Page 4 of Forever Wild

“Just calling to check in on my favorite golfer.”

“I can’t possibly be your favorite golfer, Erica. Tell me what’s really up.”

“I just wanted to let you know that my team has been in contact with all your current sponsors, and things are starting to settle down now that you’re out of the spotlight. I think we’re going to be able to keep them all.”

Thank God. While I wouldn’t be hard up for cash or anything like that if I lost those deals, I’m not sure my ego can handle any more losses this year. I’ve always been the go-to golfer for sponsorship deals and ad campaigns, and the fact that I’ve lost that status hurts far more than I ever expected it to.

“Thanks, Erica. That’s great news. Any news of the couple of new ones you were chasing?”

"Nothing yet, Jameo," she says, underemphasizing the “O” in my nickname so it comes out as “Jame-ah” instead of “Jame-oh,” like it does for everyone else. “Just focus on your game. Don’t get drunk. Don’t hit on random women. You know what? Let’s just say no women whatsoever.”

“Of course. I haven’t done anything but golf and exercise since I got here.”

“That’s what I like to hear.”

We make small talk for another minute before Erica has to go. As I hang up my phone, I think about how stupid I’ve been the last year. Sure, I was hurting, but I made some bad decisions that almost cost me the profession I love and a lot of money in winnings and sponsorships.

But I’m totally focused now. I’ve barely looked at a woman since arriving at Wild Bluffs until today, and she only serves to remind me what terrible taste I have in women.

With that thought, I roll off the side of the bed and make my way slowly toward the shower, legs burning from the extra eighteen I got in today after the first two rounds ended poorly.

The water pounds down on me like a hundred tiny punches but doesn’t put a dent in the feeling of defeat that has settled into my bones. I stand in the shower, my six-foot-four frame slumped as I let the hot water run over me, trying to wash away the disappointment of failing to score more than five under par yet again during my third round.

The round started out fine. And then it had been rough—the trudging through cacti and yuccas to find my balls in the, well, rough. That is the essence of golf: the more time you spend in the rough, the rougher the round becomes.

And the hot-as-hell girl who stole my ball and called me a dick before casually mentioning I’m rich? Why is it that women can’t help but focus on my money?

Been there, done that. It is the one mistake I’m not interested in making again.

As soon as a woman mentions me being rich, I’m out.

Not that my dick seems to remember the last part.

“Damn it, Jameo,” I mutter to myself as I lean against the tiled wall. “Get your head in the game.” But the image of her smirking at me from under the brim of her cap refuses to leave. If it weren’t for my self-imposed celibacy and her clear interest in me being “rich,” she’d be my usual kryptonite, all tanned legs and a fiery mouth.

Just what I need to screw up my already precarious career.

Unfortunately, my brain and my anatomy down south don’t seem to agree on what our focus is in Wild Bluffs.

Knowing my head is unlikely to win this battle, I let my mind wander back to the girl from this afternoon. Down her long legs and back up to her adorable smirk, my hand and thoughts wandering into carnal territory. I’m just about to give in to the urge—it’s been a hot second since that specific club of mine has gotten any play—when the sound of an incoming text pierces the steamy air.

That, of course, will be Lila, my younger sister and—jeez, I’m lame—my best friend. Unfortunately, and unbeknown to her, she has always had a disturbing habit of interrupting my most private moments. And getting a text while thinking about getting myself off in the shower is actually very low on the list of embarrassing moments she’s intruded on.

In high school, as I was losing my virginity, I heard my sister’s pipsqueak friends giggling about Lila playing seven minutes in Heaven…as I was about to come inside a girl for the first time.

Needless to say, it was not my best showing, and no one had a happy ending, least of all Bryan Godsey, the sixteen-year-old I found behind a tree with my thirteen-year-old sister. He was so scared, he may have left with a bit of pee running down his leg. He should feel lucky it was me rather than my dad who heard her friends.

It wasn't until college that I met Sarah, who fortunately hadn't heard the story of me leaving my date unsatisfied in a field. Unfortunately, Lila called halfway through, and my phone played the “Cheetah Girls, Cheetah Sisters” song she had picked out as her ringtone until I finally found the Decline button through my horny haze. Luckily, Sarah was willing to try again after I figured out how to silence my phone.

I have, thankfully, gotten better since then, although my sister’s bad timing remains the same.

Knowing the moment is gone—shit, how pathetic am I that I can’t even romance myself these days?—I sigh and turn off the water.

I grab one of the white, fluffy towels from the rack, sling it around my waist, and sit on the edge of my room’s extra bed.

Lila

Hey, Jameo, how’s the golf thing going?

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