I search his eyes, my brow furrowing with confusion because is he asking me what I think he’s asking me?
“You know there’s no harm in bowing out, retiring early.”
And there it is. My eyes widen with both shock and anger because what the fuck? Without golf what the fuck else do I have?
“Yeah, sure. I could retire at thirty-two,” I scoff. To date, in my career, I’ve made just shy of seventy-five million dollars in prize money alone. “I could fuck off to The Keys and never have to work a day in my life. But I can’t.” I shake my head vehemently. “Golf is literally all I’ve got. It’s all I’ve known. And I am not about to let those red-hat-wearing motherfuckers at the AGL dictate when I can and cannot play.”
“Then youneedto comply,” Blake says, tapping a finger against the list of conditions laid out on the small table between him and Cam. “Or… you could always go and join the circus.” He shrugs a shoulder.
I throw him a steely, long-leveled look across the aisle. He’s referring the AGL’s only competitor. A whole new tour created by some billionaire who wanted to combine golf and, I don’t know, extreme sports or some shit. For no other reason than shits and gigs, apparently. It’s basically the AGL but with pyrotechnics and shirtless, drunk frat guys acting like assholes.
“Okay,” Blake says, seemingly accepting my silence as a response. “So, we’re going to cut our hair, work on our anger response, and… maybe look at a finding a nice young lady to settle down with.”
I rear back, snapping my head up. “Huh?” Gaping fromBlake to Cam and back again, I can’t help but laugh. “Um, where the hell did that come from?”
Blake and Cam trade a glance, and I hate that they’ve so obviously been discussing my life without me.
“It wouldn’t hurt you to start showing up to events with a nice lady on your arm,” Blake says with another casual shrug. “In fact,” he continues, flicking through his folio, “I have a few women in mind who are currently single, who have?—”
“Wait—” My face twists. “You’re actually fucking serious?”
Blake blinks, looking down at his apparent list of women like it’s not at all weird and kind of creepy that he’s compiled a list of matches for me to potentially date. “One of them is a Sports Illustrated model,” he declares, matter-of-factly.
I stare at him like he’s lost his goddamn mind. “So, you’re just gonna, what? Start doling out single chicks for me to date like some fuckin’ pimp?”
Cam winces, lowering his voice as he says, “Brookes, it wouldn’t hurt you to maybe look at meeting someone…”
“I don’twantto meetanyone,” I say, enunciating the words.
“Here we are, gentlemen.” Thankfully, the heated exchange is interrupted by the flight attendant returning with a tray of drinks, smiling obliviously as she sashays down the aisle toward us.
“You two just need to do your jobs and manage my business,” I mutter with a pointed look to the two men as I shove my AirPods into my ears. “Leave my fucking personal life out of it.”
Reclining my chair, I rest my head back against the soft leather, closing my eyes and smirking to myself the moment I press play on my phone, Spotify conveniently shuffling to “I Hate Everyone” by Falling in Reverse.
CHAPTER 2
BROOKES
Philip “Jonesy” Jones is an eighty-year-old retired professional golfer. He was the best in his day. Two green jackets and countless other trophies and cups. The guy is an institution. And I’ve been lucky enough to call him my unofficial mentor for the last six years. But he’s more than just my mentor; the grumpy old bastard is my friend. In fact, as embarrassing as it is, Jonesy’s pretty much my only friend. Turns out sober Brookes is not a big people person. Who the fuck knew?
“I’d chip it left and edge the decline,” Jonesy says over me while I’m crouched down, trying to get a read on the green.
Rising, I nod because, as always, he’s right. In fact, I bet Philip Jones could play this course with his eyes closed and still come out at least seven under.
I line up the shot, taking my time before chipping it to the left. But, of course, I’m not Jonesy, and the damn ball falls a touch too far right, finally rolling to a stop more than five inches from the fucking hole.
“Goddamn it,” I murmur under my breath, stepping up and nudging it in with a one-handed chip.
“Should change your name from Brookes to Bogey,” Jonesyjibes, limping to his ball marker with his putter clasped under his arm.
“That’s enough out of you, old man,” I mutter, tucking my ball into the pocket of my shorts and swapping Jonesy’s marker for his ball.
“How’d it go with Spielman and his band of merry fuckwits out in Dallas?” he asks, reading the green.
I sniff a laugh. Sometimes, I think the reason Jonesy and I connected the way we did is because we’re basically the same person, just in different font.
“They want me to… clean up my act,” I say through gritted teeth. “Golf is a gentlemen’s sport, after all.”
