“Well, yeah,” I admit.
He rubs the back of his neck. “There’s so much out of my control.” His voice is hoarse. “It’s not like golf, you know? There, I have a sequence of actions I can follow. A skill set I can tap into. But this…” He breaks off and shakes his head. “This is unlike anything I’ve ever done.”
“You’d usually be the first to tell me you have a skill set where women are concerned,” I point out, because I can’t help myself.
He almost smiles, but not quite.
“I felt the anxiety building, and I thought I could get through it, but there are so many cameras, and I’m so tired. Gosh, what timeisit?”
I tap my phone. “Six twenty-seven…a.m.”
He groans. “I can barely think straight. I’m going to make a fool of myself. This is not how I thought the first night would go.”
I press my lips together. He mistakes my expression for smug.
“Go ahead. I’m sure you’d love to gloat. SayI told you so.”
He’s not wrong. Usually, I’d be thrilled to have the upper hand and rub something in Holland’s face.
But I’m not about to kick my athlete when he’s down. Besides, we just went through something together. Something real. I’m not going to make fun of him for whatever he’s dealing with. Not when I saw firsthand how much it rattled him.
“I’m thinking about how we can get you through this,” I say.
He cocks his head to the side. “I’m listening.”
“You said it’s not like golf, but we can break it down like it is. Imagine we’re on the eighteenth fairway. Last hole of the day. You’re exhausted, but you’re not giving up. I’ll kick your butt if you do.”
That earns a partial smile.
Calling it a win.
“Here’s how this is going to go. After we’re done here, you’re going to go out there and find your producer. Tell her it’s time to be done. You get to take some control of this ridiculously drawn-out event.”
He nods slowly. “I can do that. I just want this night to be over.”
“Then talking to the producer is the first step in making that happen. After that, you should go to your room. Take a second to get your bearings. You don’t need to talk to anyone else. Give yourself a minute.”
Holland is hanging on my every word. This is good. I’m good at giving directions, and he’s good at following them. This is how we work best.
I think through how the rest of this event is supposed to go. We have to get through the bouquet ceremony, and then we should be home free.
“Do you have your picks made?” I try not to think about how ridiculous it is that I’m talking to Holland about which women he’s choosing for a reality TV dating show. What is my life?
“I think so, but that’s half the problem. What if I say the wrong name? Or can’t remember a name? I don’t want to look like an idiot.”
I study the bags under Holland’s eyes and the way his mouth is drawn. This is not the moment to tell him to man up or remind him that these are very privileged concerns he’s having. He’s truly worked up. So again, I bite my tongue and try to approach this like I would a problem with his swing.
That’s it.
“Golf.”
“What?” He furrows his brow.
“This entireMEMsituation is hyping up the fact that you’re an all-star golfer, right?”
“I guess.” He shrugs and then manages to smirk. “I mean, I am.”
There’s the Holland I’m used to.
