“You think I don’t want this just as bad as every other guy out there?”
He ignores my outburst. “I think you’re distracted.” He grabs his tablet and swipes to a news app. “Half the golf media is already blaming your lackluster performance on her. Look at this shit.”
He turns the screen toward me. The headline readsGranger’s Game Slips as Details about New Girlfriend Emerge. Below it is a photo of Leah coming out of a coffee shop, her face half-obscured as she turns away from the waiting paparazzi.
“They’re wrong.” I deny the ridiculous claim immediately, but rage builds in my chest like a wildfire. My hands clench into fists as I stare at the picture.
“Are they?” Rory sets down the tablet and fixes me with a no-bullshit stare. “You’ve been ignoring your routine all week. Monday night, instead of getting a massage and reviewing course footage like you’ve done before every major since you earned your tour card, you went to her house for dinner.”
“I needed to eat—”
“Wednesday at the cocktail party, you were so busy playing boyfriend that you barely spoke to Martinez from First National, the one guy your agent wanted you to get some face time with. You know that deal could set you up for life, and he flew out here specifically to meet with you.”
Heat floods my face because he’s not wrong. “I introduced him to Leah—”
“And last night?” Rory stands and paces. “Instead of stretching, along with your protein shake and film study, you took her to the driving range to play golf instructor.”
“That was still golf-related,” I protest weakly.
Rory’s laugh is sharp. “Hitting some balls while teaching your girlfriend how to swing isn’t practice, it’s foreplay with golf clubs.”
I can’t argue with that assessment. Especially after what the foreplay led to.
“Today was the second round of the fucking U.S. Open,” he continues, his voice rising. “You might as well have shown up to the tee box in flip-flops.”
The truth of his words hits like a right hook. Every major I’ve ever played, my routine has been sacred. Methodical preparation, mental visualization, physical maintenance.
I take another swig of Gatorade. “You knew from the moment the Harbor course was named that I’d be spending time with her this week, if she’d have me.”
“She’s still not wearing your ring.”
As if I need the reminder. I twist the cap on the bottle and toss it onto the couch. “She’s going to be here any minute.”
“And are you going to send her away?”
“Hell no.”
He scoffs. “I didn’t think so.”
“Rory, I—”
“I’ve been watching you prep for tournaments since we were kids, Hays. You’re the most disciplined player I know, except when a certain brunette bookworm makes you lose your damn mind.”
He pauses, running a hand through his hair. “Plus, your mom’s flying in tomorrow, even though you’re a long shot at this point.”
My chest tightens. Mom’s coming to watch me play on Sunday, despite everything.
“Sunday’s Father’s Day,” I say quietly, the words carrying more weight than they should.
Rory’s expression softens. He knows what that means to me. But before he can say anything, my phone buzzes on the coffee table. Leah’s name flashes on the screen. Rory scoops up the tablet, already heading toward the door as I grab the phone, expecting to see the car I sent for her is downstairs.
Instead, my world tilts sideways.
I’m sorry. I can’t do tonight. I know you swear I’m not a distraction, but I’ve seen the headlines, and apparently, you’re the only one who believes that. I hope you understand. Good luck this weekend.
The words blur together as I read them once, twice, three times. My chest feels as if someone just drove a seven-iron straight through it.
“Hays?” Rory asks, eyeing me.
