Three weeks after quitting the tour, Wells cracked open one stinging eye and had no idea what day it was. It might have been June or December. For all he knew, he’d gone backward in time. He’d disconnected from reality as soon as he left that golf course in Palm Beach Gardens and returned to his condo in Miami. Drinking. Lord Jesus, there had been so much drinking,
his lungs and guts felt like they were caked in fresh tar.
Despite the wicked stepmother of headaches currently crushing his skull beneath the toe of her boot . . . his limbs were kind of jumpy. An indistinct memory poked the back of his neck like a bony finger. He needed to get out of bed and do something. But what? There was no tee time, no practice round, no press conference. Nothing to do but get lit again.
Hurricane Jake.
“Fuck.”
His arm shot straight out to grab the remote control, his body twisting around in the sheets to sit up. There was a hurricane last night. Apart from some strong winds and lashing rain, he hadn’t really felt the effects in his high-rise condo. Last thing he remembered, it was going through Palm Beach and goddammit, he’d thought of her. Josephine. She lived there,
right? My family owns a little pro shop nearby. He recalled her saying that. So if she didn’t live in Palm Beach, then close. Close enough to get hit.
And he must have been a stupid level of drunk, because he’d had the irrational worry that she might still be standing on that golf course watching him leave when the hurricane landed. A ridiculous notion that he wasn’t any less stressed about in the light of day.
He had no obligation to that woman.
It wasn’t as though he’d formally invited her to be his number one fan. His only fan.
At this point, she’d probably started cheering for someone else. Good.
Stomach gurgling with acid, Wells turned on the seventy-inch flat-screen opposite his bed and flipped to the news, his heart sinking like an anchor when the destruction appeared. The coast had been clotheslined by hundred-and-fifty-mile-an-hour winds, torrents of rain. Blackouts and
flooding. Cars overturned. The sides of buildings had been ripped clean off.
Was she affected?
Wells muted the television and fell back against the headboard, his finger tapping anxiously on the remote. This wasn’t his problem. There were emergency services who helped people after weather disasters. Not to mention, he wasn’t in any shape to help anyone.
He needed the help.
Cautiously, he turned his swimming head and glanced around the room.
Discarded clothing, bottles, glasses, and plates holding half-eaten food. He’d gone full rogue, abandoning his protein diet and exercise routine. Also, shaving and showering and productivity. A few nights ago, he’d forced himself to venture outside, but that decision had led to yet another bar fight with some clown who’d lost fantasy sports money thanks to Wells’s bad performance. So his right eye was purple and swollen. It provided little comfort that the other guy looked worse.
Getting sucker punched hurt like hell, but the brawl itself was a relief. He’d grown up fighting. In school, he’d spent more time in the principal’s office than the principal herself. An angry kid—that’s what he’d been.
Resentful over being abandoned by his parents. Turbulent and hot- tempered.
Then Buck Lee had gotten ahold of him.
The summer Wells turned sixteen, he’d scored a job shagging balls at the local golf course and mainly, he’d been excited for an opportunity to silently mock the rich kids while he earned a few bucks. Where would he be now if he’d never picked up that driver and smashed a ball three hundred
yards while Buck watched from the clubhouse?
Probably not sitting in a five-million-dollar condo. Stressing about a girl he barely knew.
Wells’s Belle.
A pressing sense of responsibility had him growling and reaching for his phone. His manager had quit weeks ago and they’d had zero communication, but he’d bite the bullet for some information. Otherwise, he’d always wonder if something bad had happened to her on his watch—
On his watch?
“Stop acting like she’s your girlfriend. She’s a fan.” Big, optimistic green eyes shining up at him.
I’ll stay right here until everyone comes back.
“Dammit.” Was his head pounding with the force of his hangover or was it something else? Wells didn’t know, nor did he care to explore the reason he felt a responsibility to a certain redhead. So he just dialed.
His ex-manager, Nate, answered on the third ring, sounding groggy. “You better not be calling me to bail you out.”
“I’m not.” On the screen of his television, the news was showing a shelter full of people displaced by the storm and he furiously scanned the faces for one full of hope and humor. “Listen, remember that contest?
People entered to have lunch and a putting lesson with me.” “The contest only eighty-one people entered?”
Wells winced. “I’m not sure it was necessary to give me that number.”
He could almost see his old manager giving a negligent shrug. “Why are you suddenly concerned about the contest? The clubhouse restaurant called to let me know you’d blown off the reservation. I’m telling you, I was shocked.”
“You shouldn’t be. Their food sucks.” He pictured himself sitting across from Josephine in the brightly lit clubhouse restaurant and felt his stupid
pulse move just a little faster. “Christ. I could have taken her somewhere nicer.”
“The quality of their niçoise salad is neither here nor there, because you didn’t hold up your end of the bargain, my man.”
“You don’t need to remind me,” Wells snapped, triggering an ache behind his eye.
Had Josephine been really disappointed he didn’t take her to lunch? Of course, she had. He’d done nothing but let her down. For years. “Just give me the winner’s number and I’ll leave you alone,” Wells
rasped.
“What?” Nate laughed. “I can’t do that. Ever heard of privacy laws?”
The pinch of panic he experienced really didn’t agree with him. “I’m taking her to fucking lunch, all right? I don’t like the loose end.”
“She doesn’t want lunch. She doesn’t want anything from you.” Wells’s hand tightened around the remote, the sound of the news reporter’s voice turning muffled in his ears. “What the hell does that
mean?”
“It means . . .” Nate groaned, followed by the sound of bed springs creaking in the background. “I don’t like loose ends, either. After I found out you pulled a no-show on the reservation, I called the winner and offered to set up the same deal—lunch and a lesson—with another, less grouchy golfer.”
“You what?” His hangover leaked out of his ears, leaving him so painfully sharp and clearheaded, it was almost disorienting. “She’s my fan.”
“Not anymore. I offered to send her some Wells Whitaker memorabilia and she turned that down, too. Your beer koozies hath no power here.”
Wells was out of bed and pacing now, but he couldn’t remember standing up. Was the floor tilting or was he still drunk? “I don’t give a shit about privacy laws. Just give me her number.”
“Not a chance. I escaped your employment without getting sued and I don’t intend to open myself up for those legal ramifications, especially now that I’m not on your payroll.”
“This is crazy,” Wells shouted into the phone. “I’m trying to do the right thing.”
“It’s too late, man,” Nate said back, his voice elevating to match Wells’s. “You’ve ignored obligations and behaved like a royal prick for two years.
You’ve always been a royal prick, but now that you don’t have the golf
game to back it up, no one has to deal with you. Especially me. Goodbye, Wells.”
Silence swam in his ear.
God, he needed a drink. Badly.
