Page 19 of Forever Wild

“I actually do have a very exciting life, thank you,” she says, flipping her ponytail over her shoulder. “Okay, I get it. You don’t want to wax poetic about the beautiful man you hung out with all morning. Let’s start simple… When did you decide you don’t hate the guy? We were literally calling him Dick this time yesterday.”

Ignoring the question, I hit my ball, watching my shot settle a good six feet away from the hole.

Knowing I’m going to be forced to answer eventually, I take a deep breath and tell my sisters and Becca about my trip with Jameson to the practice green last night, asking him to play this morning, and then asking him to come play with us this afternoon.

“I mean, I get it, honestly. Not only would it require spending his afternoon with you assholes”—I smirk at my sisters—“but also, it’s probably for the best. What would be the point of spending more time together? I mean, we head back to Wild Bluffs tonight, and I’m definitely not telling Mom and Dad that I’m going to miss dinner tonight because I’m going to stay out here to have a one-night stand with a professional golfer. Can you imagine?”

From the looks on my sisters’ faces, it’s clear they feel equally as horrified as I do at the thought, but surprisingly, Becca seems to be considering it. “Is a one-night stand actually in the cards? You could tell them you’re staying the night at my place. It wouldn’t be the first time that we stay up drinking and you decide to crash with me rather than going back. It could work.”

“I appreciate the offer, Becca. And, honestly, I don’t know. Everything I know about his reputation suggests he’d be on board for a hookup, but he definitely wasn’t putting out those vibes…except for that one exchange at breakfast, I suppose. Doesn’t matter. As previously mentioned, the man shot me down. After I instigated every single one of our interactions, he finally manned up enough to say no to spending time with me. I’m totally fine with it.” I may not be totally fine with it, but I recognize it’s silly to be upset about a guy I met less than a day ago.

“I know you’re fine, but we saw you guys together, and I guess I just don’t agree he’s not interested. I don’t know why he didn’t say yes, but I do think there is a chance there is more to the story than him just not wanting to spend time with you.”

My heart perks up at her statement, but I quiet it back down. Neither Jameson nor I are interested in a relationship.

“We were both clear we aren’t interested in a relationship. As crazy as this whole thing was, I think it’s over. Honestly, I’d be surprised if I ever see him again.”

Even though I don’t want to, even though I know how ridiculous it is, I can’t help but keep an eye out the rest of the round, hoping to catch a glimpse of his black hat and green eyes.

Chapter ten

Jameson

I shove the bench press back up, wiping the sweat off my forehead as I reach for my vibrating phone.

“Hey, Jon,” I say, answering my agent’s call.

“Jameson. How are you doing?” he asks.

I consider how much has changed since I came to Wild Bluffs. I’ve stopped drinking to excess. I’m in the best shape I’ve ever been in physically. I no longer have a 125-pound succubus slowly eating away at my soul—something she continued to do long after she left me.

“Doing well. How about you?”

“Oh, going good. Just calling to check to see how you’re doing. How’s the weather out there in Wild Bluffs?”

“Can’t complain,” I say, grabbing a swig from my water bottle.

“Sure. That’s great.”

Jon’s not someone who calls just to chat, so I know he’s tiptoeing around something. I decide to give him an out and casually demand, “What’s up, Jon?”

“How’s your game? What kind of scores are you getting?” There it is. As much as I appreciate the work Jon does, how much he’s looked out for me in the past, at the end of the day, he’s only calling to see how his most lucrative client is performing on the course.

All things considered, my game should be better than it was last year. Unfortunately, the majority of my practice scores have been crap.

“Yeah. It’s…fine,” I reply.

“Have you talked to Dr. Sandra since you’ve been out there?”

“Yep, still meeting with her once a week virtually.”

Here’s the thing about the last year of my life and the truly embarrassing golf performance—it’s all in my head. Ask any professional athlete why their game is shit, and unless they’ve had an injury, the answer is mental. I regularly see Dr. Sandra, one of the best sports psychologists in the game, but somehow, even she can’t get me figured out.

Jon and I discuss increasing my hours with Dr. Sandra, switching to someone new, and the potential of moving to a new course for the rest of my time before the season starts. I assure him I’m moving in the right direction, but I can tell he’s not buying it any more than I am.

Just as he’s about to sign off, he sighs deeply before saying, “Jameo, you’ve got to be laser-focused on your game this season. If you don’t get your shit together, we may have to start talking retirement.”

I barely register saying goodbye and starting my workout again. I’m on autopilot. Retire? At my age? The perk of being a golfer rather than any other professional athlete is that you can have a career span decades. Look at Arnold Palmer. He played in his last Masters at seventy-four.

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