She meets my eyes, that knowing gleam sparking behind them. “I enjoy seeing people get what they want. Especially when they don’t think it’s possible.”
I sit back, seeing her in a new light now. Yes, she’s the woman I love, but she’s also the quiet force rearranging lives with nothing but charm, timing, and heart.
If Violet comes to Sydney, Magnolia will have her entire world right here where she wants it. Right where it belongs.
By the eighteenth hole, Elias knows he’s been beaten.
I sink the final putt with a slow fist pump, dragging it out just enough to get a groan out of him.
“Jesus, we get it. You’re the athlete of the family,” he says, flipping me off with two fingers and a crooked grin.
I toss a grin over my shoulder at Magnolia. “You see that? Poetry in motion.”
She claps, eyes bright. “Stunning. Truly. I’ll be thinking about it for days.”
“Jealousy’s a bad look on you, Elias,” I say as we head back to the cart.
“Yeah, yeah. Enjoy your moment, champ.”
I do. Every bit of it.
But not because I won the game. Not even because I smoked him by six strokes and he’ll be stewing about it until our next rematch.
Magnolia rides beside me in the cart as we roll back toward the clubhouse, the course golden in the late morning light. Her hair’s caught in the breeze, lip gloss faded, cheeks pink from the sun and laughing too much. She’s got that quiet smile she wears when she’s content.
She came for a golf game, but she ended up putting something in motion. And if Violet ends up in Sydney? It’ll fill in the hole in her heart… and possibly my brother’s as well.
And I’ll do everything in my power to make sure that happens.
Chapter 18
Alex Sebring
The sky’s a dark brooding navy above us, and the lights glare down—way too bright for a game falling apart at the seams.
Thirty-seven minutes into the first half and we’re trailing. Bad.
The scoreboard spits out the truth in neon numbers, but I don’t have to see it. I can read it in the crowd. The tension crackling through the stands, the nervous edge in their cheers. It buzzes under my skin—this sick churn in my gut that hasn’t let up since their first score.
I pace the sideline, headset pressed to one ear, heart hammering with every missed tackle, every clumsy offload, every wasted opportunity.
We’re playing Tyson’s team. Of all the fucking teams in the world. And we’re bleeding out.
I watch our fly-half take another late read, wreck the play, and get swallowed up by their line defense like he’s wearing a neon target. He scrambles out of it. Doesn’t even notice the wing where the space opened up—where we could’ve had a breakaway if he wasn’t so far up his own ass trying to prove a point.
“Fuck’s sake,” I yell, yanking the headset down.
He jogs to the sideline for water, face red and sweat-slicked, a scowl already locked in place.
“Play to the inside on that switch. You’re hesitating—if you read the ten’s shoulder, you’d see he’s opening for the slip.”
He rips the bottle from the trainer’s hand, glares at me like I’m the problem. “You wanna run the fucking game, Sebring? Be my guest.”
I don’t move. Don’t blink. “I’m trying to help you beat these fuckers, Declan.”
He barks a bitter laugh. “You’re counting down the minutes until I’m gone.”
“You’re making it easy, mate.”
