“Fuck, what?” Wilder says as we head straight to the ground…face-first.

“For the love of God, roll.” It’s the last thing I shout right as I attempt to overthrow the giant man behind me, but there’s no use, as the pounds of muscle on him are too heavy. Watch out, ground. We’re coming in hot.

I brace for impact, closing my eyes and holding my breath just as I plow face-first into the ground, my eye connecting with what I can only assume is a rock, sending a jolt of sharp pain through my skull.

And from there, everything goes black as I hear Wilder mumble, “Oh…roll.”

Chapter Nine

WILDER

I can’t remember a time in my life when I’ve ever felt this guilty.

There was that time that I was mad at Mika back in middle school when his friends were over, and I grabbed his superhero underwear that he still wore and paraded it around like the asshole little brother that I was, telling his friends that Mika wore baby underwear.

But this…this beats it.

“There, that should do it,” the nurse says as she finishes putting a butterfly strip over Scottie’s swollen eyebrow.

I don’t know what came over me, but when we won the golf challenge, a challenge that a real couple should have been good at, I felt a sense of pride, energy, invigoration that I haven’t felt in a long time. I lost control, forgot that I was strapped to Scottie, and before I could calm myself down, we were tipping over and going straight to the ground.

I forgot about rolling.

I forgot about putting my hands out. And fuck, her cry when she hit the ground…

Once we were untied and I rolled her over, the blood already coming from her upper eye freaked me out. So. Much. Blood.

Horrified, I carried her in my arms to the nurse’s station, where they tended to her head.

Thankfully, it was not that big of a cut—just a small butterfly taping and she’s good.

“Do I have a black eye?” Scottie asks, looking up at me.

“Uh, I mean…a little.”

She nods and then whispers, “Cool.”

Cool?

And here I thought she was steaming with anger.

“Cool?” I ask her. “Are we going to have to check your head again?”

“No. I’m fine.”

The nurse cleans up while I say, “Can you explain to me why it’s cool to have a black eye?”

“I’ve always wanted one,” she says in a dreamlike state.

Okay, I do think we need to check her again. Because I’ve spent maybe a few hours of my life with this lady, and I can tell you right now that there is no way that the woman who wanted to murder me after our first therapy session would find a black eye at a company marriage retreat dreamy.