“That’s the plan,” I say, not looking at him. “I’m not ready to give it up just yet.”
“Nor should you be,” he’s quick to say. “I’ve seen a lot of golfers in my time and, trust me, you ain’t done yet, kid.”
I smile at that. Because if I trust anyone when it comes to golf, it’s this man sitting right next to me.
“You want me to drop you up at the club house or take you back to the parking lot?” I ask as the sprawling country club comes into view over the last rise.
“Drop me off at the club, kid,” Jonesy says, rubbing his hands together. “Lori’s meeting me for date night.”
I grin, turning left at the fork and following the path to the club, slowing to a stop at the bottom of the stone steps that lead up to the entrance of the member’s only bar.
“You should date Poppy,” Jonesy says, hefting himself out of the cart.
I balk, gaping at him, wondering if I just heard him correctly. “Huh?”
“Poppy,” he says again, louder this time, like I’m one of his eighty-year-old buddies whose hearing aid isn’t turned up enough.
I blink. “Yeah, that’s what I thought you said. What the fuck are you talking about, old man?”
“Blake and Cam want you to settle down with a woman,” he continues with a shrug. “What better woman is there than Poppy?”
“Oh my God,” I mutter under my breath and, shaking my head, I watch him toddle up the steps, mumbling something to himself, and I wait until I see him go safely inside before I pull away.
CHAPTER 3
BROOKES
It’s dark by the time I get home, and my anxiety begins to stir. Nights are notoriously bad for me. Nights are when I start thinking about having a drink, and my mind tries to trick me into thinking that just one beer won’t hurt. Of course, I don’t have any beer in the fridge, but it really wouldn’t take a lot to get some delivered.
I hop out of my car and head into the house, walking through to the main living area, the auto-illuminating lights the only thing here to greet me.
It’s kind of stupid to live in such a big house. Six bedrooms and eight-and-a-half bathrooms for just one person? Insane. Much to Cam’s dismay, I bought this place without any fiscal advice whatsoever, when I was at my highest, right after I signed a lucrative ten-year deal with Royale worth more money than even made sense; a deal that was prematurely terminated just a few days ago due to my bad behavior at Hilton Head. But I do love this house. It’s right on the beach, the neighbors are out of sight, and there was enough land for me to have my own tailor-made putting green installed in the front. It’s a compound. One I rarely have to leave. Perfect for a newfound recluse like me. But, on nights like tonight when it’s just me with nothing but the roarof the Atlantic Ocean crashing against the sand outside, sometimes it feels like I’m the only person left in the world, and to be honest, it can be super fucking lonely.
I grab a Gatorade from the fridge and crack it open, taking a big swig as I look out over the view of the water glowing beneath the light of the moon hanging low in the night sky, which is when my gaze snags on a stack of mail I assume Cam probably dropped off today and left on the countertop for me because he knows I rarely use my designated office for anything more than additional Big Swing storage.
As I rifle through the stack, there’s nothing of much interest. Accounts Cam already paid, event invitations Cam’s already accepted or declined, but when I see an unopened shimmering white envelope with fancy font addressed to me here at the house instead of the PO Box that goes to Cam, my interest piques. Lifting the tab, I pull out a card with even fancier font in shiny gold embossed letters that readYou’re Invited. Opening the card, my heart sinks because I know what this is; I’ve been dreading it ever since I got theSave the Datea few months back.
Together with their families, Hannah Draper and Happy Slater request the honor of your presence to join with them to celebrate their wedding.
Fuck.
I met Hannah last year, when I was in New York. She works for SNN, the top sports news broadcast in the country. She was looking after me while I was there filming some face-to-camera segments for my special that was supposed to air with the leadup to The Masters. Unfortunately, that was the time I hit rock bottom. Hannah saved my fucking life. She found me, passed out, covered in my own vomit, close to death. And it was her boyfriend, Happy, a hockey player for the New York Thunder and son of rock legend, Jonny Slater—a man who haspublicly faced his own alcohol and drug-induced demons—who made me take the first step and admit to those closest to me that I had a problem. It was then that I pulled out of The Masters and went to rehab instead. I owe both Happy and Hannah my life, and over the last year, we’ve formed a special bond. Friends doesn’t seem enough; I consider them pretty much family.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m happy for them. So happy for them. They’re perfect together. But the longer I stare down at the invitation in my hand, that same trepidation I’ve been feeling more and more lately starts to swirl in the pit of my chest, making it suddenly hard to breathe.
The thing is, I thought things would be different by now, better. I thought I’d be back to my old self. The old cocky, arrogant, self-assured Brookes people know and can’t help but love. Or hate. But, somewhere along my journey to recovery I seem to have lost myself. And, as much as I try to act like it doesn’t bother me, deep down, I can’t help but wonder if maybe the old Brookes is gone for good.
As I reread the invitation, focusing on the big boldedPLUS ONEright next to my name, I think back to what Cam and Blake said, about what Jonesy said. And, while a relationship is literally the last thing I want in my life right now, maybe a woman on my arm might make these things a little less unbearable.
Ever since I first started to make a name for myself in golf, back when I played on the college team, people have criticized my swing. What can I say? Compared to the greats, it’s goofy as hell. There are books, YouTube channels, social media pages dedicated to my weird-ass swing. Throughout my entire career, top golf analysts have spent years studying it, trying to make sense of it. My competitors have tried to emulate it, every single one of them failing and making fools of themselves in the process. Retired greats have even commented onit, making fun of it, making fun of me, claiming that my swing has made a mockery of the prestigious game of golf. But it’s my swing. And, in my defense, I don’t even know how I do it, or why I do it, but it works. For me. At least itdid.
“You’re pulling up too much, Brookes,” Matt, my long-term swing coach, yells, interrupting me for the umpteenth time. “Your right shoulder is dropping and you’re not locking your elbow.”
“Fuck!” I shout, turning and hurling the club across the fairway.
I take a moment to collect myself, hands on my hips as I stare off into the thicket of trees, focusing on my breaths. But it’s pointless. We’ve been out here, in the brutal sun, for over an hour, and I’ve successfully hit three balls.Three. Today is not a good day. And, for whatever reason, my mind is absolutely not on golf.
I hear footsteps approach from behind, and I close my eyes on a steady exhale.
