I pulled up to the clubhouse and barely found a place to park my car. It was like a geriatric convention here. I expected there to be a younger crowd, given that Keira was playing.
The course was beautiful. There were towering trees everywhere, beautiful bushes that were perfectly manicured, a fountain was in the center of the circle in front of the big, wooden doors. I had no clue where to go. I had never stepped foot on a golf course.
As I pushed open one of the heavy doors, I was cheerfully greeted by the pro shop attendant.
“Hey there! Golfing today or just enjoying the tournament? I’m afraid that the tournament is almost over,” the attendant spoke almost too fast for me to understand. He was an older man—skinny, white trimmed beard, extremely tan to the point where his skin looked
