crap out of some balls. It had been weeks, and it always made me feel better. There was something about the contact—when you hit the ball just right. The sound, the vibration. It made me happy, and I was lonely. I hadn't made a single new friend yet—my dorm roommate kept pretty much to herself—and all of my high school friends went out of state for college.

Her side of the room was all beige and all bland. Everything had a place; her black shoes, her khakis, her pens on her desk, her MacBook perfectly angled. My side was pinks and blues and yellows, florals and patterns. And cluttered with my pictures and knick knacks that I collected from anything I wanted to preserve with more than a memory. It wasn't that I didn't like her—she was sweet when she did talk—but I wasn't sure if she liked me. I couldn't stand silence, and I wasn't made to sit in my room watching TV or sleep until noon, both of which she loved.

I pulled out a driver and studied the end of it, rolling my eyes at the little pink logo. I looked out at the driving range, half covered with white balls that hadn't been picked up yet by the caged golf cart that was clanking across.

"Need any help?" someone at the next tee over said.

I turned toward his voice, which was deep and rough, even and strong. Oh. He was hot. Intense but definitely hot. He had the faintest smile on his lips that almost felt like a gift. I could see his brown hair on the sides of his head beneath his hat, and he had one hand resting on top of his golf club as his eyes—one blue and one brown—traveled across the pink golf club in my hand.

Please don't be on the golf team, I prayed. Because if this was who I met during my first semester of college, and he was flirting with me, this was going to be a fun semester.

"I don't know," I said sweetly, giving his tall lean body a once over. "Are you any good?"

He shrugged. "I'm all right."

I couldn't tell if he was being modest or truthful. Everything about him screamed confidence. His eyes were so serious and severe—maybe because of his heterochromia—as he held his gaze on my face.

His right eye was as vivid as the blue wing of a butterfly, but for some reason, I was stuck on his left brown one.

"Just all right?" I raised an eyebrow. "How long have you been playing?"

He cocked his head to the side, seemingly like he didn't want to answer. "Fourteen years."

Even at my ripe age of eighteen, I had him beat by two. I'd been playing since I could stand and say the word 'golf.'

"Oh. That's all?" I pouted.

He chuckled, which gave me the impression that it was hard to make him laugh. "That's all."

"So...?"

"Tate," he replied, taking off his hat and pushing the bill into his back pocket. His now shadowless face was all hard angles and strong jaw. His hair was short and parted to the side.

"So, Tate, could you at least show me how to hold this thing?" I looked down at the pink grip of my club as I held it out to my side.

"Sure." He took four steps to where I was standing and sidled up next to me. Just close enough. I could smell his soap, clean with a hint of sandalwood.