Page 83 of Perfect Praise

The amount of times I had to listen to him bitch and compare himself to Locke is one hundred times too many.

There has always been something about him that gets under Russ’ skin.

He’d come home annoyed that he was paired with him all day, that Locke won, or that he had to film a commercial with him or attend the same function as him.

“What’d he do?” I’d ask Russ empathetically.

“Nothing,” he’d huff. “He didn’t do anything.”

Silly me. I used to think Russ didn’t want to talk about it, so I’d back off. Now, I realize he meant it literally.

Locke was doingnothing, other than not caring, which just made Russ madder.

“Alright,” a reporter starts. “Congratulations to Locke Hughes, the winner of this year’s Palm Beach tournament, and runner-up Russell Ashe, who both join us now. Locke, let’s start with you. That eagle. What was going through your mind on that swing?”

His eyes flick to mine so quickly that I second guess what I saw. “That Conrad, my caddie, better be right. Which he is ninety-nine percent of the time.”

Half the room chuckles.

“Russell,” another speaks up, “you battled back from sixth to second. That was some amazing golf.”

“Just not amazing enough,” Russ sneers. “But who could ever compete with Locke Hughes?”

The next reporter pounces. “This dynamic you’ve both found yourself in. Are you able to compartmentalize and leave your personal issues off the course?”

“I have nothing to compartmentalize with regards to Russell,” Locke says.

After four mundane questions about golf, one reporter steers back to personal territory. “Russell, with the season finale ofTriple Bogeyairing this week, how are you feeling, and will you be renewing for a second season?”

“Bittersweet, I think,” he replies. “I’m ready for a break, but this past year has been one of the best and hardest of my life.” His eyes find mine in the back of the room. “But I think in a couple of months, it will be even better, and we’ll be back gracing your television screen.”

We. I almost laugh out loud. There will be no Russ-Marenwe,even when Locke is sick of me, because I’m sick of the Russ-Maren game.

The same reporter turns to Locke. “And Locke, we’ve now gotten a glimpse of your life behind the scenes for the first time in your professional career. How—”

“My personal life will continue being my personal life,” Locke interrupts him before he throws a sidelong glance at Russ, “well past the next couple of months. Let’s keep the questions pertaining to golf.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Russ quips.

The other half of the room chuckles.

When the press conference is over, Russ holds his hand over his microphone and leans to his side to get as close to Locke as possible on the other end of the table.

Locke flattens his microphone against the table and wraps a fist around the end.

They exchange inaudible words. Looks. One fist on a table. And then Locke pushes his chair back and strides off.

Screw golf. This feels like a game of chess.

Two kings battling it out with their own strategy. One always on relentless offense, the other playing strong defense. And we’re all their little pawns being used and discarded.

Hours later when Iopen my front door to the sound of a knock, I blink at the sight of Locke in a tuxedo on my welcome mat.

“Why do you look like that?” I question him before I look over his shoulder and lower my voice. “Are we role playing?”

He smirks. “The charity auction.”

“I forgot,” I say, squeezing my eyes shut.

---