Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 111959 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 560(@200wpm)___ 448(@250wpm)___ 373(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111959 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 560(@200wpm)___ 448(@250wpm)___ 373(@300wpm)
Wells didn’t know. But apparently when he’d told Josephine that golf had stolen his soul, it wasn’t an exaggeration.
Josephine.
His other reason for distracting himself with exercise.
Women didn’t usually get under his skin. It was fucking annoying, was what it was. Last night, while in the shower, he’d had an imaginary conversation with her. Out loud. Defending his backswing. When he thought of the tournament, she was the first thing that popped up in his mind. How she’d be wearing a caddie uniform with his name on it in big, block letters. And how he liked that image a little too much.
Wells had no time for romantic bullshit. Occasional, casual hookups were part of his bachelor lifestyle, but anything beyond that only led to making plans, enduring long-winded phone calls, and taking on responsibilities he’d never asked for. He’d learned that early on in his career after three very short-term relationships. Being on television, making millions of dollars, had made him something of a magnet for people with a single motive: get a slice of that money pie. Relationships tended to move very quickly in the golf world. Because players were on the road so often, they were pressured into making commitments. To offset the doubt.
Not Wells. Not ever.
The fact that Josephine had been more than happy to wash her hands of Wells altogether—and seemed to kind of dislike him—was somewhat . . . reassuring. Hell, she’d tried to throw him out of her pro shop. She wouldn’t even take his money without working for it. He definitely wouldn’t have to worry that she had some secret plan to make a rich, devoted husband out of him.
Cool.
Great.
Wells realized he was staring at his own thunderous frown in the mirror and shook himself, snatching the phone out of his pocket and pulling up the contact for Buck Lee.
One deep breath and he dialed, hating the way his pulse raced.
Buck answered on the third ring, the older man’s voice as distinct as ever. A soft boom.
“Wells.”
“Buck.”
“I suppose if you’re calling me, you must be alive,” drawled the legend. “The question is why are you calling, Wells? We’ve got nothing to say to each other.”
Two years had passed since his mentor had washed his hands of Wells, but the memory still had the ability to sting. “I had no other choice but to call you. I’m asking you to hear me out.”
“Son, if you wanted to quit, you should have gone through the proper channels, instead of lighting on out of there without showing an ounce of respect. There is nothing anyone can do for you now.”
“Now that’s a lie, Buck. You could cancel the tour with a phone call, if you were so inclined.”
His mentor scoffed. “If you think flattery is going to get you anywhere—”
“We both know I don’t flatter anyone. It’s the truth.”
A long sigh on the other end. “What do you want from me? Hurry up, so I can tell you no.”
Panic moved like an ice cube slipping down his spine. “I want back on the tour.”
“Never going to happen,” Buck said, without hesitation. “But I am curious to know why. Why do you want back on the tour? You’re embarrassing yourself out there. I don’t know what happened to the Wells Whitaker I coached to greatness, but he’s long gone.”
Pressure spread behind Wells’s eyes, his head pounding.
This was humiliating. He wanted nothing more than to hang up.
The only thing that prevented him from doing so was Josephine. She would be on her way to Texas soon. For him. Because he’d asked. Because she needed help and caddying was the only way she’d take assistance from him. “There’s a . . .”
Girl? No, that sounded cliché. Or made it seem like there was a romantic connotation to his relationship with Josephine—and there definitely wasn’t. Even if he wouldn’t mind a good, long taste of her. Just one, to appease his curiosity.
“I have a new caddie,” Wells settled on, attempting to banish the thought of kissing the spirited redhead. “Something about the way she speaks about golf, my game in general, that makes me think . . . she could . . .” Make me love it again. “Make a difference.”
This time, the pause was so long, Wells checked to see if Buck had hung up.
Then finally, he said, “I’m sorry, did you say your caddie is a woman?”
Wells frowned. “What about it? You think that means she can’t be qualified?”
Buck let out a breath in his ear. “Qualified or not, you’ve already become a joke out there. Now you’re proposing a tour comeback with a woman carrying your bag? Have you thought about how that’s going to look, son? If another player made the same attempt, he’d probably be called progressive. But you? They’re just going to think it’s another way for you to mock the establishment.”