Page 12 of Perfect Praise

“That would require you to actually talk to me,” I laugh.

He stays silent.

“So, we’ll hang out more? Spend time together?”

“Do you have a point?”

“Everyone will think we’re together.”

“I don’t care,” he says. “Let them.”

Attempting to redeem myself from my earlier nonsensical accusation, I joke, “Ohhh, so exactly like fake dating?”

“Fake friendship,” I scowl.This might be my worst idea ever. “If anything.”

Maren crosses her arms. “What do I have to do?”

She’s quick.

“Simple. We can both get what we want. Come with me to obligations I have during tournaments and whatever else, and talk. I’m sick of it, and you say a lot of words.”

She raises her eyebrows and laughs. “So, like a fake girlfriend?”

“There is zero dating in this scenario,” I say with a deeper voice. No part of me is going to act like I’m in a relationship when I’m not. “Fake friends.”

“And when people question why we’re hanging out so much?”

I refrain from rolling my eyes. “Again, I do not care. Let them think whatever they want to think. I won’t be making any statement about what we are or aren’t doing. It’s no one else’s business.”

Maren surveys me with a look of curiosity, like she doesn’t believe it’s that easy. But it is.

“You’re okay with that? Everyone discussing you behind your back?” she asks. “Even when they’re wrong?”

“I have to be.”

She folds her lips together and thinks on that without offering her thoughts.

“So, that’s it?” she asks skeptically. “All I have to do is go to some stuff that I was already going to be attending as part of my job anyway but talk to the people you’re supposed to talk to for you?”

“Oh no, one more thing.” I pause to let my dimples sway her by themselves. “And stop taking pictures of me.”

“That’s myjob,” she huffs after pulling her eyes off of my smile.

“Is there some type of quota you need to fill of me?” I question.

“Well, no, but I can’t just not take pictures of you. You win almost everything. You’re at every press event. That’s impossible, and I’ll get fired. If you didn’t want your photo taken, ever, then you shouldn’t have become a professional athlete.”

“The old ‘I owe everyone my life because I get paid to play a sport,’” I say. “Do you believe that?”

Maren shakes her head. “You know what I mean. And I’m not a crazy fan running up to you on the street with a cell phone shoved in your face. My photos go to websites and social media and newspapers and commercials. They’re for the PGA—you know them, my employer.”

“Take less,” I counter. “The bare minimum. One per press conference. I’ll allow you to make your own judgment call when I play—as long as you stand farther away from me while I swing so I can’t hear the shutter.”

She scoffs and narrows her eyes at me. “You cannothearme taking pictures of you.”

“I can,” I insist, “and my life would be a lot more pleasant if I couldn’t.”

Her mouth snaps shut. She sits back and crosses her legs as she considers my offer.

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