How did that saying go?
You’re the hardest on the ones who love you the most?
Apparently, it was true. Because Wells had one fan left—one single, overzealous, and annoyingly cute fan—and his first instinct was to blame
his botched shot on her. That wasn’t fair; he’d botched plenty of shots lately without her standing on the sidelines. Maybe he’d finally reached his capacity for self-disgust. Or maybe he was simply the shithead so many
friends and admirers had written him off as over his two-year decline.
Whatever the reason, the fact that she remained there even now, steadfast and smiling encouragingly after he’d shot straight into the fucking trees?
Wells couldn’t bear it. She needed to go, like the rest of them. Get lost. This auburn-haired sideline warrior wearing his merch was the only thing that had gotten him out of bed this morning—because she was always at his
Florida tour stops. Always. Without fail. Didn’t she know they’d discontinued his clothing line last year? He’d been dropped by Nike, too. At this stage, he would be lucky to get a sponsorship from a dandruff shampoo brand.
His mentor, the legendary Buck Lee, wouldn’t even return his texts. The world had counted him out long ago.
Yet, there she stood, holding the sign. Wells’s Belle.
Jesus Christ. He needed to put this girl out of her misery.
The only way to do that was to put himself out of it first. Otherwise, she would show up next week, next month, next year. Fresh and unfailing and
staunchly supportive, no matter how low he finished on the leaderboard at the end of the day. She kept coming back.
Therefore, Wells kept coming back, not wanting to disappoint her. His last remaining fan. His last remaining . . . anything.
Josephine.
But he didn’t want to do it anymore. Didn’t want to show up and try uselessly to recapture the glory days. He’d lost his magic and would never find it again. It was somewhere out in the trees with his ball. She needed to go, so he could pull the plug. So he could stop waking up every morning trying to locate his missing optimism. He could finally drink himself to death in peace and never see another golf green for the rest of his life.
None of which would be happening if he followed through on this ridiculous contest.
“Go.” Turning on a heel, he ripped off his glove and waved it in the general direction of the fans streaming toward the clubhouse. Looking her in the eye was hard, which was ridiculous because he didn’t even know her. Not personally. And he never would. They’d had many brief exchanges on the course, but all their conversations were golf-related. Quick, if
somehow . . . meaningful. More important than the average interaction with a spectator. He couldn’t dwell on that, though. It was over. “Go. I’m dropping out.” Finally, he found the balls to lean across the rope and meet her widening green eyes. “It’s over, belle. Go home.”
“No.”
Laughing without humor, he chucked his glove down the fairway. If only he could play a ball that straight. “Well, you’re going to be cheering for a ghost, because I’m done.”
Slowly, she lowered her sign.
The sight made his chest lurch, but he didn’t let himself flinch outwardly. “You’re down but you’re not out, Wells Whitaker.”
“Listen to me. I’m out. I’m quitting the tour. There is no reason for you to come here anymore, Josephine.”
All at once, her smile brightened and, God help him, she went from cute to stunning—an observation that could mean absolutely nothing, since they were cutting ties right here and now. “You called me by my first name. You never have before.”
He knew that fact well, didn’t he? He’d refrained from calling her anything but her self-selected nickname, because anything else felt too
personal. And there was nothing personal here. They were athlete and number one fan—and they needed to be done. Over. He had to sever this remaining tie to golf or he’d never be able to get on with the rest of his miserable has-been existence. At twenty-nine.
Goddamn this sport.
And goddamn her for making him want to show up and try.
Utterly ridiculous, considering this was the first time Wells had even said her name, despite the fact that she’d been cheering him on from behind the rope for the five years he’d been on the tour.
“What about the contest?” she said, folding up her sign and holding it to her chest. “Lunch and Lessons with Wells Whitaker. I won.”
He gestured to the trees. “Obviously I’m in no position to give you a lesson.”
She stared off down the fairway for a moment. Then said, “I’m a coach, myself. Maybe I could give you one.”
Wells did a double take. “Excuse me?”
“I said, maybe I could give you one.” She winced, as if she’d finally run that presumptuous suggestion through a filter. “My family owns a little pro shop nearby and I know everything there is to know about golf. My first pair of baby shoes had spikes on the bottom.” She took off her visor and
now . . . her eyes looked even bigger. More compelling. And he didn’t know why, but letting this loyal girl down wasn’t sitting well. “You don’t love the sport anymore. Maybe I can help you love it again. That’s what I meant by giving you a lesson—”
“Josephine, listen to me. I don’t want to love it anymore. I’ve lost my soul to this game and it has given me nothing in return.”
She gasped. “Nothing except three majors titles.”
“You don’t understand. The titles start to mean nothing when you’re
incapable of doing it again.” He closed his eyes and let the truth of those words sink in. First time he’d said them out loud. “The best thing you can do for me is leave. Pick some other golfer to harass, okay?”
His only remaining fan tried to keep her features stoic, but he’d inflicted some hurt with that suggestion. Keep going. Get it over with. Even if the
idea of her cheering for another player made him want to impale himself on his wedge.
Wells bit down hard on his tongue so he wouldn’t take it back.
“It’s a bad day. Shake it off and get back out here tomorrow.” Her laugh was incredulous. “You can’t just quit golf.”
He laughed as he turned and strode for his bag, his caddie nowhere in sight. “Golf quit me. Go home, belle.” There was a note stuck between his clubs. Frowning, he plucked it up between two fingers to find a resignation letter from his caddie. If one could call a scrawled note on a bar napkin a resignation letter. Instead of being angry, Wells felt nothing but relief.
Excellent timing.
That saved him having to fire the son of a bitch. “Wells, wait.”
His back muscles tightened at the sight of Josephine ducking under the rope and jogging in his direction, her deep, reddish-brown ponytail swinging side to side. Such a move was wildly against the rules, but there was no one left to care. He’d leave the club and no one would even notice, would they? Except her.
“There are people who still believe in you,” she said.
“Really? Where?” He hefted the bag onto his shoulder. “All I see is you.”
Again, hurt trickled into her gaze and he ignored the impulse to throw down his bag, tell her everything. How his mentor had abandoned him after one bad season and he’d realized his support system was all smoke and mirrors. At the end of the day, he was alone, like he’d been since age twelve. All anyone cared about now was how well he hit this little white ball and God, he resented that. Resented the game and everything about it.
“I’ll stay right here until everyone comes back,” she said.
Frustration raked down his insides like a pair of fingernails. He just wanted to throw in the towel and she was the only one preventing him from doing it.
Wells steeled himself against the urge to set down his bag and select a club one more time, for this person who unwisely continued to believe in him. He reached for her sign instead, calling himself ten times a bastard as he tore it straight down the middle. He threw the two sides onto the grass, forcing himself to look her in the eye, because he couldn’t be a bastard and a coward. “For the last time, I don’t want you here.”
Then it finally happened.
She stopped looking at him as if he were a hero.
And it was a million times worse than hitting into the trees.
“Sorry about lunch,” he said thickly, wheeling around her. “Sorry about everything.”
“What about your green jacket?”
Wells stopped in his tracks, but didn’t turn to face her. He couldn’t let anyone see what those two words—green jacket—did to him. Especially her. The tournament held in Georgia every year was widely regarded as a kingmaker. You win the Masters Tournament? You are an automatic icon. The winner was traditionally awarded a very distinct green jacket and lorded over anyone who didn’t have one. Aka the dream. “What?”
“You said once that your career wouldn’t be complete without winning a green jacket at Augusta. You haven’t done it yet.”
A shard of ice dug into his gut. “Yes, I’m aware of that, Josephine. Thank you.”
“Goals don’t just stop being goals,” she said adamantly. “You can’t just stop wanting something after working so hard for it.”
“I can. I have.”
“I’m calling bullshit, Wells Whitaker.”
“Call bullshit all you like. I won’t be here to listen.”
With that, he left the course for the last time—and as he suspected, no one noticed.
Except for Josephine. The one person still rooting for him. He would probably never see her again, never hear her defend him in the crowd or spot her reassuring signs amidst the sea of baseball caps, her distinctive hair standing out against the green backdrop.
Accepting that was tougher than he’d anticipated, but he kept moving. Halfway to the parking lot, he dropped his golf bag and let the clubs scatter, indifferent to their fate. The absence of their weight should have made him feel lighter.
The sense of freedom would come eventually, right? Any moment now.
But when he glanced back at the course and saw Josephine still standing in the same spot, facing away from him, the weight of the moment intensified so sharply that his stride faltered. Nevertheless, he forced himself into the driver’s seat of his Ferrari, giving the ivy-covered clubhouse one last defiant gesture before peeling out of the lot.
Wells Whitaker was finished with golf and everything it entailed.
Including the green-eyed optimists who made him wish he could win once more.
