“I…uh…thanks,” he says.
I nod, swallowing down the emotion that’s still hanging out at the tippy top of my esophagus, threatening to spill out and take who knows what form.
“I guess I needed that,” he says on a sigh. “I hate that you keep seeing me fall apart.”
“It’s okay,” I say quietly. The tangle of emotions I’m feeling for Holland has me tongue-tied. I don’t like feeling like this…off balance, unsure, out of control. Heck, am I jealous that he’s thinking about the other woman, and who in this competition he might end up with? I don’t want to admit it, but I think I might be.
What is happening to me right now?
Holland stretches his arms over his head and stands, and I follow suit.
“What do you have to do next?” I ask. Better to keep it surface level right now.
He checks his phone and curses. “They’re looking for me in the interview room. I’ve gotta get over there.”
“Are you going to be okay? I mean…your voice…you stuttered…” I trail off, suddenly unsure. I don’t know anything about Holland’s stutter except for what I’ve heard with my own ears on two occasions now. It’s obviously not something he talks about, but if he goes in there and gets panicky and can’t speak how he wants to speak, that’s only going to make the repercussions of this loss harder to come back from, at least in his eyes. I want to protect him.
He shifts his jaw, and his gaze hardens before he looks away from me. “I’m fine.”
He sounds like a guy with a chip on his shoulder. I’m used to playful, carefree Holland. A guy with more charisma and charm in his pinky finger than I have in my entire body. But right now, he’s shut down. He turns to leave, and I hold out my hand, grabbing him by the wrist.
“Are you sure? I can talk to someone. Get you out of it,” I offer.
“I said I was fine, Mallory. You don’t need to baby me. I can handle it.”
I flinch, pulling my hand back at his hardened tone. I open my mouth to respond, but no words come out.
Holland blinks a long blink, keeping his eyes closed for an extra beat. When he looks at me again, his gaze is devoid of any emotion. I don’t see even a whiff of remorse, and I feel my walls flying up.
“Forget I said anything,” I keep my tone cool. “Go ahead.”
He studies me and sighs. His gaze softens a fraction. “I didn’t mean…I wasn’t trying…” He blows out a breath. “You know what, it doesn’t matter. Never mind.”
“Right. Yeah. Never mind.” I cross my arms over my chest as he strides out the door. If only they could function as a literal shield, to protect me from a sudden wave of unwanted feelings.
He strides out the door, and I’m left alone in a storage shed. Traitorous tears prick the corners of my eyes.
You will not cry. You will not cry over him, or golf, or any of this.
I issue the demand to myself over and over as I go through my own breathing exercises, willing my heart rate to drop and my emotions to get the heck back under control.
This right here is the problem. This is the issue with blurring personal and professional lines. Because now, instead of analyzing Holland as a golfer, going through his round and pinpointing the areas we need to hone in on and improve for his next outing, I’m worrying about Holland as a person, asking questions about his stutter and feeling my heart crack open at his obvious loss of self-confidence.
And where did my concern for him get me?
Shut down and shut out.
Where have I seen this before?
I allow myself a minute in the dimly lit shed to gather myself and let my mask fall into place. Conceal it all. Don’t feel it at all. That’s always been my motto…or at least it has been since Brevan. I need it now more than ever.
Because what I don’t want to admit is how much it hurt me to have Holland push me away. What I don’t want to admit is that I want to be there for him as a person. But I can’t do that and keep my job and do it well. I need my job for my family, so I need to shut this all down. All the concern. All the compassion. All the hugging and fun.
I need to focus on the golf and the golf alone.
I leave the shed and wander back toward the clubhouse. The very last thing I want to do right now is go sit in the room with the rest of theMost Eligible Misterwomen, but what else can I do? I let myself into the side entrance and follow the maze of hallways toward the room where they have us waiting.
But then I hear Holland’s voice, amplified through the press room microphone, and I realize I’ve unknowingly walked right past the press room.
