I am the number one Wells Whitaker fangirl.
Sure, golf’s resident bad boy has seen better days, but that’s the thing about being a fangirl.
Be in it for life or keep walking, pal.
There are three qualities one must possess to make an impact as a fangirl.
Number one: Enthusiasm. Let them know you’re there, baby. Otherwise blend into the polo shirts and khakis like everyone else.
Number two: Persistence. Skipping tour stops in one’s home state isn’t an option. Fangirls show up and show out.
Number three: Bring snacks. Food at a golf course is expensive and no one is cheerful after shelling out fourteen dollars for a hot dog.
To be fair, it hurt to drop five bucks on lunch these days, but Josephine
Doyle wasn’t thinking about that now, because Wells Whitaker himself was making his way to the tee box of the ninth hole. And oh, he was in rare form today. Surly as a snake, unshaven, ignoring the outstretched hands of
spectators hoping for a high five from the once-promising golfer. He raked a hand down his handsome face, shook out a tattooed forearm, and yanked the driver out of his bag with all the ceremony of a lint flick.
Utterly majestic.
Josephine popped in one of her AirPods and tapped on the tournament livestream, her ear flooded by the jocular tones of the commentators, Skip and Connie.
SKIP: Well, it’s a beautiful day here in Palm Beach Gardens, Florida. Unless, of course, you’re Wells Whitaker. In
which case the sunlight is probably irritating your hangover.
CONNIE: This year’s tour has presented quite a challenge to
the golfer, who has already seen better days at twenty-nine. He swung into the tour on a wrecking ball five years ago, won three majors. Now? Most weeks, he’s lucky to make it past the opening round.
SKIP: Today . . . well, let’s put it bluntly, there isn’t a chance on God’s green earth Wells makes it through to tomorrow. And frankly, Connie, I don’t think he cares.
CONNIE: Not if his nocturnal activities are any indication, Skip. Take to the internet for proof that golf is the furthest thing from Whitaker’s mind. A mere six hours ago, he was questioned by police after a bar brawl in Miami—
Josephine plucked out her AirPod and shoved it into the pocket of her official Wells Whitaker brand pants. It wasn’t so long ago that Skip and Connie worshipped Wells. In the fangirl business, they were called Fair
Weather Fans. They showed up for a player only on his best day. When the window into success wasn’t even a smidgen grimy.
That’s fine. Josephine would more than compensate for those Judases. And today?
Today she would finally get the chance to tell Wells she hadn’t counted him out. Down? Sure. But never out. She’d look right into those bloodshot eyes and remind him that his greatness wasn’t something that could go away. It had simply gotten hidden beneath self-doubt, alcohol, and a frown that could scare the feathers off a duck.
Josephine still couldn’t believe she’d won the contest. Even if she had entered it sixty-one times.
Lunch and Lessons with Wells Whitaker. One lucky fan would share a meal with the once-great and soon-to-be-great-again Wells, followed by a putting lesson. Technically, Josephine didn’t need the lesson, as she’d grown up on a golf course, worked in a pro shop, and spent her days teaching proper techniques to customers.
Golf was her life. She was more stoked for her chance to shake some
sense into the defeated athlete. No one else seemed inclined to take on the
task. Especially his caddie, who appeared to be watching Vanderpump Rules on his phone.
Really, the sparse crowd that had followed Wells to this hole seemed inclined to knock off early or find a more popular player to watch, a couple of them breaking from the pack and wandering toward the clubhouse before Wells even took his shot. A bunch of Fair Weathers if Josephine had ever seen them.
Unfortunately, Wells looked like he was considering dropping out of the tournament altogether, too. On one hand, that would mean Josephine would get lunch sooner. Her waning blood sugar could use the boost.
On the other, she’d rather see him finish the day on a high note. Time to make an impact.
Josephine reached down deep for her fangirl wail and set it loose, startling many a khaki-pants-wearing man in the process. “Let’s go, Wells. Put it in the hole!”
The golfer gave her a stone-faced look over his generously muscled shoulder, affording her a view of his light brown eyes and square jaw. “Oh, look. It’s you. Again.”
Josephine gave him a winning smile and held up her sign, which read
WELLS’S BELLE. “You’re welcome.”
A line popped in his stubbly cheek.
“You got this,” she mouthed at him. Then couldn’t resist adding, “I’m excited about our lunch today. You remember that I won the contest, right?”
His sigh could have knocked over a small child. “I tried to forget, but you tagged me in your Instagram story. Eight times.”
Had it been eight times? She could have sworn she’d limited herself to six. “You know how the important things get swallowed up on that app.”
“Well. It didn’t.” He prodded at a lip that looked suspiciously split. “Do you mind if I concentrate on this shot now? Or do you want to go over the specials menu?”
“I’m good. Great, actually.” Josephine pressed her lips together to stop the smile from bursting straight off her face and held up her sign with renewed purpose. Everyone in the crowd was gaping at her—something that used to be a lot easier when she had her partner in crime. Her best friend, Tallulah, used to accompany Josephine on these fangirl outings for moral support, but she was currently on a research trip out of the country,
leaving Josephine to hold down the sidelines alone. But Josephine was okay
with that. She was thrilled her friend had gotten the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Didn’t mean she didn’t miss her terribly.
Swallowing the goose egg in her throat, Josephine ignored the man furiously brandishing a paddle at her that read QUIET PLEASE and shouted, “Keep it in the short grass, Wells, you absolute legend!”
“Ma’am,” the paddle man snapped.
Josephine winked at him. “I’m done.” “Good.”
“For now.”
Wells watched the exchange while shaking his head, then turned back around, shifted down into his stance, and . . . look, there was simply no ignoring the gas in the man’s tank. Glute strength gave a golfer driving power and Wells’s posterior was the one part of his career that remained a champion. Bounce a quarter off that thing? Nah, try two silver dollars. They would rebound off his well-rounded booty and knock a fangirl out cold.
And she’d go down smiling.
“Once upon a time, Whitaker would have birdied this hole in his sleep,” a man standing behind Josephine whispered to his son. “Shame he let it all go down the drain. They should take his tour card before he embarrasses himself more than he already has.”
Josephine glanced back over her shoulder, giving the spectator the most disdainful look she could muster. “He’s right on the verge of a comeback. Too bad you can’t see it.”
The man and his son issued an identical scoff. “I’d need a microscope, honey.”
“To those with an untrained eye, maybe.” She sniffed. “I bet you guys spend fourteen dollars on hot dogs.”
“Ma’am,” begged the paddle guy. “Please.” “Sorry.”
Wells flexed his grip around the club, squinted out at the fairway, and hauled back, his once-famous drive missing its former finesse.
The ball sailed straight into the trees.
Disappointment rippled all the way down to Josephine’s toes. Not for herself, because she hadn’t gotten the privilege of witnessing something great, but for Wells. She watched the way his shoulders tensed, his head dropping forward. The hushed murmurings of the crowd might as well have
been cymbals crashing. The last remaining spectators wandered away, off to find pastures that didn’t need so much watering.
But Josephine stayed. It was the fangirl way.
