I pull up to the side of the pool, taking a seat on the shallow ledge and watching him as he continues doing laps without me.
“What are you scared of the most?” I ask. “Not winning or failing?”
He sniffs a laugh. “There’s a difference?”
“Of course there’s a difference.”
“Not where I come from, there’s not…” He scoffs. “If you’re not first, you’re last. A loser.”
I frown at that. “You’re scared of losing?”
Brookes swims toward me, pulling himself up onto the shallow ledge next to me and pushing his wet hair back from his face while huffing an exhale.
“Losing,” he says. “Failing. Not making the cut. Or, making the cut only to make a goddamn fool of myself like I did at Hilton Head.” With a scoff, he adds, “Hell, I’m scared of everything. I just don’t show it. Because fear is weakness. And only the strong survive, or at least that’s what I was raised to believe.”
I’m taken aback by the surprising and uncharacteristic fragility in his tone, watching him from the corner of my eyes as he continues with a humorless laugh. “I’ve got major daddy issues, Pops.”
“Tell me about him,” I urge, and when he meets my eyes, I nod. “Your dad.”
“What do you wanna know?” He sniffs another derisive laugh, shaking his head to himself as he gazes out over the water.
I shrug my shoulders. “Whatever you feel like telling me.”
Brookes hunches forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and his jaw tics, his gaze turning hard as he stares straight ahead at nothing. And, for a moment, I think he’s going to shut me out, say nothing. But then he starts talking.
“When I was in first grade, I stole another kid’s spelling test because he scored a ten out of ten and I only got six out of ten. I took it home, showed my folks, pretended it was mine. My dad was so happy. He hung it up on the wall in his office.” Brookes shakes his head to himself, a sad smile ghosting his lips. “And in my entire time at school, that was the only time he was ever truly proud of me. The only thing that he ever deemed worthy to have up on his wall and… it wasn’t even mine.”
I look down, noticing the goosebumps that prick my skin.
“Growing up, I wasted so many years trying to make that man proud, doing whatever I could to experience some semblance of fatherly love. But I never succeeded.” He shakes his head again, huffing another derisive, self-deprecating scoff. “So, when I was fifteen and the golf pro at my family’s country club discovered my raw talent, I decided to stop trying to win my father’s affection and focus instead on golf. Because if I wasgood enough, then I knew one day I’d be able to go off and live a life where I wouldn’t need him or the Devereaux name to succeed.”
“And you did,” I say, reminding him because I feel like he needs the reminder right now.
Brookes nods, meeting my eyes before quickly averting his gaze. “Yep. I did. And when I got accepted to college on a full scholarship, I went no contact with my father. And I haven’t spoken to him since.”
I frown again because although I know it’s sad, I also understand in a way most wouldn’t.
Brookes turns to me again, meeting my eyes, only this time he doesn’t look away. “But for as long as I live, I will never forget what he told me when I was just eight years old and I came second in my first ever chess meet at school.”
I wait for him to continue, the look in his eyes stark and heartbreaking.
“If you’re not first, you’re last, son. You’re a loser.” He smiles, but it’s sad, and it doesn’t come close to meeting the darkness that flickers his eyes. “Unfortunately, I don’t think I’ll ever forget that.”
CHAPTER 19
BROOKES
The Oklahoma wind skates across the fairway, carrying the murmured whispers of the crowd along with it. I blink hard as I stare down at my ball, trying to block out the words I really don’t need to hear right now.
Washed-up.
Has-been.
Never will be again.
I take my stance, and all I can think about is how heavy the club feels, weighted down by the memory of Hilton Head and every shitty swing since. I swing anyway. The contact is thin—too clean to be bad, too weak to be good—and the ball shanks right, settling into a patch of rough that looks a hell of a lot thicker than it did a second ago.
The crowd behind me groans. Even my most loyal fans have given up on me after yesterday’s poor first-round performance. I finished on seventy-two. And today isn’t looking much better. Man, I am so fucking screwed.
