Forlot: The Only Golf Course - Book Sixty-Eight

Chapter Nine

We introduced ourselves as we shook hands. His name is Trump, named after the trumpet. His mom's favorite instrument is the trumpet because the angels play their trumpets in triumph and to praise God in all His Glory. If you are assuming that Trump is the twist villain, you could not be more wrong. One of his favorite hobbies is golf. Lucky me. His parents are pretty wealthy. How do you gain wealth in Forlot when the currency has always been trade, not money? These facts - his name, his love for golf, and his wealthy parents - do not automatically mean that he is guilty. If not for him...I would probably have died that day.

"Woah! Your ball has wings," Trump said after I hit my ball. We watched it fly high in the air and blend in with the white clouds. Forlot's clouds change from purple to white and vice versa at random times until night comes knocking, which then change to blue, depending if they do not fade into the dark blue sky. Another cool feature of the town's.

I gently threw up my driver and caught its middle. "My ball has yet to fail me. Same goes for my clubs."

"So your balls have never torn open, or your clubs have never bent or snapped in half?"

The ball bounced three times on the fairway and rolled. It stopped - inches in front of Trump's ball.

"I take great care of my golfing equipment. I treat them like my children." I picked up my bag by the straps and pointed the top end of my driver at the balls. "We know now who is more of the professional."

A pair of black binoculars attached to a black strap was around his neck. Holding them in both hands, he lifted them and peeked through them. "That is how you want to play it, eh?"

I slipped said driver in my bag. "You gotta step up your game if you do not want to get outdone by a girl. By the way, were you wearing the binoculars when I arrived?"

He rested them back on his chest. "I have been wearing them since that I left my mansion."

"Of course, you and your parents live in a mansion."

"I will make a deal with you. Our backyard is a colorful, miniature golf course. If you win, Izzy, you may play on it whenever you want."

"You need to get your parents' permission first. Or they will think that a giant squirrel is breaking in."

"I will only if you beat me."

"What do you get if you win?"

"If I win..." He pointed to me. "...you will not golf again for the rest of your life. You will put up your equipment and find another way to past the time."

Did Trump seriously believe that I would take the deal? Did he believe that I would put my golfing in jeopardy? For what? To get unlimited access to his miniature golf course?

If I were not used to Lizzy's shenanigans, I likely would not have played it cool. I pushed away his hand. "Let us get something straight. Regardless who wins, I will still be golfing. It is one of the very few things that I cherish and that lowers my stress." I stared out at the beautiful course, wishing that many more courses were designed in Forlot.

Golf is not super boring with the right people - is it?

"I would live here on the course if I could," I continued. "Not in the middle. In the rough. Build a little house by the fairway and watch balls flying and golfers running."

"A house nearby would not be a smart idea. Balls might break the windows and other fragile things. Even a golf ball can make you go blind or cause a concussion."

We trotted towards our balls.

"I am a golfer. I know the cons of living near a course. I can build a sturdy fence around my house."

"The balls might fly through the fence, leaving holes for more balls to invite themselves in."

"What if the fence is made of iron?"

"Know how to build one?"

"I can learn."

Trump had on a long, black jacket with dark gray pants and dress shoes. His outfit was unsuitable for golf...but if he was comfortable, who was I to judge? Considering his short, brown hair stuck to his forehead, he probably was a little hot. Or burning, but doing a fabulous job at hiding it. We reached our balls and dropped our bags. I brought out my three-wood while Trump examined the distance. In case that you are unknowable about golf, a three-wood is a type of golf club below the driver. I was not going easy on him.

"Are you hot?" I said, putting my club on my shoulders and dangling my arms over it, waiting patiently for him to take his shot.

Trump also picked his three-wood. He held it under his arm while he rubbed his hands together. "Am I hot?"

"Your hair is matted to your forehead."

He smoothed back his bangs. "I...figured that you were asking if I am attractive."

My cheeks flushed. "We just met. Why would I ask that question?"

"Do you think that I am attractive?"

Why the crub would he ask?

"Hit your ball."

"First, answer my question."

"Hit your ball, or I will send it in the sand or water."

"Will you give your answer after I fore?"

"I will chase it and send it sinking in the water."

He positioned himself next to the ball. "Fine, fine. I am taking my shot. You are one stubborn girl."

"I do not take crub from anyone, not even my family or friends."

After he successfully smashed said ball in the middle of the fairway, I lowered my club next to my ball and bent over. I licked my dry lips. Here goes nothing.

"Ow!!!"