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.

"How do I stand?"

"Like this...?"

"Devin."

"Devin," he repeated. He said my name with a scratchy hint, like he had hooked me with his words. He placed his hands gently on my hips, his grip soft but self-assured, maneuvering them into position. He pointed with his foot where he wanted me to place my foot, so I played along. He wrapped his hand around mine, carefully placing my thumbs where they should go. "Feel good, Devin?" he said slowly close to my ear.

I looked up into his eyes, the brown one standing out so much more. What did he mean? How good he was making me feel? Because my heart was tripping over itself—but I couldn't get ahead of myself. If he was on the golf team—trying to go pro—I would never date him. I didn't date golfers. It was the one hard rule in my life filled with colorful chaos.

"Are you on the men's team?" I asked.

"I am," he said, nodding, before he leaned down and placed a ball on a tee that he'd pulled from his pocket.

Dammit. Just my luck.

He stepped back. "Don't worry if you miss the ball on your first swing. Golf is all about practice. Use your hips, don't bend at your waist. Keep your left arm like this." He showed me how to raise the club. "It's unnatural at first."

I smirked and adjusted my body into a more comfortable position. "Like this?" I asked before I swung and made perfect contact with the golf ball. It landed at least one hundred and eighty yards down the driving range.

He laughed—I thought mostly out of shock. It was so smooth; buttery. Almost a weird contrast to the way he spoke. I felt like I'd accomplished something harder than making a hole in one.

"Did you just hustle me?"

"Tate, you should know that you only play against yourself in golf." I smiled innocently.

He narrowed his eyes at me. "Are you on the women's team?"

I shook my head. "Golf is... my life, but I love photography more. I won't have time to do both."

"Your life?" Tate asked me curiously.

In my world, there were two continents: one where all anyone cared about was golf and another where people didn't give a shit about golf. Whenever I introduced myself to anyone on golf continent, the first thing they usually asked was, "McKenna? As in Thomas McKenna?"

And when I would confirm that the twelve-time major championship winner, who now designed golf courses all over the world, was in fact my father, only one thing ever seemed to happen: I shifted in their eyes. I didn't know to what, but I'd seen it and felt it hundreds of times. I was a means to an end. Someone that could be used as an "in." Someone who had connections.

I wasn't about to tell Tate what I meant by that. He lived on the continent of Golf.

"My life is boring."

Tate dropped his eyes to my white tennis shoes, traced up my legs to my short white skirt, and lingered on my tight pink tank top with sunglass-wearing pineapples all over it. "I highly doubt that."

I mimicked his eye movement, over his own white shoes, up his black pants, and across his gray athletic polo. "You could use some color in your life."

"You're probably right," he said, pulling one side of his lip up a millimeter in what I surmised was probably how he normally smiled.

We were flirting—but I wasn't trying to lead him on. It was too easy; flowing too smoothly. He looked at me like I was the only thing that existed in the world, but I was positive that he looked at everyone like that. And just because I had a no-golfers rule, didn't mean we couldn't be friends.

"You want to play the front nine with me?" he asked.

I looked at my phone, checking the time. I didn't really have anywhere to be, and I could use a friend.

"I'd love to, but you should know, I don't date golfers," I told him.

Tate stoically took my phone from my hands. I let him, more curious about what he was doing than caring about his reply. He typed for a second before handing me my phone back. He'd stored his number under Tate Thacker and pulled up the new message screen with a blank text to himself.

Tate Thacker. I hadn't put two and two together before. I'd heard of him. He was Tate Thacker. My dad had mentioned he would be a freshman at Southern Florida University with me. "Golf's next big thing," my dad had called him. "A golf prodigy." He'd passed on going pro to get his college degree because his father wanted him to, but it most certainly awaited him when he graduated.

I resisted looking back up at him. He most likely had a golf continent and a non-golf continent in his own world.

"I wasn't looking for a girlfriend," he said above my head.

I let out the breath I was holding and typed 'Devin McKenna' before hitting send. He slid his phone out of his pocket as it dinged.

Nothing registered on his face when he read my text. Instead, he looked back up at me, his brown eye shining in the sun in the middle of his otherwise serious face.

"What do you take pictures of, Devin?"

If we were going to be friends, I'd have to get used to the way he said my name. I didn't know how he could make it sound like that—the first time it was rough, the next it was nectar flowing from his mouth.

"Athletes," I beamed. Photography made me way too embarrassingly happy. "I want to be a sports photographer."

I tried to tamp down my ridiculous smile, but something traveled across Tate's face like a hologram. It was just below the surface, something fun and happy that could've easily been missed if I wasn't standing at the right angle.

I wondered how much it would take to uncover that side of him—he couldn't be that intense all the time. Everyone has a goofy side to them. It's just a matter of how comfortable they are showing it to you.

And I would've bet a lot of money that somewhere under there, Tate could be really fun.