“Peyton and NCAA and collegiate golf,” Leigh said as her fingers flew across the keyboard. It was Monday morning, and she’d almost gone back to bed to start the day over. She’d overslept after hours of nightmares that included Stark laughing at her with his hyena laugh and Peyton knocking the slimeball on his ass when he continued his homophobic comments about her. She knew her eyes were puffy, and she got to work so late she’d had to park at the end of the lot. Thankfully she didn’t have any meetings this morning.
Stark had probably told everyone about her collapse on the course because several people had walked by and looked into her office with more curiosity than they ever had. Obviously, the word was out, thank you very much, Peter Prick.
Her office was twenty feet by twenty-five, the city skyline filling the bank of windows behind her desk. An equal number was directly in front of her as well, giving the entire area an airy, open feel but creating privacy in her office.
Her curiosity about Peyton finally got the best of her, and Google could turn up anything if you typed in the right string of keywords. She didn’t know Peyton’s last name, but she was sure she’d played golf in college and, based on how well she played with them, had been pretty damn good.
Over four thousand hits come up with a variety of headings, the second one catching her eye. Peyton Broader, Repeats as NCAA Golfer of the Year. She clicked on the hyperlink, and it took her directly to an article that talked about Peyton’s golf career at Louisiana State University. Peyton had entered LSU as a freshman at seventeen with a full-ride golf scholarship.
Leigh read about Peyton’s achievements on the golf links and, due to her winning the NCAA Golfer of the Year, how she had an automatic exemption to play on the LPGA tour. She finished in the top ten in every tournament she played but was unable to accept any prize money, which would have negated her scholarship eligibility.
“I’m focused on finishing my education, then going on to medical school, not dropping out to play on the tour,” Peyton was quoted as saying at the Women’s U.S. Open her first year. Given her scholastic experience, Peyton had been on track to do just that. She’d graduated summa cum laude with a dual major in physics and biochemistry. She’d been accepted to several of the most prestigious medical schools in the country but had chosen to stay close to home and attend the University of Arizona.
Leigh was just about to read the next article when her boss knocked on her door and she waved him in.
“How was the tournament,” Larry asked, innocently.
Larry Taylor, their CEO and her boss, was six feet nine inches tall and a marathon runner who proudly displayed the finisher medals of his races on a wall in his office. He was also more than a weekend golfer. He didn’t look the part of the executive of a multibillion-dollar company who spent more time in boardrooms than outside. Leigh had read in the annual report that he was sixty-two, married to his college sweetheart, and had four kids. He valued teamwork, camaraderie, and work-life balance. He played golf every Saturday, and in the summer, when the sun set later, he played two or three times a week.
Leigh had heard through the rumor mill that Larry took his golf clubs and running shoes on every business trip, often making time for both sports.
“It was great,” she replied honestly. “It was a beautiful day, beautiful venue, great course.” Other than her complete humiliation in front of Peyton and Stark, she’d had a wonderful time.
“Peter said you had a little trouble on the back nine.”
“Well, we all have one of those rounds we just want to simply forget,” Leigh said, the line she’d rehearsed all day yesterday.
Larry looked at her so intently Leigh started to get nervous
“Are you okay, Leigh?” he asked, concern on his face as well as in his voice.
“Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“I don’t know.” He stared at her so intensely again that Leigh wanted to look away. “Out of sorts, I guess,” he added.
Leigh tried to laugh it off, but it came out more of a hrmph instead. “My sorts are fine. I appreciate your concern, Larry.”
Larry strolled around her office, picking up a framed photo of her standing proud at the finish line of a motocross race, her teammates flanking her.
“You race?” Larry asked with more than a little curiosity.
“Yes. I do. Those are the guys I ride with.”
“That’s one sport I’ve never tried. The idea of driving fifty miles an hour on dirt roads with the only thing between you and a major road rash a small motorcycle makes me shudder.” And Larry did just that.
“We have protective gear.” Leigh pointed to the helmet, chest protector, elbow and knee pads, and the specially made knee-high boots to protect her ankles from snapping if they hit the ground the wrong way.
“I see that, but too much risk for me,” he said. “My wife would kill me if I picked up another sport.” He changed the subject. “We’re still on to play when I get back from overseas, right?”
“Yes, we are,” Leigh answered. “I’m looking forward to it,” Leigh lied.
“As am I,” Larry said. “I’d like to get to know you better, your family, what else you do in your spare time, that sort of thing.”
Leigh wondered what Larry would do if he found out she dated women and was a better motocross rider than golfer.
“I’m sorry it couldn’t be sooner, schedules being what they are and my three weeks of traveling to our other locations.”
“I understand. It gives me a chance to polish my game a little.”
“You’ll be fine,” Larry said, and looked at his watch. “Oh, gotta run. I’ll see you when I get back.”
“Yes, sir. You too. Safe travels.”
When Larry left, she just sat down in her chair, swiveled it to look out the window, and placed her feet on the credenza that paralleled her desk. Her cell phone rang, and as she fished it out of her briefcase she saw that it was Rick Henderson, the president of her motocross club. She’d met Rick years ago while riding her dirt bike on a trail surrounding Lake Pleasant, forty-five minutes from her house. She’d just finished a grueling trail and was guzzling a cherry Gatorade when he pulled up next to her.
“Hi. I’m Rick Henderson. I’ve seen you out here before.”
Leigh was hot, tired, and more than a little grungy, in no mood to deflect the clueless advances of some straight guy, so she didn’t say anything.
“I have a club, just a bunch of us that get together and ride and do a few races here and there, and we’re always looking for good riders.”
Leigh still didn’t say anything. Good-looking riders, she thought.
“Here.” Rick dug in his pocket and pulled out his wallet. “This is us, The Desperados,” he said, handing Leigh a business card. “I know it’s a ridiculous name, but we’re just a bunch of guys that are probably having a midlife crisis.”
Leigh looked at the card and saw a cool-looking logo, a website address, and information on a Facebook page.
“Check us out,” he said, nodding toward the card in Leigh’s hand. She still hadn’t said anything. Rick squirmed in his seat, his bright-red helmet in his lap.
“Look. I’m not coming on to you. I’m happily married with three kids and a wife who lets me ride around with a bunch of guys on Saturdays.”
“What would she say if it were a bunch of guys and a woman?”
“She’d probably say it’s about time we added some diversity to our club. Other than Michael,” he added. “He’s African American.”
“Well, she doesn’t have to worry about me taking her husband. I’m not into husbands, or any male for that matter.” Leigh didn’t normally come out to everyone she met, but for some reason she liked Rick and was interested in finding out more about his club.
“Even better,” Rick said, nonplussed. “My daughter’s a lesbian. Jenny Henderson. You know her?”
Leigh couldn’t help but laugh at Rick. He was so sincere. “We don’t all know each other, Rick.”
He flushed with embarrassment. “Sorry about that. Jenny says I can be really stupid sometimes.” He kicked the dirt with his black riding boot. “Think about it. We’re out here every Saturday except the first one of the month. We make camp and gear up over there,” he pointed over his shoulder to his left, “at eight. Our wives come with, sometimes our kids, and we ride most of the morning, then grab a bite at the camp before we head home. We really are harmless, and, well, we need a sixth for our team. Tom transferred to Chicago, and we’ve been short for several months. We’ve missed a few races because of it.”
Leigh had visited the website for Desperados and their Facebook page. From what she could tell, they were exactly what Rick had said they were—a bunch of middle-aged men riding motocross bikes. She’d called him later that week and had been riding with them for the past three years.
She answered the phone, grateful for something to take her mind off the last few minutes.