Page 3 of Perfect Praise

Anything can be made into a real job so long as people pay you for it, but I got a ‘real’ job, courtesy of my brother-in-law, the go-to physician for professional golfers. Blame nepotism all you want (I do), but I’m also not bad at it.

Locke is positioned at the long table on the stage with a skinny microphone in front of him. It looks like he’s pushed it to the side as much as it will go. I take a few test shots and adjust my camera settingsas Russ joins him on stage and sits in front of his own matching microphone.

The number one and the number two pro golfers in the world, and they couldn’t be more different.

Number one, Locke Hughes, keeps to himself. He glares at everyone. He doesn’t smile. You question if he gets any sleep because he practices every minute of every day, and if he actually does tear himself away from the golf course for longer than a minute, then he’s in the gym. Simply put, he doesn’t give a fuck about anyone or anything except himself and golf, and he doesn’t give a fuck what you think.

Number two, Russell Ashe, likes to be front and center. He wants to make the room laugh. He wants all eyes on him. He thinks he’s entitled to the world, and it bugs the shit out of him that there’s one person who stands in his way to the top.

Russ doesn’t give a fuck about anyone or anything except himself either. But he wants the world to love him, and he caresa lotabout what other people think.

Locke on the left, Russ on the right. Only a matter of feet separates them. Brown eyes connect with blue eyes when they look at each other. Blond hair gets pushed to the side. Brown hair gets pushed back.

It’s like they have the coloring that the other should have. I want to swap their hair or their eyes like one of those magnetic dress-up games I used to play with as a child.

They both sit up straight, and I realize they’re the exact same height.

Someone speaks from the crowd. “Gentlemen,” his voice says loudly, quieting the murmur. “New year, new you? How are you both feeling going into this tournament?”

Locke sits back and crosses his arms over his chest, like he’s bored, at the same time Russ eagerly leans in and clasps his hands in front of him.

Russ smiles and takes the first question. “I’ve never felt better.”

You’d think he’d feel a little less better after betraying his girlfriend of two years.

I focus my lens and snap a few pictures of him as he recites his canned response that he probably practiced in the mirror earlier this morning. “I learned a lot last year, corrected my mistakes, and I’m playing these courses better than I ever have.”

“Locke?” the man asks.

Locke keeps his arms crossed and speaks into the microphone. “I feel like the same Locke as last year.”

The man chuckles and follows with, “Do you think you’ll have a competitive advantage over Russell as you’re not a part of the documentary?”

“I haven’t thought about it,” Locke responds.

The reporter repeats his question, directing it at Russ. “Cameras following you everywhere. Your personal life being shown every week on national television. Does it have an impact on your mindset?”

“Not at all,” Russ replies confidently. “This is what we signed up for; to show everyone that golf isn’t boring. We’re not boring, excluding present company”—Russ follows with a humorous I’m-just-joking laugh, even though he’s not—“and we have lives and families outside of the bubble. We aren’t serious and focused one hundred percent of the time. The goal is to give everyone a behind-the-scenes look of what we’re like as players and people. Besides, we all have our own distractions. People andpersonalthings get in the way.”

The inflection in Russell’s voice wouldn’t be missed by the naivest person in the room. It doesn’t help that his eyes are dark, eyebrows flattened, and he has his head turned ninety degrees to stare Locke down. Then Russell looks straight at me.

I can’t look him in the eye for longer than a second because I feel like he’s blaming me for him not being good enough. And why do I even care? He’s not my boyfriend anymore, and he’s still not good enough.

“Oh,” the reporter pipes up. “Locke, care to elaborate?”

“No,” he says matter-of-factly.

The reporter laughs. “We don’t get to see your relationships play out every week on the screen. Is this new? Will she be joining you at thesetournaments? You’ve never once confirmed any relationship you’ve had, even when a rare photo emerges.”

“On purpose,” Locke says.

Craig, standing off to the side of the stage, swivels the blinking light of his camera in my direction, which causes the entire room to follow suit slowly as they collectively notice.

Russell smirks. Locke’s face remains unchanged.

All eyes in the room give me an unappreciated once-over, putting together who I am. Whose Iwas.

My heart beats behind my eyes. I know my cheeks and neck are splotched in shades of red.

---