The truth is, I’m grateful my childhood friends and some college buddies are here, having flown in from across the country over the last twenty-four hours to join my local friends. And that no one is fussing about theno women unless she’s got a ring on her finger and shares your last name rule, a policy I had to enact months ago when Thompson brought a handful of aspiring models to my Super Bowl party.
I sent them packing before they snapped a single pic.
“You okay?” Rory asks, eyeing me as he comes to help carry glasses.
“Awesome,” I lie, following him into the living room where the guys have made themselves at home. ESPN is dissecting today’s third round action from the BMW Championship, showing highlight reels of guys I should be competing against instead of watching from my couch like some amateur.
“This is fun?” He gestures toward my face with a glass. “Because you look like someone pissed in your protein shake.”
“Fuck off.”
“At least, you’re not missing much,” Jake says, nodding toward the TV where they’re showing the leader drain a thirty-footer. “Field’s pretty stacked this year. You probably would’ve missed the cut, anyway.”
The comment earns him a chorus of “ooohs” and a thrown pillow, but he’s dead wrong. After winning in Phoenix in February and earning two more top-tens, including a T-3 at Trinity Forest, I was on a roll, my head in the right place after a long season. My name wasn’t just being mentioned in conversations as a player in major contention; it was being tossed around as the winner.
Then one fat shot, where I chunked the ball during a Callaway photo shoot, landed me with a hyper-extended wrist, and suddenly, I’m watching the playoffs from my couch instead of competing for a spot in Atlanta.
“Remind me how you injured that wrist again,” Marcus says with a knowing smirk. “Was it swinging for the cameras, or were you handling yourequipmenta little too aggressively?”
“Jesus Christ.” I roll my eyes as the room erupts in laughter.
“What? You haven’t been spotted with a woman in what? A year?” he continues, clearly enjoying himself. “And now, you can’t even take matters into your own hands. That’s got to be rough.”
“I’m not discussing my habits with you degenerates.”
“So you admit there are habits to discuss,” Tyler jumps in. “Plural. As in, frequent and regular.”
“Multiple times daily,” Jake adds helpfully. “Maybe, it explains the wrist injury, after all.”
I flip them off with my good hand, which only makes the bastards laugh harder. The worst part is, they’re not entirely wrong. My current limitation is driving me slowly insane.
“You could always switch hands,” Rory suggests with mock seriousness. “Might be good practice for your short game.”
“Or he could just, you know, get laid like a normal person,” Marcus counters. “There are literally hundreds of women in this city who would volunteer for the job.”
“Probably hundreds of thousands.”
The conversation continues around me, but I tune them out. They love giving me a hard time, plus their ribbing changes nothing. I’m still one thousand percent focused on my goal, even if my wrist injury is a setback I didn’t plan on.
I’m about to drain my Dom when Rory stands, stretching. “I need another beer. Anyone else?” He heads toward the kitchen as a Ping commercial comes on.
“Hey, Granger,” he calls out a moment later, his tone catching my attention. “You see this letter in your mail pile? The return address is from Starlight Bay.”
My heart stops.
Completely fucking stops.
I’m out of my chair and across the room, nearly tripping over the coffee table in my haste. There, tucked in the stack of bills and junk mail my housekeeper must have left earlier, is a letter-sized envelope. Cream-colored with the addresses typed neatly, standing out like a diamond in a coal mine.
“Holy shit,” I breathe. So she got the birthday present I sent after all. I snatch up the envelope and rip into it. I hoped for some sort of acknowledgement, even though I broke our no-contact rule. Hell, a scolding would be better than nothing. Instead, the typed letter and handwritten pages inside make me lose my mind.
Hays,
I should probably return the typewriter. According to the terms of our agreement, birthday presents technically constitute contact, which we both agreed to avoid. But it’s a vintage beauty in pristine condition—and mint green—which I have a feeling wasn’t a coincidence. So I’m keeping it. Sue me.
I hope you enjoyed a large slice of birthday cake, since you’re such a sucker for dessert, and that there wasn’t anything more tempting to distract you. I celebrated with a red velvet cake this year, with old-fashioned candles that dripped wax all over and a pointed party hat. It was perfect. I wonder what your favorite cake flavor is. For some reason, I’m thinking anything but vanilla.
I can’t help but point out that the typewriter arrived three days before my birthday, which means, once again, you are early, or as, some might say, ‘premature.’ So despite never having been called that before, I find myself justified in once again assigning that descriptor to you. You can, however, consider it a character flaw I’m willing to overlook, given the circumstances. After all, enthusiasm has its merits, even if your execution needs work.
