When he continues, his tone is softer. “When you told me you gave her your ball marker, man…I knew you were serious. But now, you’re trying so hard to get back to her that you’re forgetting how to play the game that’s supposed to get you there.”
Of course, he’s right. But that’s what’s killing me.
Six months of radio silence and I’m fucking losing my mind. Without contact, I’m forced to imagine what her days are like and wish I was there to fill her bed at night.
Six months of wondering what book she’s reading while I’m over here fantasizing about that smart mouth doing more than just calling me on my bullshit.
Endless hours of replaying that little gasp she made when I backed her against the railing, the way she fit perfectly against me and kissed as if she were all in.
Hell, I’ve jerked off hundreds of times since Starlight Bay, picturing Leah in every position possible. Especially with my face buried between her legs. And every time, I imagine the day when I finally get my hands on her again, knowing it’ll be worth the wait. She’ll scream my name so loud the neighbors will file noise complaints.
“When’s the last time you got laid?” Rory asks, reading the frustration written all over my face. “There was that cocktail waitress at the bar giving you the eye—”
“Not happening.” I grab a bottle of water from an ice-filled tub and take a long drink. “I told you, no distractions.”
“Yeah, but I didn’t believe you.”
“Believe me now,” I snap, cutting him off. “Look, I know how this sounds, but I meant what I said that night. When I win a major, I’m going to marry her. And that means no distractions until then.”
“Okay, I get it. But if that’s the plan, you need to stay focused. You’re going to win a major—hell, probably multiple majors in your career, but—”
“I’m glad we agree on that.” Since the day I was warming up and overheard my dad predicting I’d win a major someday, and likely many, the driving need to prove him right has haunted me. Because that was the day he died.
“But not anytime soon if you don’t get your head straight.”
I throw open the door to the clubhouse with more force than necessary. “Pressure makes diamonds.”
He shakes his head as if he knows it’s useless to continue the pep talk. “Alright then. Phoenix it is. But next week, you play for you. Everything else—including your future wife—will have to wait. At least, for now.”
I’m still rolling my shoulders, trying to shake off the shit round, when a woman in a navy blazer appears at my elbow. I recognize her immediately from the Tour’s media relations team. Her smile is professional but warm.
“Hays, do you have a few minutes for the media room?” she asks, tablet in hand. “I know it wasn’t the week you hoped for, but there are still a few reporters who’d like to chat. Jenna Morely from Golf Channel among them.”
I wave off Rory, who’s already heading to the equipment area, then straighten my shoulders and flash my most charming smile. “Absolutely, I’m always happy to talk golf.”
Chapter ten
Hays | Five Months Later
The bottle of champagne refuses to cooperate, the cork wedged tight as I wrestle with it one-handed. My wrist throbs in its brace, a constant reminder I’m officially done for the season. There are three tournaments left on the schedule, including the Tour Championship, and I’m sitting on my ass in Scottsdale like some weekend warrior, who can’t even grip his own shaft properly.
“Need help there, champ?” Rory calls from the living room, where he and the guys are sprawled across my sectional, ESPN highlights playing on the massive screen.
“I’ve got it,” I grit out, though the cork hasn’t budged. Sweat beads on my forehead as I try to get leverage without aggravating the ligament damage that’s kept me out of commission for two weeks so far. The orthopedist said four to six weeks recovery minimum, which means my season’s toast.
I didn’t want to celebrate my birthday at all. When your season ends with a whimper instead of the bang you’d been building toward, the last thing you want is a bunch of guys reminding you of everything that’s gone to shit. But Rory wouldn’t take no foran answer, and when he puts his mind to something, there’s no stopping him.
“Famous last words,” someone laughs—Emmitt, I think, though with the acoustics in this place, it’s hard to tell who’s chirping from the peanut gallery.
The cork finally gives with a satisfying pop, champagne foam cascading over my hand and onto the granite countertop. I grab a paper towel, dabbing at the mess.
“Dom Pérignon for a pity party,” Marcus calls out, appearing in the kitchen doorway with an empty beer can. “That’s very you, Granger.”
“It’s a belated birthday celebration, asshole. I can drink whatever I want.” I pour champagne into six whiskey tumblers because I don’t own champagne flutes. “Besides, someone’s got to drink the good stuff since you degenerates showed up with cheap beer.”
“Some of us don’t make millions hitting a ball around. We have real jobs,” he shoots back, grabbing two glasses to ferry to the living room.
“Except for Emmitt,” Tyler adds. “Not that whacking a puck while getting your teeth knocked out screams ‘stable career path.’”
