“Let me see Holland once more real quick.”
I angle the phone is his direction. “Wanted to tell you we’ll be rooting for you at the Grand Masters, Holland.” My mom beams. “We’re rooting for you to find love too!”
“Thank you, Mrs. Walsh.” Holland’s return smile is kind.
When I flip the phone back so I’m in the frame, I can’t even summon a smile. I do look terrible. My skin is grayish, and there are dark circles under my eyes. It’s a good thing I’m not trying to impress Holland, because I would be very self-conscious right now.
I squint my eyes, forcing myself to focus on my mom through the pounding in my head. “I’ll talk to you soon, Mom. Love you.”
“Love you too, Mal.”
I hang up and shove the phone in my pocket. “Thanks for humoring her.”
“Anytime. She’s lovely.” Holland crosses his arms over his chest. “You don’t look so good.”
He puts a hand out and presses it to my forehead. I’m so shocked at the gesture that it takes me a full five seconds before I have the wherewithal to swat it away.
“What are you doing?”
“You’re burning up.”
“I am not.” I feel my own forehead.
“You can’t check your own temperature like that. Totally inaccurate.”
“What do you know?”
In response, Holland grabs my hand and tugs me in the direction of the parking lot.
“Hey!” I pull back, but he’s not loosening his grip. “The golf course is that way. Where are you going?”
“I’m making the executive decision that we’re not practicing today.”
I quicken my pace to keep up with him. “I’m the coach here. That’s not your dec—“
He spins around, pulling my hand with him so that we’re face to face. He looks down at me, and his warm brown eyes are flashing, not in their usual teasing way, but with a hint of something that looks like concern. They dart back and forth over my face, as if checking me for an injury.
“I was here this morning, running through the mechanics work you assigned me. I got my reps in. I’m feeling good about where I’m at. But I’m not going to be able to focus out there right now if I’m worried about you and how you’re feeling. Since I’m the one paying you, as you so often remind me, it’s my call today. And I say no practice.”
I open my mouth to argue, but he places a finger over my lips.
“No practice,” he repeats. “You’re coming with me to my apartment.”
He opens the passenger door to his car and loops an arm around my waist, angling me into the seat.
“Bradley, this isn’t necessary. I can—“
He shuts the door on my protests.
Rude.
I wait for him to get behind the wheel.
“I can go back to Daisy’s and rest there if we’re not going to practice.”
He shakes his head as he pulls out of the parking lot. “Nope. Who’ll make you chicken soup, then?”
I let my head fall back against the headrest. The cold medicine and the headache are making me feel like I’ve got an anvil for a brain. “This is exactly why I don’t mix my work and personal life.”
