For everyone else, it’s just a putt.
For Brookes, it’s so much more.
It’s every four a.m. wake up call. It’s every missed moment. Every frustrated silence. Every stubborn step he took back, retreating into himself when the pressure was overwhelming.
I watch Brookes walk around the line of the putt, crouching down, then standing tall, adjusting his ball cap, covering his mouth while murmuring something to Max. He looks calm—the calm he puts on for the cameras—but I know the tells. It’s the tic in his jaw. The slight bounce in his knee. The way he rubs the back of his neck when he’s fighting against the noise in his head,the voices trying to convince him that no matter what, he can’t, and he might as well give up. It’s a never-ending battle, one I’m not sure he’ll ever overcome, but a battle I choose to fight alongside him every single day.
The gallery forms a wide ring around the green, hundreds of spectators holding their breath. Even the Georgia pines seem still, no longer swaying where they reach high up into the azure sky.
He’s tied for first. One stroke can and will change everything.
My heart hammers louder than the low murmurs that hum through the crowd. My hands are clasped together so tight, my fingers ache. Part of me wants to look away. Fear. Self-preservation. Maybe both. I don’t know. What I do know is what this moment is costing him. Not just the years he’s spent on the tour, but the time he lost. I wasn’t around for all of it, but I’ve spent countless nights staying up past dawn, listening to Brookes while he told me everything: the good, the bad, the ugly. The unforgiving newspaper headlines. The hotel rooms with the curtains drawn at noon. The self-loathing. The burn of whiskey as it hit the back of his throat before nine a.m. The constant questioning of whether he’d die or wind up worse off if he ever tried to kill himself. The heaviness of the pills. The shame that had started to settle into his bones. The same shame he hid with more liquor, more pills, and a smile that never quite reached his eyes. The unnerving silence when golf—the thing that once defined him—was all but gone.
Brookes lines up the shot.
There’s a pause. A breath. The kind of silence that only exists on a Sunday at The Masters. The kind that feels sacred and merciless all at once.
He makes the stroke. It’s smooth. Almost too smooth. And for a split second, the ball looks like it might drift right. My stomach drops. Time stretches thin and fragile.
The ball catches the edge. The rim seems to hold it there forever. Teetering. So close, yet not quite guaranteed. Balancingprecariously between triumph and heartbreak in a suspended beat.
Then it falls. The sound—that clean, unmistakableplopas the ball hits the bottom of the cup—detonates the silence. The gallery erupts. A wave of all-consuming noise crashes over the green. Camera shutters go off. Strangers are shouting. Hats are thrown in the air. Somewhere, someone is crying. And I am too. So is Lori and Jonesy. And Cam. Because this isn’t just a win at the Masters. This is proof. Proof that the man right there in the thick of it all, the man who owns my heart and every fiber of my being, the man currently falling to his knees, is no longer the man who got lost in the haze of addiction. This moment is proof that the work—the non-stop grind, the countless therapy sessions, the brutal honesty, and the daily sacrifices—mattered.
Brookes looks up, almost stunned, and then when his bright blue eyes cut to me, he breaks into that dimpled grin that takes my breath away and I run. Like my life depends on getting to him, I run with all that I have, crashing into his arms as they open just in time to catch me.
“You did it, baby!” I cry, wrapping my arms around his neck.
Brookes cups my face, thumbs stroking my tear-stained cheeks, his own eyes glossing over as he shakes his head. “No, Pops.Wedid it.”
A sob bubbles up the back of my throat, and I crash my lips to his. As the crowd starts to close in around us, everyone cheering for the man of the moment, he and I get lost in the kind of kiss that will go down in history, everything else slowly fading away.
Fresh tears burn my eyes as I watch last year’s Masters winner place the green jacket onto Brookes. The sprawling crowd cheers, and camera flashes flicker through the dull glow of the setting sun as Brookes holds his arms out wide, showing off his new ’fit.And, when he looks in my direction, pointing his finger at me, he winks, and I lose it.
“Aw, baby girl,” Lori whispers, wrapping her arm around me and squeezing tight.
The Chairman of Augusta talks about Brookes’ comeback in a way that makes it sound like a family-friendly Disney movie, but those closest to him know it’s been anything but. And as I glance up at Cam standing next to me, the one constant in Brookes’ life for the last decade, I see the struggle, the pain, the sleepless nights, the stress, but above all of that, I see the pride. And, snaking my hand between us, I envelop Cam’s, giving it a squeeze. Startling ever so slightly, Cam looks down at me, meeting my eyes, an understanding no one else will ever share passing between us. And, with the slightest hint of a smile, he squeezes my hand right back, winking at me.
After that night when Blake attacked me, I told Brookes that I didn’t want to press charges. Maybe it was selfish of me, but I knew taking the matter to the police would likely dredge up much of the painful past I’ve spent so long trying to forget. And I couldn’t risk it.
Brookes kept my wishes. And, after some legal back-and-forth, NDAs were signed and Blake Mestroni formally resigned as Brookes Devereaux’s agent, citing nothing more than irreconcilable differences.
Cam effortlessly took on the role of Brookes’ agent in the wake of Blake’s resignation. And he’s been doing an amazing job. Brookes trusts and loves Cam like a father. And, I guess, now so do I.
Blake went on to sign Jackson Taylor as a client, which wasn’t a big surprise; the two were a perfect fit, given they’re both snakes. What was a big surprise was when it came out only a few months later that Jackson Taylor was firing Blake Mestroni after it was found that Blake was having an affair with Jackson’s wife. I don’t feel bad for anyone in that whole messy situation; in my opinion, they all deserve each other.
“Brookes, the green jacket looks good on you,” the Chairman says, causing the crowd around us to hoot and holler.
Brookes’ gaze immediately cuts to me, a suggestive arch of one of his eyebrows causing me to throw my head back on a laugh, knowing exactly what he’s thinking. Pervert.
“Come on over here and say a few words.” The older man waves Brookes closer to the podium, and the excited din of the crowd immediately dies down.
“Fits like a glove,” is all Brookes says into the microphone, looking down at himself in his jacket, huffing an exasperated laugh as he shakes his head to himself like he still can’t quite believe it.
Gripping the podium, Brookes clears his throat, his gaze meeting mine again. “I’m not going to say a lot because y’all know I hate this fuckin’ shit.”
A collective gasp rings through the crowd.
Cameras flash.
