Page 10 of Summer Ever After
If anyone can get me back to my prime, Pete can. He’s the reason I got into golf in the first place.
After my dad died and we moved to Sunset Harbor, Pete took pity on me by letting me hit balls on the putting green in his backyard. He didn’t really have a choice. I watched him practice from my grandma’s deck. It was either leave me there, awkwardly watching, or invite me over to putt with him. Back then, I didn’t even know how to hold a club. Pete taught me everything, and as the local golf pro at the resort course, I couldn’t have asked for a better teacher. He even let me work at the Belacourt Golf Course to pay for my lessons with him.
So when I called Pete this afternoon to see if he could look at my swing, he didn’t hesitate to say yes. I immediately packed my bags and drove west from Jupiter, Florida to the island of Sunset Harbor. I’m here for as long as it takes.
Plus, playing on a course without so many watching eyes, and minds wondering if Walker Collins is going to make it back to the top of the leaderboard or if he’s just a washed-up has-been, is exactly what I need right now.
I delete her message and move on to the next one.
“Walker, it’s Dr. Frandsen. I got a call from Freddy LeSueur this morning.”
My stomach tightens. Was the call made before or after I fired Freddy as my golf coach?
“Freddy mentioned that since your back surgery, yourswing has looked tight and tense. He was wondering if maybe the lumbar microdiscectomy wasn’t successful. If you’re feeling back pain again, I want to know about it. It’s everyone’s goal to get you in prime condition so you can golf at a high level. Give me a call so we can talk about the tightness and make sure everything has healed as it should. I’m at home today, so call me on my cell. 786-552-7174. Talk to you soon.”
Much to Freddy’s disappointment, we can no longer blame my poor performance on back pain. I just suck at golf. My swing is off. All my long-range drives pull left, and I can’t hit a putt within eight feet of the hole. But instead of fixing the problem, Freddy just wants to talk about how I’m still recovering from back surgery and to give it some time. That’s why I fired him this morning. I don’t need a cheerleader. I need a coach.
Delete.
I scroll to the next voicemail and push play.
“Walker, hey! It’s Ben Jackson.” Usually, I like that Ben is a hands-on sports agent, but right now, I just want to be left alone. “I talked to Freddy.”
Freddy’s been busy today.
“He said you fired him,andpulled out of the U.S. Open next weekend,andgave your caddie the summer off.”
I didn’t give Mick the summer off. I just told him to take a vacation for the next week or so. But Freddy loves to dramatize things.
“What are you doing? It seems like you’re having a meltdown over there. I mean, firing Freddy, I get. But giving Mick the summer off? You don’t want to lose him. He’s one of the best caddies out there, and you guys have great golf chemistry. Plus, he handles all your personal assistant needs.”
Mick’s not going anywhere—except maybe the Bahamas. Ijust didn’t see the point in having him stick around while I worked through my mechanics. There’s nothing he can do for me right now. Pete is the only person who can help me.
An exasperated sigh seeps out of Ben. “Look, I know the PGA Championship last month had some setbacks.” Some setbacks? I didn’t make the cut to play on Saturday and Sunday and went home without a paycheck. “But that was your first tournament since surgery. No one expected you to win it all.”
I wasn’t even in the vicinity of winning.
“Think long-term about your career. After the fiasco last month, it’s going to be hard to keep your sponsorships if you’re not giving people something new to talk about.”
Fiascois a good way to describe it. After my pathetic hit on the seventh hole, I hit my driver against the ground so hard that the head broke off and flew in the air twenty feet. I’m lucky it didn’t hit anyone. I had to finish off the day without my driver. I don’t recommend teeing off with a five-wood if you want to win a professional golf tournament.
“So maybe just reconsider the U.S. Open next week. Call me, and we can talk about it. Okay? Talk to you soon.”
I’d delete that message twice if I could.
Next.
“Hey, Walker,” Lydia says, followed by a nervous laugh. “I don’t think I’ve ever left you a voice message before. So I’ll just dive right in. Can I get the key to my apartment back? My building only gives us two and…” She sighs. “This is awkward, but I met someone. I know we only broke up a month ago, but things are moving really fast with this other guy, and I’d like to give him the key. So…I don’t know…let me know when you’re home, and I’ll come grab it, or just mail it to me or something. See ya.”
That’s another easy delete.
I drag my hand down my face as I place my phone on the table beside me.
I’m living my all-time low.
Coming back to Sunset Harbor is proof enough of that.
“Walker?” I turn to a vaguely familiar face—someone I once knew, who’s older now, with more facial hair but less on his head. “I thought that was you.” My response must not be what this guy hoped for because his smile twitches, and his brows dip as he points to himself. “Dustin Pearce. We were friends in high school.”
