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“When I saw you on TV yesterday struggling,” she continues, her voice growing stronger, “I knew it was my fault. Not because you can’t handle pressure, but because I took away the one thing you asked for. Me.”

“Sweetheart—”

“I love you. Win or lose today, major championship or not, I love you and I want to marry you. As soon as possible.”

The air rushes from my lungs as her words sink in, settling deep in my chest as if they’ve found their home. My vision blurs, and I have to blink hard, my throat working. Three years of waiting, of wondering, of hoping, but now, she’s here, and she’s wearing my ring and she loves me.

“I spent yesterday hiding,” she continues, “convinced I was protecting you by staying away. But all I was doing was proving I don’t trust you, don’t trust us. And that’s not fair, because you’ve never given me a reason not to.”

I squeeze her hands, the familiar feel of her grounding me, pulling me back from the edge of losing it completely in front of half the golf world.

“The headlines, the distraction—”

“Are bullshit.” The curse word sounds foreign coming from her, but the conviction is pure Leah. “I’ve been so busy cataloging all the reasons we shouldn’t work that I forgot to appreciate the miracle that we do.”

My throat clears, and the cocky confidence that’s been my trademark since junior golf resurfaces. Because she’s right. We do work. Against all logic, against all odds, we work perfectly.

“Damn right, we do,” I say with a smile. “I told you that first night we were perfect together.”

“You did.” Her laugh is watery but genuine. She pulls her hands from mine to reach into her pocket, pulling out something that makes my heart stop.

My ball marker.

The pressed penny from Pikes Peak I convinced my dad to get for me the time we went to play The Broadmoor and enjoyed a detour to the base of the mountain together. The one thing I could give her that first night, that would show how serious I was.

Tears prick the back of my eyes.

“I want you to have this back,” she says, pressing the warm metal into my palm. “I want you to play with it today knowing that no matter what happens, I’m yours.”

I close my fist around it, unable to speak.

“I know what being with you means now,” she says, her dropping. “But I’m ready for the adventure. As long as you’re by my side.”

I can’t hold back anymore. Leaning across the rope, I cup her face in my hands and kiss her as if my life depends on it. She tastes like a dream finally coming true.

Around us, the practice range erupts in cheers and applause. Camera phones have captured everything, and voices call out congratulations, but I don’t give a damn about the photos or the headlines or what story the media might spin from this moment.

Because this woman is mine.

When we break apart, my heart is pounding. “Will you meet me at eighteen? Whether I’m in contention or not, will you be there when I finish?”

“Try and stop me.” Her laugh is pure joy.

My assigned tour official, a middle-aged man with graying temples and the efficient demeanor of someone who’s worked dozens of these events over the years, stands about ten feet away, clipboard in hand, having watched the entire reunion play out along with everyone else.

“Jim,” I call out. “Could you help me with something?”

He approaches with obvious recognition of what’s coming, his eyes darting between Leah and me. “What can I do for you, Mr. Granger?”

“Player Family credentials,” I say, gesturing to Leah. “She needs to be inside the ropes.”

“I’m sorry, but without official documentation, you won’t be able to get Family credentials.” His tone is apologetic but firm.

I notice the gold band on his left hand and shift tactics, my voice softening but loud enough for the gathered spectators to hear. “You’re married, Jim?”

He blinks at the change in direction. “Twenty-three years next month.”

“Do you remember the first time your wife told you she loved you?”