Page 7 of Wildly Inappropriate

“No. There is nothing wrong with me that a few thousand practice putts won’t fix. I don’t need a therapist.” Plus, my dad would likely disown me if he ever found out I was lying around on a couch somewhere, bitching about my problems, rather than out on the course, working to fix them. I’ve heard his rants about it before.

“Look, I’m not sure your standings would agree nothing is wrong with you. You’re clearly struggling with the mental aspect of your game. You can’t just stay holed up in California, wearing yourself down on the putting green, expecting to fix something that isn’t physical.”

“My game is getting better. Phoenix was in February. I placed second. You’re acting like my game is dead. You know how golf is. It’s rare to be number one every week.”

What I don’t mention is Phoenix and Vegas are part of my current problem. Because those two tournaments? The only ones this year where I was in the top twenty? They happen to be the two tournaments where I hooked up with Lila fucking Walker. I shake my head, telling myself yet again that two times does not make a pattern. Let’s not confuse coincidence with causation. Lila Walker is a walking, talking demon, not a good-luck charm.

Jon, choosing to ignore my very valid point, continues like I never said anything. “If you’re not going to talk to a sports psychologist, maybe you should consider doing what Jameo did. Step away from your daily life for a while. Shit, maybe you should go to Wild Bluffs. It might be something in the water there.”

I laugh, a real one this time. I had a good time with Jameson when I stayed out there last year, and I enjoyed my last visit, but I’m a big-city, California guy. Tiny, landlocked Wild Bluffs is not the solution.

“Sure, Jon. I’ll think about it,” I tell him. We chat about the business side of things for a few more minutes before wrapping up the call. I hate letting anyone down, and Jon is included in that. So I will think about it. In the meantime, I’ll turn my game around so I don’t actually have to go to Wild Bluffs.

Unfortunately, now I’m also thinking about Lila Walker, which is always a frustrating experience—in more ways than one.

Lila is everything I shouldn’t want. If you happen to overlook the fact that she is my best friend’slittle sister, which, if I learned anything from the last time I dated a friend’s relative, is enough in itself to stay the hell away from her, she also happens to be a huge pain in my ass. She does exactly what she wants, and somehow knows exactly which of my buttons to push to set off a fiery wave of anger any time I’m around her. She’s just finishing up grad school, and she has a professional golfer for an older brother who buys her whatever she wants. It’s like she has no idea how the real world works. Which maybe she doesn’t. She dates guys who—damn it.

All of a sudden, I’m pulled into the past, reliving it like I’m a ghost in a goddamn Christmas movie. I see the way Lila’s shoulders slump when that fuckboy approached us by the elevator in Vegas. I feel my arm wrap around her, my body offering to be her fake boyfriend without my mind ever agreeing to help. I smell her coconutty shampoo as I pull her against me.

Stop,I tell myself, pressing the heels of my hands into my eyes before the next scene plays, but I know it’s useless. I knew this would happen once I started thinking about Lila. Damn demon magic.

Now she’s sitting on the countertop in front of me, her legs spread wide. It’s just the right height for us, and I take full advantage of it. The memory of watching her in front of me and in the mirror makes my shorts grow a bit tighter, and I mentally slap myself. Just as the memory shifts to my hotel bed, my front door slams, and a metaphorical cold bucket of water is thrown on me in the shape of my mother.

“JT!” she calls, walking into my living room.

I walk over to meet her, giving her a brief hug and a light peck on the cheek, the one without the scar. “Hi, Mom,” I say, wondering what brought her to my house this time.

She looks me over, her eyes catching on every detail of my face before working their way down my white golf shirt and navy blue golf shorts. “You aren’t using that face cream I bought you, I see,” she says, her eyes narrowing in on the faint lines next to my right eye.

“I do use it,” I say. And I do. I, like basically any other 30-year-old man, don’t care about the wrinkles, but Patricia Johnson cares. So I use the face cream…when I remember. Which is…most of the time.

“Honey, you know we have some very important investor events coming up in the next few months, and I need you to look your best, okay? You are a reflection of your father and me, and we must look good right now. We need to keep bringing new money into the firm.”

“I know, Mom,” I say. It’s second nature at this point to hold in my “I know because you’ve told me all ten times we’ve spoken this week.” I learned the hard way that saying anything more will cause her to give me the silent treatment for a week while somehow loudly yelling at me with her eyes.

“I just want to make sure you’re at your best, JT.”

“I know, Mom,” I say again. Because I do know. She does want me to be my best, and she’s sacrificed a lot to ensure I was able to be one of the best golfers in the whole damn world—including her perfect face and almost her life.

And now I’m letting her down. She and my dad both. My dad has called me almost three times a day with suggestions on how to turn my game around. Unfortunately, neither my dad nor my real coach have any useful ideas on how to turn my game around. My coach recommended I take it easy, while my dad suggested I double up on my daily lifting sessions. Needless to say, I’ve been hitting the gym a lot lately.

My mom stops her perusal of my house, her fingers tracing the gray and black cover of my e-reader. “You…read?” I’m confused by the disgust lacing her tone, as she was the one who monitored my grades and education like a hawk the entire time I was making my way through junior tournaments.

“Yes?” I reply, though I’m not sure why it comes out as a question. I’ve read over thirty books since I switched to the e-reader last year. I love that I can read on my phone when I’m sitting in locker rooms or am in the back of a rideshare and then switch to the exact place I finished on the larger e-reader when I get to my house or my hotel.

“Interesting. What do you read?”

“Romance novels.”

She pauses, her eyes searching my face before she lets out a tinkling laugh. “Oh, dear. I almost believed you. Hilarious. Romance novels.”

“I do,” I say, but she’s already moved on to examining a vase she bought me three years ago and either doesn’t hear me or chooses not to listen.

After an uncomfortable silence, I speak up, asking, “So what brings you by? Not that I’m not glad to see you.” I would prefer if my mom stopped showing up at my house unannounced and letting herself in, but there is no way I could ever suggest such a thing after everything my parents gave up for me.

“I need to talk to you about the Ferguson Golf Tournament.”

“The what?”

---