7- How to Slice Your Way to Destiny

HOW TO SLICE YOUR WAY TO DESTINY

He came to correct her slice. He stayed for the firefight.
A charming golf pro with a crush gets a crash course in black ops from his client’s deadly brother.

Late afternoon sunlight slanted across the Hereford driving range, gilding the spring grass and tracing the arcs of sliced golf balls. Dar Montgomery planted her feet, jaw locked, gripping her driver like it had personally wronged her. She swung—and the ball shot left, smacking the practice fence.

“Cripes, Dar,” Sean Kennedy grinned, plucking the next ball from the bucket. “That’s not a slice; that’s a war crime.”

Dar rolled her eyes and leaned on her club. “Careful, or I’ll ‘accidentally’ let this thing slip. We’ll see how fast you duck.”

Sean smirked and teed up another ball. He was all effortless charm—designer stubble, casual polo, the confidence born of too much money and too many summers at country clubs. But under the grin was that telltale edge. Don’t let her see. Just play it cool.

She swung again. Sean gave an approving nod, though his gaze drifted past her. Someone was watching.

Sean had been giving Dar golf lessons since the previous summer, falling hopelessly smitten somewhere between correcting her grip and pretending not to stare at her swing. She talked to him the way most women talked to their hairstylist—warm, candid, effortlessly friendly—but with zero awareness she was drop-kicking his heart every time she smiled. He’d never met anyone like her: brilliant, grounded, quietly fierce, and beautiful in that devastating, don’t-even-try kind of way. She was older—he didn’t know how much and genuinely didn’t care. All he wanted was a sign. One sign. But she called him ‘kid’, like he was her sweet, capable little brother. And the big guy watching was probably her boyfriend. Story of my life. Fucking typical.

Dar turned and spotted him in the café window across the parking lot. WTF. She lifted a middle finger in salute.

Logan chuckled. Classic Dar—hates being followed. He raised his cup in return, a mocking toast she couldn’t miss.

He thumbed out a text: If he suggests ‘private coaching,’ remember: 9-iron to the kneecap works wonders.

Her reply was a single eye-roll emoji.

Logan sipped coffee that tasted like burnt tires and kept one eye on the range. Sean adjusted Dar’s grip. Hands better stay at ten and two. Should’ve brought the flask. He leaned back, grinning. Beats paperwork any day.

Sean shoved the driver back into the bag and pulled out a seven-iron. “Forget the driver—you’re just gonna launch your demons straight into those trees. Let’s work on your grip.” He stepped in behind her, adjusting her stance. Logan’s silhouette flickered in the café window, and Sean’s jaw tightened. Keep it professional, idiot. He pressed down on her shoulders. “You’re tighter than a nun’s—” He caught himself. “Tighter than a wallet. Breathe out when you swing. Pretend the ball’s your ex’s face.”

Dar’s face lit up. “You’re such a dick.” She drew back, took her shot, and this time the ball cracked off and soared straight down the fairway. She spun to face him, grinning wide. “That’s more like it.”

Sean clapped slowly, mock applause echoing across the green. “Look at that—Montgomery’s back from the dead. Should I call the PGA now, or just cash in my teaching fee?” His smirk softened. “Seriously though, you’re fine. Stop death-gripping the club like it’s your last vodka soda.” His eyes flicked toward the café window. He’s still watching. Shit.

He jerked his chin toward the empty stalls. “Wanna hit the driving range? Less of an audience. I’ll even spot you the bucket. Out of the goodness of my blackened heart.”

“Thanks, Kid.” Dar tossed him a wink as she passed. “Drinks are on me after, yeah?”

Sean snagged the bucket from her. “Drinks? Christ, Dar, are you trying to get me drunk or just embarrass me in front of the cart girls?” He turned toward the range, fighting to keep his voice casual. “Fine—twist my arm. But don’t come crying to me when I school you at darts after.”

He ducked his head to hide the grin spreading across his face, his mind already spinning out. She winked. Fuck. Play it cool, asshole.

Dar fell behind, pulling out her phone to shoot off a quick text to Lo.

Sean rolled his eyes when he caught her. “Texting your bodyguard? Tell him I promise not to corrupt you. Much.” Why the hell did I say that? I sound like I’m trying too hard.

Dar groaned, palming her face before turning to Sean with a laugh. “Just Logan. He’s overprotective. You have any sisters?”

“Sisters? Fuck no—only child. My parents barely tolerated me.” Sean chipped a ball lazily. “Although, if I did, yeah—I’d probably stalk her golf lessons too. You know, scare off the dickhead instructors.” He glanced sideways at her, smirking. “What’s his deal anyway? Dude acts like I’m gonna kidnap you mid-putt.” Christ, don’t sound jealous. You’re not jealous.

Dar gave a half-shrug. “Lo’s my stepbrother. Military. Very protective. Like having a pit bull for a brother.”

Sean’s laugh came out sharper than intended. “Military? Ah, so that’s the source of the death-ray stare.” He lined up another chip. “Bet he loves my resume—rich kid dropout teaching golf. Real threat to society.” He straightened, feigning a bow. “If he tries to waterboard me, tell him I fold under pressure.” He arched an eyebrow at her setup. “You gonna hit these balls or just stand there looking at them like they owe you child support?”

Her next text to Logan was softer: I’m buying Sean a drink at the club pub after. You in? See for yourself? The kid is harmless.

Logan raised a brow. Harmless. He typed: Only if he passes the vetting. Tell him if he orders anything with an umbrella in it, I’m confiscating his man card. Permanently.

Dar rolled her eyes. “Try not to break him, please. He’s a brilliant coach.”
__
Logan pushed up from the café chair and headed toward the pub, eyes locked on the range exit. Never trust a harmless twat with good hair. He sat at a table facing the door, fingers drumming. Five minutes. If the kid didn’t measure up, he’d drag her out.

Dar spotted Logan the instant she stepped into the pub. Shit. Already here. “There you are.” She settled into a chair across from him. “Lo, this is Sean Kennedy. Sean, Logan.”

Logan looked up from his pint, eyes narrowing as he sized up the younger man. He set the glass down with a deliberate thud, condensation bleeding across the coaster. This is him. Not much to look at, but cocky enough to follow her in here.

“Sean,” Logan’s voice was flat, offering no hand, just a curt nod. “Heard you comped her the bucket at the range. Decent of you.” He lifted the pint again, taking a slow sip without breaking eye contact. “Dar’s got a habit of attracting strays. Hope you’re housebroken.”

Sean arched a brow, keeping his easy smirk in place. Christ, he’s already three pints into the pit bull act. He leaned against the bar, signalling the bartender with two fingers. “Only for our resident golf assassin. Though I draw the line at chasing her stray balls. I’ve got standards.” He glanced back at Logan. “Don’t worry, mate. Had all my shots. Even the rabies one.” He raised his chin. “Whisky neat. Double. A Strongbow for the lady.”

He carried the drinks back and set Dar’s cider gently in front of her before sliding into the seat between them.

Logan watched Sean set the drinks down, one boot tapping a slow rhythm under the table—three taps, pause, two taps. Old recon habit when weighing unknowns. Cocky bastard. At least he doesn’t flinch. “Dar’s got a talent for finding trouble. Question is—are you the minder, or the trouble?”

Dar gave a brittle smile, rising quickly. “Be right back.” She turned toward the washroom, heart pounding. God, Lo, please don’t kill him.

Left alone with the soldier, Sean swirled his whisky, buying himself a few seconds. Then he leaned in, grin crooked but voice low. “Minder? Nah. Trouble?” He let the word hang, then shrugged. “Unless correcting her grip’s a felony.” He took a long swallow, letting the burn mask his nerves. Just don’t blink. “Relax, Logan. I’m not here to steal your sister. Just her handicap.” A beat. “Golf handicap. Obviously.” He raised the glass in mock salute. “Cheers to not getting knifed in the car park.”

Logan traced the rim of his pint glass with one thumb, letting the silence stretch. Golf handicap. Clever fucker. “Knifing’s messy, I prefer a clean shot.” His boot stopped tapping. “So. Sean. You always let old ladies buy your drinks? Or just the ones with psychotic brothers?” His mouth twitched, a shadow of a smirk. Calder would piss himself laughing if he saw this circus.

Sean’s laugh cracked like a gunshot, cutting through the tension. Old ladies, Christ. Should’ve seen that jab coming. He dropped his voice to a conspiratorial stage-whisper. “Only the ones who can outdrive me. Which, between us?” He tipped his chin toward Dar’s empty chair. “Montgomery’s swing could make McIlroy weep.” He raised his glass. “Now if you’re buying, I won’t say no. Single malt. Older than my last relationship.” His grin turned sly. “Three weeks. Still counts.”

“Three whole weeks, Sean?” Dar laid a hand on his shoulder before sliding back into her seat. Her smile turned wicked as she looked at Logan. “Almost beat your record, bro.” She tipped her cider back, legs stretching under the table. Let’s see how this plays out.

Sean felt the heat of her hand linger on his shoulder, whisky suddenly sharper in his throat. Fuck. She heard that. And she’s smiling. Play it cool, idiot. “Oi, three weeks is a marathon in my world.”

Logan studied the younger man’s grin. Commitment issues deeper than my ammo cache. He set down his pint deliberately. “Outdriving you’s not hard when you’re busy eyeing her arse instead of the fairway.” The words landed like shrapnel. Dar’s cider nearly went down the wrong pipe.

Logan tipped two fingers to the barman, ordering a fresh round—Glenfiddich for Sean, Strongbow for Dar. He slid the glass across to her. “She breaks clubs when she’s pissed. Just so you know.” His smirk sharpened. “Golf handicap’s twelve. What’s your relationship handicap?”

Dar rolled her eyes. “That club snapped because it was cheap. I told them not to give me the discount driver.” She pointed her glass at Sean, eyes gleaming. “Don’t listen to him. I’m a delight.”

Sean nearly choked on his whisky. Christ, she’s quick. And that smile—bloody lethal. He turned to Logan with mock solemnity. “For the record, I’ve seen her sink putts that’d make a priest swear. Though, nearly took my head off with a nine-iron last week.” He smirked. “Still a delight, though. Especially when she’s buying.” He raised his glass toward Dar. “This round’s on your psychotic brother, since he’s so invested in my… professional development.”

Cheeky bastard. Still breathing, too. Logan drained his glass before catching the bartender’s eye. “Invested?” His mouth quirked. “More like public service.” The chair groaned as he settled his weight. “Listen, Kennedy. Roses wilt. Pralines go stale. You want her attention?” He fixed Sean with a stare that could strip paint. “Get her something with titanium in it. Preferably R&A-approved.”

The conversation flowed easily for another hour, punctuated by Logan’s dry barbs and Sean’s quick comebacks. Dar glanced at her watch, then downed the last of her cider. Chair legs scraped as she stood, shrugging her jacket over her shoulders. “Right, I’m off. Pam’s probably pacing my kitchen by now.” She looked at Sean. “Come for pizza? Pam’s a hoot—you’ll like her.” Then to Logan: “You pick up the pizza, yeah?” Her eyes sharpened into a silent warning: Be nice. She left before either could argue, the pub door swinging closed behind her.
__
Sean watched her go. The look she’d shot Logan hit him like a gut punch. He forced a grin to cover the unease, knuckles whitening around his glass. He turned to Logan, nodding toward the door. “You gonna follow her like a bloody guard dog, or can I buy you another drink first?” He drained the scotch, savouring the burn.

Logan tracked Dar’s exit, then gave a brief nod at the fresh glasses. Smart kid. Time-buyer. He leaned in, eyes sharp. “How the fuck did you survive a three-week relationship?”

Sean chuckled darkly, swirling the Glenfiddich. Scare off civvies? Not this one. “Three weeks? Easy. I cheat. Flattery, whisky, and pretending not to notice when she’s eyeing my arse during swing demonstrations.” His grin lingered, then faded.

Logan smirked, but his jaw tightened. He leaned forward, elbows on the table, voice dropping to gravel. “What’s your play here, Kennedy? Because Dar doesn’t do casual. And you—” his gaze flicked over Sean’s polished shoes, “—you look like the type to bolt when shit hits the fan.”

Sean didn’t blink. Bolt? Fuck you. Try surviving a trust fund family with knives for smiles. He barked a laugh, but it rang hollow. “Bolt? Mate, I once played eighteen holes in a hailstorm because some pricks bet me I couldn’t.” He set his glass down hard. “Your sister’s got more real shit in her pinky than I’ve seen in a decade of country club tantrums.” His voice dropped, serious now. “And for the record? I’m not here for casual. She calls me Kid, for fuck’s sake. I’m here because she’s the first person in years who doesn’t look at me like a walking ATM.”

Logan held the stare, weighing him. Walking ATM. Huh. Maybe not useless after all. His voice stayed deadpan, but something flickered beneath—approval, maybe. He swirled his glass. “You want in? You don’t get to quit when it’s messy. And with Dar? Messy is her middle name.”

Sean froze mid-sip. “Quit? I got canned from my last finance job for telling the CEO his merger stank of landfill. Quitting’s not in my vocabulary.” He shoved the glass aside. “Messy I can handle. It’s the silence that wrecks me.” He leaned closer. “So, we going for pizza?”
__
Dar sat on the sofa, Twigs curled in her lap, a glass of wine dangling from her hand. Pam was running late. When the door swung open, she looked up. “Hey! You made it.” The moment Sean stepped across the threshold, Twigs hissed, ears flattening.

Logan shook the rain from his jacket, unfazed. Twigs. Always with the dramatics. “You’re stuck with us.” He nodded toward the pizza box Sean carried. “Brought reinforcements. Extra cheese—just how you like it.” His eyes flicked to the half-empty wineglass. Not great. Not terrible.

Sean ignored the cat’s death glare and set the pizza on the coffee table. Christ, this cat’s judging me harder than my old man did at graduation. He flipped the lid, steam rolling up. From his coat he produced a bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape, dropping it beside the pizza like an offering. Dad’s cellar won’t even notice it’s gone. “Also brought wine that doesn’t taste like battery acid.” He grinned at Dar.

“Well—welcome. Boots off at the door. No kale allowed.” Dar’s eyes slid to the wine. “Looks expensive. Kitchen’s that way—ask Lo about the corkscrew.”

Logan came back with plates, setting them down hard enough to rattle the table. “Kennedy, open that bottle before Twigs decides it’s a scratching post.” He tried for a smirk. “So. Pam running late?”

Sean popped the cork and poured three full glasses. He handed Dar hers, then flopped down beside her, careful not to disturb the cat.

Pam arrived shortly after and breezed through the kitchen like a domestic hurricane, dropping sarcastic barbs while Sean opened more wine. For a moment, it almost felt like any other evening.

Then Logan’s phone buzzed. He read the message out loud, jaw clenched. “FUBAR.”

Dar froze mid-laugh, her slice slipping back onto the plate. Her knuckles whitened around her glass. “Rhys?”

Logan nodded. “Cyprus extraction. Radio silence.”

Sean set down his drink, glancing at Dar—her face pale, but steady. Not a breakdown. Just bracing herself. What the fuck did I just step into?

Pam narrowed her eyes. “Well, that’s bloody marvellous. Who wants dessert before we all spiral into existential dread?”

Sean let out a nervous laugh, though his chest felt tight. Stay. Don’t bolt. If she can hold it together, so can you.

Dar exhaled, shoulders stiff but unbowed. “We wait then. No one’s driving home tonight anyway.”

Logan pocketed his phone and scanned the room. Sean was still there. Still sitting. Not running. Interesting.

Pam sat on the couch next to Dar. “Rhys is a stubborn bastard. He’ll crawl out with a cigar and a shitty joke, same as always.” She pressed a warm mug of Earl Grey into Dar’s hands. “Drink this before I force-feed you kale scones.”

Sean caught the sharp jerk of Logan’s chin toward the sliding doors. Fresh air. Orders clear. He followed him out into the cool evening, the river murmuring faintly in the distance. Logan lit a cigarette and held the pack out. Sean took one gratefully, the smoke hitting his lungs like a slap. Pam and Dar’s muffled voices carried from inside. Glad Pam’s here.

Sean tried to exhale the smoke without coughing. “So. Rhys. He’s the ex, right? Or is that… another tragedy?” The words stumbled out, blunt and awkward. “Just—give me the CliffsNotes so I don’t step on a landmine.”

Logan snorted smoke through his nose. “CliffsNotes? Calder’s not the ex. That cunt’s six feet under.” He tapped ash with his typical precision. “Rhys is… different. Been circling each other since Zoe died. Slow burn.” His gaze slid back toward the house. “Extraction in Cyprus went sideways. Radio silence for seventy-two hours.” His jaw tightened. “Dar will white-knuckle it till he’s back.”

Sean stared at the ground. “Right. So Calder’s the maybe-someday, Zoe’s the ghost, and the ex is the prick who deserved a nine iron to the knees. And now she’s got to wait, wondering if the maybe-someday might be KIA.” He took another drag from the cigarette with a shaky hand. “Christ. Does she ever catch a break?”

Logan drew hard on his cigarette, smoke spilling into the night. “Dar’s life runs on borrowed time and duct tape.” He exhaled slowly. “But she’s tougher than any recruit I’ve trained. Survived her abusive ex, buried her kid, and still gets up every morning. Calder wouldn’t let her down unless he was dead.” He glanced at Sean. “You’re in it now, mate. Either walk away clean or grab a shovel.”

Sean ground his cigarette into the dirt. His chest tightened, but he forced a smirk. “Walk away? Not my style. She’s got a swing that could qualify for the Olympics—be a shame to lose that over… whatever this is.” He shoved his hands into his pockets. “So tell me what not to say. Kids? Cyprus? Earl Grey? I’ll steer clear. And if Calder crawls out of that desert, I’m buying him a pint.” He hesitated, his voice softening. “She gonna be okay? Tonight?”

Logan flicked his cigarette into the night and turned toward the house. “Pam will bake lemon tarts. Always does. You’re on zesting duty.” He clenched his jaw. Calder better be alive. Or I’ll kill him myself.
__
Sean’s gaze ping-ponged between them, his pulse a kettledrum in his chest. Bloody hell, these people are serious. This isn’t bar banter. This is life-and-death. And I’m sitting here with pizza grease on my shirt.

They waited as the night unfolded in slow motion. The message from Cyprus hung in the air like smoke. FUBAR. Radio silence. Rhys Calder, out there with no comms, no extraction, no backup. Pam fussed with the dessert tray as if rearranging lemon tarts could stop the world from burning. Dar sat quietly, nursing wine and stroking the cat. They orbited each other in the living room like planets—sometimes silent for stretches that felt eternal, sometimes erupting with laughter over Pam’s acid-tongued observations. ‘Call of Duty’, single malt, and gallows humour became the foundation of Sean and Logan’s newfound friendship. Whisky levels dropped as the hours ticked by, glasses meeting in grim toasts to nothing. Twigs stopped glaring at Sean as if he were an intruder.

With dawn lurking, nothing had changed, other than tea had replaced whisky, and exhaustion won out—they all caught a few hours of sleep in various corners of the house. But Sean Kennedy had crossed some invisible line—from golf pro to… something else.

Just as the first hints of daylight painted the sky, Logan’s phone buzzed. Every eye opened as the room went silent. He read it, jaw tightening. Extraction point confirmed. He looked up at Sean. “You drive stick?”

Sean blinked. “Manual? Yeah, I can—”

Logan was already on his feet, grabbing his jacket. “Good. You’re coming.”

“Coming where?”

Dar’s eyes widened. “Lo. Don’t.”

But Logan was already moving, every line of his body coiled with purpose. “We’re short. Calder’s hanging by a thread. I need a wheelman who won’t freeze up. Kennedy’s breathing, he’s in.”

Sean’s eyebrows rose. “That’s your criteria? Breathing?”

Logan leaned in, shades glinting even in the dim kitchen light. “It’s a short list.”

Pam snorted from the table. “Christ, Logan, he’s a golf pro, not James bloody Bond.”

Logan didn’t even look back. “Golf’s just sniping with grass. He’ll adapt.”

Sean’s pulse spiked—terror, disbelief, and something electric. Holy shit. This is insane. This is… exhilarating.

Dar caught his arm. “Sean. You don’t have to—”

But Sean was already on his feet, adrenaline burning through the hesitation. “Nah. I’m in. Somebody’s gotta make sure Captain Sunglasses here doesn’t drive us into a ditch.”

Logan’s mouth twitched. Cocky. Suicidal. Maybe not useless.
__

The drive to Brize Norton passed in a blur of motorway lights and mounting dread—Logan stone-silent beside him, checking gear with mechanical precision while Sean’s brain screamed What the fuck are you doing? The transport plane’s belly was all exposed ribs and canvas webbing, nothing like the EasyJet flights to Málaga, and somewhere over the Mediterranean Sean realized he’d crossed a threshold he couldn’t uncross. By the time they touched down in Akrotiri, the air tasted like jet fuel and fear, and Sean understood with crystalline clarity: this wasn’t an adventure—this was how people died.

Seven hours later, Sean found himself being baptized in hellfire. The engine screamed like a wounded animal, loose kit rattling like bones in a tin can. The stench of sweat and gun oil burned his nostrils—a universe away from his leather-seated BMW. His hands fused to the wheel, knuckles bleached white. Bullets tore through metal inches from his skull. “Jesus fucking Christ!”

“Eyes on the road, Kennedy!” Logan’s voice cut through the chaos, blood streaking his temple. “Rhys has thirty seconds before they flank him.”

Sean’s molars ground together. “Steady? Half the fucking Russian army is trying to turn us into Swiss cheese!”

“Welcome to Tuesday.” Logan chambered a round.

Rhys materialized through black smoke like a blood-soaked apparition, a limp body draped over his shoulder. Sean stomped on the brakes. Metal screamed.

Logan ripped the door open. “Move!”

Rhys hurled the bleeding rookie inside, diving after him. His eyes—wild yet laser-focused—locked on Sean’s. “Drive or die!”

Sean floored it. The vehicle lurched forward, bullets whining past. His pulse thundered, salt burned his vision, and the symphony of destruction faded behind them as something electric ignited in his chest. Every cell vibrated with terrible, perfect clarity. This wasn’t terror—it was awakening. Like he’d spent his life sleepwalking until bullets finally shocked him conscious.
__

Back in UK, with Rhys and his rookie secure and tranquillity restored, Sean stood gazing blankly out of the hangar.

Logan approached. “You did alright, Kennedy.”

Sean turned, a grin tugging at his lips despite the tremor in his hands. “Alright? Mate, I’m a bloody natural. Just need to work on the not-pissing-myself bit.”

Logan studied him, head tilting. He’s hooked. Poor bastard doesn’t even realize it yet. “Six months,” Logan levelled his eyes at Sean, voice like gravel under tires. “You train with me. You shut up, you listen, and you do the work. Then maybe—maybe—you’ll be useful.”

Sean’s grin widened, residual adrenaline still electric in his veins. Six months. The weight settled in his chest—training with a man who treated gunfire like a mild inconvenience. His golf trophies and comfortable routine seemed laughably distant now. Fuck. This is mad. But that moment—bullets pinging off metal, the raw clarity—had already rewired something fundamental in him.

He met Logan’s gaze, pulse hammering. “I’m in.”