The first thing I’d done was track down every scrap of information I could find about the Shamrock people and their plans.
Emails, phone calls, late-night research sessions with my new trusty mobile Wi-Fi (because the pub network wasshite)—I’d been living and breathing this battle. Turns out, the project Big Gil and his posse of bastards had set up had more loopholes than a broken fishing net, and I was determined to use every single one of them to throw a wrench in their plans.
I’d spoken to Paddy, Mickey, and half the landowners in the area—good, hardworking people who were being squeezed to their breaking points by inflated land assessments and impossible taxes.
Cillian had been clever, I’d give him that, but his greed left a trail so clear even an amateur could follow it.
I wasn’t an amateur.
I’d spent hours on the phone with Brad, working to mobilize his social media team for our “small village versus corporate greed” campaign.
Brad thought I’d lost my mind at first, but when I told him how much this mattered to Dee—to us—he got on board. By the time we were done, Ballybeg would be a headline in every golf magazine and Irish news outlet from Dublin to Donegal.
I was going to do interviews and talk about my personal life—about Dee, about Ballybeg. If there was ever a reason to put myself under a media microscope, this was it.
Then there were the financials. I crunched the numbers, consulted lawyers, and set things in motion—strategically buying up land to make life difficult for the developers. To keep it quiet, I used a shell company instead of my own name.
Fergus showing up meant they’d figured it out.
In the middle of all that, my father called.
I considered letting it ring out. Instead, I stepped away from Dee and answered. She didn’t need to hear it. She’d feel guilty—and only because she hadn’t met my parents. If she had, she’d be the first to tell me to tell him to feck off.
“I hear you’re doing this because of awoman,” he thundered as I sat on the bench outside the pub, musing about how much at home I felt here.
“Yeah, Dad, it’s your future daughter-in-law.” I knew that would needle him right where it hurts, and it did.
“A fucking pub owner? Are you out of your mind?”
“No, Dad, I’m in love.”
“Same difference,” Dad growled. “Now look, everyone likes a little strange, and you’re?—”
“We’re not gonna discuss my sex life.” I kept my tone light, but I was gritting my teeth.
“First, you give up your family legacy, and now?—”
“Dad, you need to pull out of Big Gil’s Irish deal,” I put enough steel in my voice so he’d know I was serious.
“Not happenin’, son.”
“In that case, when the media calls you a money-hungryarseholewho’s screwing his son’s fiancée’s village, don’t come complaining to me about it.”
“Why would the media call me anything?” he asked cautiously.
“Because in about a half hour, I have a Zoom interview with Scott Van Pelt, and I’m going to tell him all about how wonderful Ballybeg is, and how Big Gil and the guys in Cork are a bunch of gobshites.”
My father knew Scott Van Pelt; in fact, half the sports fans in the world did.
Scott was a prominent ESPN host known for his conversational and engaging style on SportsCenter. Hewas the first media personality Brad had called, and Scott was excited to talk to me when he saw what I was trying to do.
“Jax, you’re going to ruin your life.”
“Dad, that’s what you said when I said I wanted to play golf, and now I have two PGL championships.” I looked at my watch. “Now, think about what I said, and I’ll talk to you later.”
I hung up on him and got ready for my interview with Scott, which would air in two days, kicking off our social media assault.
Meanwhile, I’d spoken to my finance guy, and we were ready to start covering property taxes for the villagers who wanted to stay put.
