He could play in front of eighty thousand screaming fans without flinching. He'd made game-winning throws with a dislocated finger, with cracked ribs, with four seconds on the clock and his team's season hanging by a thread.
But Emmy Woodhouse laughed at another man's joke, and suddenly he couldn't hit a fairway to save his life.
He hooked drives. Missed putts he'd normally sink in his sleep. Lost track of whose turn it was because he kept scanning the crowd for a blonde ponytail and finding her, every single time, with Tyce Duke's arm around her shoulders like he'd bought the rights.
"You sure you're okay?" Boozy asked after Grant three-putted for the second time. "You seem... somewhere else."
"I'm here."
"You just missed a four-footer. You never miss four-footers."
"Everyone misses four-footers."
"Not you. Not like that."
On the sixth hole, he spotted them near the clubhouse. Tyce had upgraded from hand-on-back to full arm-around-shoulders, steering Emmy toward a cluster of people Grant vaguely recognized—hedge fund types, the kind of men who collected athlete friendships the way other people collected wine, purely for the pleasure of dropping them at dinner parties. Emmy was animated, professional, and Grant watched the men's gazes slide down her legs while Tyce stood there looking pleased with himself—like he'd brought a trophy to show off.
Tyce leaned down to murmur something in her ear. Emmy's laugh carried across the green, bright and surprised, and Grant went still.
His grip on his club tightened until the leather creaked.
"That's West's sister, right?" Boozy had followed his sightline with all the subtlety of a man who'd never successfully lied about anything in his life. "The one you grew up with?"
"Yeah."
"And that's the tennis guy. Duke."
"Yeah."
Boozy processed this. Grant could practically hear the gears turning, which was concerning, because Boozy's gears didn't turn often and never quietly.
"She's pretty," Boozy said finally.
Grant didn't answer.
"West's sister, I mean. Not Duke." Boozy snorted. "Though he's pretty too, I guess. If you're into that whole jawline-and-cheekbones thing. Very symmetrical. Very moisturized."
"Boozy."
"I'm just saying. You've been staring at her for like ten minutes."
"I'm not staring." Grant grabbed his driver with more force than necessary. "I just don't trust that guy."
"Duke?" Boozy squinted across the green. "What'd he do to you?"
"He's a player. Would you want him sniffing aroundyoursister?"
"But she's not your sister, man."
Grant didn't have an answer for that. He lined up his shot, jaw tight.
"She's West's sister," he said finally. "I've known her since she was a kid."
"Uh-huh." Boozy watched him settle into his stance. "You gonna tell West you've been watching his sister's legs for the last ten minutes, or should I?"
Grant swung instead of answering—too hard, too tight, all that unnamed frustration channeling straight into the club.
The ball hooked left and disappeared into the trees.
