“I’ll grab a Corona, Katie-Lyn. With a wedge of lime,” Blake says, staring down at his phone.
“Abeer? Really?” Cam balks, looking from Blake, to me, to the flight attendant and back to Blake again.
Christ, here we go. I shift uncomfortably in my chair, choosing to stare down at my hands. I’ve told Cam I don’t care if people drink around me—it truly doesn’t bother me in the slightest. But this is the father-figure in him.
Cam’s been my manager since the day after I won my first major. I was a lost, twenty-three-year-old kid with a cool five million bucks worth of prize money that I didn’t know what to do with. Someone recommended Cameron Davies, an ex-club pro who never made it onto the tour but who’d been around the circuit for years and whose love for the sport of golf was unmatched. He’d started his own management company. Nothing big. His only clients were a golfer who hadn’t ranked anywhere close to the top one hundred in three years, and a triple-A baseball player out of Tampa.
I met with Cam that same day and he was frank. He told me that there are a lot of snakes in this industry who will take advantage of newcomers like me, he told me to be careful, and he didn’t once try to pressure me into anything. There was just something about him that made me realize he was one of the few good guys in the professional sports industry. Maybe it was his vibe. Or the fact that he drove a Toyota that was at least ten years old. He wasn’t trying to be someone he’s not, wasn’t trying hard to impress me, or anyone for that matter. Whatever it was, I knew Cam Davies was a man I could trust. So, I signed withhim. Five years later, I invested a big chunk of money into his company that now has three managers who look after a whole roster of professional athletes, including me. And in the decade we’ve been working together, Cam hasn’t ever given me a single reason to doubt him or question my decision to sign with him all those years ago.
Cam was around long before Blake wormed his way into my circle. When my original agent and I parted ways, Blake was waiting in the wings ready to do anything but commit a felony to win my business. And where Cam is like family—the father IwishI’d had growing up—Blake is unfortunately just like my real dad: a slick-back grease ball with dollar signs in his eyes. The only reason I’ve stayed with him this long is because he knows his shit and, whether ethical or not, he does a good job.
“Katie-Lyn, you can just bring us a few bottles of water,” Cam says, offering Blake a fleeting yet chastising glance.
Did I mention the two of them fucking hate each other?
The flight attendant looks genuinely confused. “Do you still want the wedge of lime?”
I’m forced to cover my mouth with a hand in an attempt to conceal my snorted laugh.
Blake shifts uncomfortably in his chair, spearing Cam with a glower before forcing a tight smile up at the flight attendant. “Just the water’s fine for now, Katie-Lyn.”
She scurries off, leaving us alone in the cabin, and I turn back to the two men currently glaring at one another, embroiled in some impromptu game ofloser blinks first, and I roll my eyes, huffing a sigh.
Blake looks away first, and I don’t miss the victorious grin Cam is forced to bite back, both men turning to acknowledge me across the aisle.
“We need to discuss these… conditions,” Blake says, opening his leather folio. But then his gaze lifts and he eyes me. “I think a haircut is definitely first on the to-do list.”
I bite back the vitriol burning my tongue. “Whatever.”
He purses his lips but says nothing, looking back down at his notes.
“I’ll speak to the Big Swing creative director first thing,” Cam says. “See if they can design some long-sleeved sweat-wicking polos.”
I grit my teeth.
“If they’re going to make you cover yourself from head to toe, I’m not going to risk you passing out from heat exhaustion,” Cam adds with a mutter, tapping something into his phone.
“Most of these other conditions are easy to comply with, but we really need to focus on your—” Blake lifts his gaze, meeting mine again. “Anger management.”
“Anger management?” I snort. “Fuck, they really make it sound like I’m out there cracking skulls all over the fuckin’ course.”
With an exasperated huff, Blake throws his hands up, looking at Cam as if he might hold all the answers. “See! It’s like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.”
I look between the two men, one brow quirked. “Doing what?”
“Cussing!” Blake guffaws.
Biting back my grin, I shake my head. “No. I’m fully aware. I just don’t fucking give a shit.”
Blake deadpans, and Cam shifts in his chair so he’s turned to me. “Brookes, Blake and I had a quick chat, and I think we really do need to focus on improving your image. We’d hoped rehab would help, but there’s been little to no improvement whatsoever.”
“I mean, in my defense, at least I’m no longer secretly filling my water bottles with vodka before each round…” I say with a cocky grin, my sarcasm met with nothing but steely silence, so I snap mouth shut.
“Spielman and the AGL… Brookes, they’re not bluffing with this agreement.” Cam indicates the papers in front of Blake. “Hilton Headcannothappen again.”
I cower a little because, deep down, despite my aversion to being told what to do by a bunch of assholes who are so much like the father I went no contact with more than ten years ago, I know Donald Spielman is serious.
“Brookes,” Cam says, softening. “Are you… are you sure this is still what you want?”
