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)
Josephine.
But he didn’t want to do it anymore. Didn’t want to show up and try uselessly to recapture the glory days. He’d lost his magic and would never find it again. It was somewhere out in the trees with his ball. She needed to go, so he could pull the plug. So he could stop waking up every morning trying to locate his missing optimism. He could finally drink himself to death in peace and never see another golf green for the rest of his life.
None of which would be happening if he followed through on this ridiculous contest.
“Go.” Turning on a heel, he ripped off his glove and waved it in the general direction of the fans streaming toward the clubhouse. Looking her in the eye was hard, which was ridiculous because he didn’t even know her. Not personally. And he never would. They’d had many brief exchanges on the course, but all their conversations were golf-related. Quick, if somehow . . . meaningful. More important than the average interaction with a spectator. He couldn’t dwell on that, though. It was over. “Go. I’m dropping out.” Finally, he found the balls to lean across the rope and meet her widening green eyes. “It’s over, belle. Go home.”
“No.”
Laughing without humor, he chucked his glove down the fairway. If only he could play a ball that straight. “Well, you’re going to be cheering for a ghost, because I’m done.”
Slowly, she lowered her sign.
The sight made his chest lurch, but he didn’t let himself flinch outwardly.
“You’re down but you’re not out, Wells Whitaker.”
“Listen to me. I’m out. I’m quitting the tour. There is no reason for you to come here anymore, Josephine.”
All at once, her smile brightened and, God help him, she went from cute to stunning—an observation that could mean absolutely nothing, since they were cutting ties right here and now. “You called me by my first name. You never have before.”
He knew that fact well, didn’t he? He’d refrained from calling her anything but her self-selected nickname, because anything else felt too personal. And there was nothing personal here. They were athlete and number one fan—and they needed to be done. Over. He had to sever this remaining tie to golf or he’d never be able to get on with the rest of his miserable has-been existence. At twenty-nine.
Goddamn this sport.
And goddamn her for making him want to show up and try.
Utterly ridiculous, considering this was the first time Wells had even said her name, despite the fact that she’d been cheering him on from behind the rope for the five years he’d been on the tour.
“What about the contest?” she said, folding up her sign and holding it to her chest. “Lunch and Lessons with Wells Whitaker. I won.”
He gestured to the trees. “Obviously I’m in no position to give you a lesson.”
She stared off down the fairway for a moment. Then said, “I’m a coach, myself. Maybe I could give you one.”
Wells did a double take. “Excuse me?”
“I said, maybe I could give you one.” She winced, as if she’d finally run that presumptuous suggestion through a filter. “My family owns a little pro shop nearby and I know everything there is to know about golf. My first pair of baby shoes had spikes on the bottom.” She took off her visor and now . . . her eyes looked even bigger. More compelling. And he didn’t know why, but letting this loyal girl down wasn’t sitting well. “You don’t love the sport anymore. Maybe I can help you love it again. That’s what I meant by giving you a lesson—”
“Josephine, listen to me. I don’t want to love it anymore. I’ve lost my soul to this game and it has given me nothing in return.”
She gasped. “Nothing except three majors titles.”
“You don’t understand. The titles start to mean nothing when you’re incapable of doing it again.” He closed his eyes and let the truth of those words sink in. First time he’d said them out loud. “The best thing you can do for me is leave. Pick some other golfer to harass, okay?”
His only remaining fan tried to keep her features stoic, but he’d inflicted some hurt with that suggestion. Keep going. Get it over with. Even if the idea of her cheering for another player made him want to impale himself on his wedge.
Wells bit down hard on his tongue so he wouldn’t take it back.
“It’s a bad day. Shake it off and get back out here tomorrow.” Her laugh was incredulous. “You can’t just quit golf.”
He laughed as he turned and strode for his bag, his caddie nowhere in sight. “Golf quit me. Go home, belle.” There was a note stuck between his clubs. Frowning, he plucked it up between two fingers to find a resignation letter from his caddie. If one could call a scrawled note on a bar napkin a resignation letter. Instead of being angry, Wells felt nothing but relief.