Putt-Putt: Mallory
The rush of the racetrack lingered in my veins, a rare spark of genuine adrenaline that hadn't been manufactured by fear or anxiety. Crossing that finish line with Riley had felt like a small, petty victory — a reminder that even if I couldn't have Jay's hand in mine tonight, I could still outmaneuver the chaos he was trapped in. We moved toward the mini-golf booth, a small wooden shack decorated with faded tropical motifs and smelling of sun-baked AstroTurf. "Okay, team," Riley announced, grabbing a stack of scorecards and a handful of tiny pencils. "Since it’s Cole’s day, he gets the gold putter. Everyone else, grab your weapon of choice." I stepped up to the counter, scanning the bins of golf balls. There was a chaotic rainbow of neon oranges, yellows, and pinks—the kind of colors Ti
- Writer
