Page 20 of Forever Wild

Being a professional golfer is amazing, but it does lack some of the fringe benefits that are afforded to other professional athletes. Not counting a few outliers—of which I used to be one—people don’t know us, which means we are less likely to get endorsement deals. Our body types tend to skew toward the less muscular end of the professional athlete bell curve, really losing some of the sex god status other professionals get. I mean, have you ever read a romance novel with a golfer as the main character?

My sister, Lila, has loved sports romance novels since the inappropriate age of fifteen. I have had to sit through her rants about how there are series geared toward puck bunnies and cleat chasers, but where are the ones for gallery girls and golf groupies?

If I gave one shit about romance, I might be inclined to at least appreciate her annoyance on my behalf. As it is, I’m mostly just confused about why my smart sister would choose to waste her brain space with that unrealistic nonsense.

Romance books aside, I used to be at the top of the pile in the golf world. I was good-looking, bringing in big endorsements, and had a gorgeous girl on my arm. Too bad her heart was as black as mud, and when she left me, I was too depressed to do anything but drink, gain weight, and play like shit.

And now I might have to think about retirement? Fuck that.

If my round this morning is any indication, I’m on my way back. I may have had a terrible year, but I’m turning it around.

I’m halfway through the core portion of my workout when the door to the weight room opens and Bryn’s friend walks in, pulling at the bottom of her skirt—obviously working hard to avoid meeting my eyes. I pause my music and pull out an earbud.

“I’m really not interested.” Groupies. It’s always best to set them straight up front so they don’t think they have a chance. If you’re a nice guy, they think they can change your mind.

She blinks at me a couple of times before a slow smile crosses her face. “Oh my God. You really are a dick. To be clear, guy-I-could-not-care-less-about, I was never here for you. I’m here because I’m a good friend, but I’ve changed my mind.”

She turns to leave, pushing down on the handle to exit the workout room, when it hits me. If she’s not here about herself, then she must be here about…Bryn? Shit. I can’t believe I just jumped straight to a groupie assumption. What is wrong with me?

“Wait!” I scramble off the floor, my arms still a little rubbery from the chest work I did today.

She doesn’t, however, choose to wait. And, as I chase her out the door, I run face-first into something solid.

“Oh, shit. I’m sorry. I wasn’t—JT? What are you doing here?”

My best friend for the last ten years looks me up and down, rubbing his shoulder where we just collided. “Jameo, you look good, man.”

I shoot him a wink. “Thanks, bud. It’s all for you.”

He laughs, taking in the space around us. “Not a bad little setup you’ve got here. Think there will be enough room for both of us to work out in that tiny-ass gym?”

“Working out together? Damn, it’s like a flashback to our first year on the tour.”

JT flips his cap backward—a nervous tic of his that everyone and his mother knows about—and nods.

Then I remember why I was in a hurry. “Shit, JT, did you see a blonde woman leave?”

“A blonde woman? Jesus, man, Alexis hasn’t been here, has she?”

“Fuck, do you think I’m that big of an idiot? No, that parasite of a human has not been here. It was a different girl.”

JT’s blue eyes brighten at that information. “Ooo. A different girl, huh? Wait until I tell Lila about this. Maybe she’ll finally get off my jock about helping you move on.”

I push out of the building, searching the grounds for Bryn’s friend, only to catch a glimpse of blonde as she drives by in a dark blue Mazda. Wait, was she giving me the finger?

“Was that girl who just flipped you the bird the one we are looking for?” JT watches the cloud of dust that encapsulates the car as she leaves.

“Yeah, she was.” I nod, searching the rest of the mostly empty parking lot for any sign of Bryn or her sisters. “Though it is definitely not what you think. Come on, let me buy you a drink at the bar, and you can tell me why you are here and why the fuck you are texting with my little sister.”

***

The bar area and the restaurant around it are quiet as JT and I sit down to order our beers. I can’t get that girl’s taillights out of my head. Why was she leaving? Isn’t the party here for another night?

Shit, did Bryn ever actually tell me when she was leaving? I figured this morning when I told her I couldn’t play that we’d have time to set something else up, or for me to at least get her number for when she’s back in town.

I drag my hands through my hair, staring at the table the girls were at last night, hoping maybe I can will her back into existence. JT tips back in his chair next to me, his golden curls everyone loves so much bouncing cheerfully as he watches the football game on the big screen above the bar. Unsurprisingly, he hasn’t told me what he’s doing here or why he’s been texting my little sister. This charade, the one where we both pretend we are the silent, brooding type, unwilling to break the silence first, is a key part of our friendship.

The game switches to commercials as the bartender sets down our Stellas with a smile. “Thanks, Aubrey.”

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