Chapter 3
It’sthe same old Beach Break Bar.
Same greasy food.
Same band playing beachy songs.
Same pastel sky reflecting off the water.
Heck, it’s the same people eating dinner.
But that’s exactly why I’m back in Sunset Harbor after being gone from this place for the last ten years. I’m counting on my old golf coach, Pete Luca, to work his magic and get me back to the player I once was.
I take a bite of my short-rib taquitos and pull out my phone as I chew.
You don’t look stupid eating alone if you’re looking at your phone. Instead, you look busy.
Four new voice messages.
Not surprising, since lately I’ve been sending every call to voicemail.
I tap the little triangle on the first one and listen as my phone plays it over the speaker. It’s loud in here, but I turn the volume on my phone down just in case.
“Walker, honey!” My mom singsongs honey like she doesn’t have a care in the world. “Stan and I left the keys under the doormat on the front porch.”
It was the first place I looked when I got here an hour ago.
“I’m just so sad that you’re finally coming home to visit when I’m leaving town. I would cancel this Europe trip if I could.” She lowers her voice like she doesn’t want her husband to hear. “But I think Stan would be broken-hearted if we canceled. He’s put so much effort into planning things. Anyway”—her voice returns to normal—“there are new sheets on the guest bed and fresh towels. The golf cart is in the garage for you to get around the island. You’re going to need some groceries. Sorry. If I had had more time, I could’ve made some meals for you and put them in the freezer.”
“Faye, he doesn’t want your freezer meals,” Stan says in the background.
“Oh, and I wanted to tell you about the ice machine. It randomly makes this weird grinding noise. Sometimes, it does it in the middle of the night and scares me to death. So I just turn it off every night before bed, and then I turn it back on every morning to have pebbled ice. You like pebbled ice, don’t you?”
“Walker’s a grown man. He can figure it out,” Stan chirps.
“Oh, but Walker, can you do us a favor? Stan’s boat is in the shop in town getting the propeller fixed. Can you pick it up from Dax tomorrow? He owns the mechanic shop now. And once the boat is fixed, you can use it.”
“What’s mine is yours,” Stan says into the phone.
“And we’re still planning on being in Scotland for the British Open next month.”
“Faye, we don’t need to discuss everything with him in this one phone call. You’ll talk to him again.”
“Right. I better put my phone in airplane mode before we take off. But I’ll call you tomorrow and make sure you got in the house okay.”
“Faye, he’ll get in the house just fine.”
“Yeah, you’ll be alright.” Despite her words, there’s worry in her voice. I don’t blame her. I’m worried about myself too. “Just make yourself at home. Love you, honey.”
Make myself at home? Sunset Harbor has never felt like home. But when my mom mentioned that she and Stan were traveling through Europe for the next two months, their house seemed like the perfect place to hang low while I get my head on straight and fix my swing.
If anyone can get me back to my prime, Pete can. He’s the reason I got into golf in the first place.
After my dad died and we moved to Sunset Harbor, Pete took pity on me by letting me hit balls on the putting green in his backyard. He didn’t really have a choice. I watched him practice from my grandma’s deck. It was either leave me there, awkwardly watching, or invite me over to putt with him. Back then, I didn’t even know how to hold a club. Pete taught me everything, and as the local golf pro at the resort course, I couldn’t have asked for a better teacher. He even let me work at the Belacourt Golf Course to pay for my lessons with him.
So when I called Pete this afternoon to see if he could look at my swing, he didn’t hesitate to say yes. I immediately packed my bags and drove west from Jupiter, Florida to the island of Sunset Harbor. I’m here for as long as it takes.
Plus, playing on a course without so many watching eyes, and minds wondering if Walker Collins is going to make it back to the top of the leaderboard or if he’s just a washed-up has-been, is exactly what I need right now.
I delete her message and move on to the next one.
“Walker, it’s Dr. Frandsen. I got a call from Freddy LeSueur this morning.”
My stomach tightens. Was the call made before or after I fired Freddy as my golf coach?
“Freddy mentioned that since your back surgery, your swing has looked tight and tense. He was wondering if maybe the lumbar microdiscectomy wasn’t successful. If you’re feeling back pain again, I want to know about it. It’s everyone’s goal to get you in prime condition so you can golf at a high level. Give me a call so we can talk about the tightness and make sure everything has healed as it should. I’m at home today, so call me on my cell. 786-552-7174. Talk to you soon.”
Much to Freddy’s disappointment, we can no longer blame my poor performance on back pain. I just suck at golf. My swing is off. All my long-range drives pull left, and I can’t hit a putt within eight feet of the hole. But instead of fixing the problem, Freddy just wants to talk about how I’m still recovering from back surgery and to give it some time. That’s why I fired him this morning. I don’t need a cheerleader. I need a coach.
Delete.
I scroll to the next voicemail and push play.
“Walker, hey! It’s Ben Jackson.” Usually, I like that Ben is a hands-on sports agent, but right now, I just want to be left alone. “I talked to Freddy.”
Freddy’s been busy today.
“He said you fired him, and pulled out of the U.S. Open next weekend, and gave your caddie the summer off.”
I didn’t give Mick the summer off. I just told him to take a vacation for the next week or so. But Freddy loves to dramatize things.
“What are you doing? It seems like you’re having a meltdown over there. I mean, firing Freddy, I get. But giving Mick the summer off? You don’t want to lose him. He’s one of the best caddies out there, and you guys have great golf chemistry. Plus, he handles all your personal assistant needs.”
Mick’s not going anywhere—except maybe the Bahamas. I just didn’t see the point in having him stick around while I worked through my mechanics. There’s nothing he can do for me right now. Pete is the only person who can help me.
An exasperated sigh seeps out of Ben. “Look, I know the PGA Championship last month had some setbacks.” Some setbacks? I didn’t make the cut to play on Saturday and Sunday and went home without a paycheck. “But that was your first tournament since surgery. No one expected you to win it all.”
I wasn’t even in the vicinity of winning.
“Think long-term about your career. After the fiasco last month, it’s going to be hard to keep your sponsorships if you’re not giving people something new to talk about.”
Fiascois a good way to describe it. After my pathetic hit on the seventh hole, I hit my driver against the ground so hard that the head broke off and flew in the air twenty feet. I’m lucky it didn’t hit anyone. I had to finish off the day without my driver. I don’t recommend teeing off with a five-wood if you want to win a professional golf tournament.
“So maybe just reconsider the U.S. Open next week. Call me, and we can talk about it. Okay? Talk to you soon.”
I’d delete that message twice if I could.
Next.
“Hey, Walker,” Lydia says, followed by a nervous laugh. “I don’t think I’ve ever left you a voice message before. So I’ll just dive right in. Can I get the key to my apartment back? My building only gives us two and…” She sighs. “This is awkward, but I met someone. I know we only broke up a month ago, but things are moving really fast with this other guy, and I’d like to give him the key. So…I don’t know…let me know when you’re home, and I’ll come grab it, or just mail it to me or something. See ya.”
That’s another easy delete.
I drag my hand down my face as I place my phone on the table beside me.
I’m living my all-time low.
Coming back to Sunset Harbor is proof enough of that.
“Walker?” I turn to a vaguely familiar face—someone I once knew, who’s older now, with more facial hair but less on his head. “I thought that was you.” My response must not be what this guy hoped for because his smile twitches, and his brows dip as he points to himself. “Dustin Pearce. We were friends in high school.”
The dawn of recognition awakens. “Oh, yeah, Dustin.” I reach my hand out to him. It’s an awkward handshake since I’m sitting in a booth and he’s standing, but we make it work. “Sorry, it’s been a while.”
It’s been more than a while. I left the island for the amateur tour the second we graduated, and I rarely come back.
“It’s good to see you, man.” Dustin takes an uninvited seat across from me, unfazed by my memory loss. “I’ve been following your golf career. You were always a stud in high school, but the PGA tour…”—he whistles—“it’s impressive stuff.”
“I don’t know about impressive.” Especially my scores the last year and a half.
“Seriously. I watched on TV when you won the Masters two years ago. We were all freaking out.”
In truth, I was freaking out too. Winning the Masters is one of the best moments of my life. Any golfer who wants to be taken seriously has to win one of the big four: Masters, PGA Championship, US Open, and the British Open. I was six years into my career when I finally won one, and the fact that my first Major win was at the Masters made everything even better. I’d been ranked top fifty in the world and had won multiple PGA tour tournaments, but nothing comes close to winning one of the four Major Golf Championships. I thought my career had finally taken off. But the pressure became too much, and I crashed and burned.
“What did you do with the green jacket?” Dustin asks. Everyone always wants to know about the iconic Masters green jacket. “Is it just hanging in your closet?”
“No, the champion can only keep it for a year, then they have to return it to Augusta National.”
“That’s crazy they don’t let you keep it.” Dustin shakes his head. “I guess you’ll just have to win the Masters again so you can get the green jacket back.”
Win the Masters again? He says it like it’s easy—like once you’re a winner, you’re always a winner. But that’s not how it goes…at least not with me.
“What about you? What have you been up to?” I ask, trying to avoid any question from Dustin about my freakout at my last tournament.
“I live on the mainland, about five minutes from the ferry. I own my own landscaping business.”
“That’s great.”
“What are you doing in Sunset Harbor?” Dustin steers the conversation back to me.
“I’m just here to visit Pete Luca. I won’t be here long.” Better to downplay my reasons for coming and not make it seem like I’m staying long. I don’t want Dustin asking to hang out.
“Oh, that’s too bad. I was going to suggest we get together and hang out sometime.”
How did I know that was coming?
I nod a few times as I look him over. He’s a decent guy—a little bit of a hothead with a short fuse, but I’m sure he’s gotten over that since high school sports. I remember liking him when we were teens, but that doesn’t mean I want to hang out. It’s not him. It’s me.
I force a frown because telling people what they want to hear is how I get through life. “Dang, that would’ve been fun.”
“I heard about your back problems.” The typical pity eyes appear. “That really sucks.”
I don’t need Dustin Pearce’s pity. “Thanks, but I’m fine now.”
He leans forward. “So, are you friends with Tiger Woods?”
I can see where this is going. “Yeah, I know Tiger.”
“Do you have his number in your phone? Like, could you text him right now?”
“If I had something I wanted to say to him.”
“That’s so cool. What about Scottie Scheffler? Rory McIlroy? Jordan Spieth? Ricky Fowler?”
Yes, he plans to name every popular pro golfer, as I suspected.
“Yeah, friends with them all.” I stand, abandoning my last two taquitos. I open my wallet and throw some bills on the table. “Uh, listen, I’d love to stay and chat, but I really have to get going.”
“Sure.” He looks like a depressed puppy. “You should go.”
“But it was great seeing you a?—”
“She’s choking!”
The commotion behind me makes everyone turn.
There’s a woman in a short black dress. Her back is to me, but I can tell she’s doing the international “choking” sign. I recognize the guy who yelled. It’s Beau Palmer. I mean, I think it’s Beau Palmer. It’s been ten or eleven years since I’ve seen him, and the whole police uniform is throwing me off.
“I have a Life Vac in my first aid kit in my golf cart.” Beau rushes away from the table, causing the woman who’s choking to reach her hand out to him, but he’s clearly on some kind of mission and can’t be detoured.
“A what?” Marlyss Gapmeyer asks, coming from behind the bar counter. I haven’t seen her in years, but how could I forget the woman who owns this place?
Beau keeps moving toward the exit. “It’s one of those suction devices. Start the Heimlich!” he yells as he pushes the door open and exits.
The entire restaurant glances around at each other. No one wants to commit to the rescue. Meanwhile, the woman stands there, grabbing at her neck.
Are you kidding me? No one is willing to help?
Yeah, let’s make the guy who just had a lumbar microdiscectomy do it. That’s real great.
I rush toward her, wrapping my arms around her waist. With a fist in the middle of her stomach, I thrust my hands inward and upward, trying to dislodge whatever she’s choking on.
Two thrusts and nothing.
Where the heck is Beau?