Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 111959 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 560(@200wpm)___ 448(@250wpm)___ 373(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111959 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 560(@200wpm)___ 448(@250wpm)___ 373(@300wpm)
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 final time—and he was right, no one noticed.
No one except for Josephine. The last person on planet Earth pulling for him. He would very likely never see her again. Never overhear her defend him in the crowd or see her signs pop up reassuringly among the baseball caps, her unusually colored hair a perfect complement to the green surrounding her.
Acknowledging that was a lot harder than he expected, but he kept walking. Halfway to the parking lot, he dropped his golf bag and let the clubs spill out, not giving a shit what happened to them. The lack of weight should have made him feel lighter.
The sense of freedom would come eventually. Right?
Any second now.
But when he looked back at the course and saw Josephine still standing in the same spot, facing away from him, the heaviness intensified so swiftly that his gait faltered. Still, he commanded himself to get into the driver’s side of his Ferrari, giving the ivy-covered establishment the finger as he peeled out of the lot.
Wells Whitaker was done with golf and everything that came with it.
Including green-eyed optimists who made him wish he could win again.
Chapter Three
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.