10. Jameson
Chapter ten
Jameson
I shove the bench press back up, wiping the sweat off my forehead as I reach for my vibrating phone.
“Hey, Jon,” I say, answering my agent’s call.
“Jameson. How are you doing?” he asks.
I consider how much has changed since I came to Wild Bluffs. I’ve stopped drinking to excess. I’m in the best shape I’ve ever been in physically. I no longer have a 125-pound succubus slowly eating away at my soul—something she continued to do long after she left me.
“Doing well. How about you?”
“Oh, going good. Just calling to check to see how you’re doing. How’s the weather out there in Wild Bluffs?”
“Can’t complain,” I say, grabbing a swig from my water bottle.
“Sure. That’s great.”
Jon’s not someone who calls just to chat, so I know he’s tiptoeing around something. I decide to give him an out and casually demand, “What’s up, Jon?”
“How’s your game? What kind of scores are you getting?” There it is. As much as I appreciate the work Jon does, how much he’s looked out for me in the past, at the end of the day, he’s only calling to see how his most lucrative client is performing on the course.
All things considered, my game should be better than it was last year. Unfortunately, the majority of my practice scores have been crap.
“Yeah. It’s…fine,” I reply.
“Have you talked to Dr. Sandra since you’ve been out there?”
“Yep, still meeting with her once a week virtually.”
Here’s the thing about the last year of my life and the truly embarrassing golf performance—it’s all in my head. Ask any professional athlete why their game is shit, and unless they’ve had an injury, the answer is mental. I regularly see Dr. Sandra, one of the best sports psychologists in the game, but somehow, even she can’t get me figured out.
Jon and I discuss increasing my hours with Dr. Sandra, switching to someone new, and the potential of moving to a new course for the rest of my time before the season starts. I assure him I’m moving in the right direction, but I can tell he’s not buying it any more than I am.
Just as he’s about to sign off, he sighs deeply before saying, “Jameo, you’ve got to be laser-focused on your game this season. If you don’t get your shit together, we may have to start talking retirement.”
I barely register saying goodbye and starting my workout again. I’m on autopilot. Retire? At my age? The perk of being a golfer rather than any other professional athlete is that you can have a career span decades. Look at Arnold Palmer. He played in his last Masters at seventy-four.
Being a professional golfer is amazing, but it does lack some of the fringe benefits that are afforded to other professional athletes. Not counting a few outliers—of which I used to be one—people don’t know us, which means we are less likely to get endorsement deals. Our body types tend to skew toward the less muscular end of the professional athlete bell curve, really losing some of the sex god status other professionals get. I mean, have you ever read a romance novel with a golfer as the main character?
My sister, Lila, has loved sports romance novels since the inappropriate age of fifteen. I have had to sit through her rants about how there are series geared toward puck bunnies and cleat chasers, but where are the ones for gallery girls and golf groupies?
If I gave one shit about romance, I might be inclined to at least appreciate her annoyance on my behalf. As it is, I’m mostly just confused about why my smart sister would choose to waste her brain space with that unrealistic nonsense.
Romance books aside, I used to be at the top of the pile in the golf world. I was good-looking, bringing in big endorsements, and had a gorgeous girl on my arm. Too bad her heart was as black as mud, and when she left me, I was too depressed to do anything but drink, gain weight, and play like shit.
And now I might have to think about retirement? Fuck that.
If my round this morning is any indication, I’m on my way back. I may have had a terrible year, but I’m turning it around.
I’m halfway through the core portion of my workout when the door to the weight room opens and Bryn’s friend walks in, pulling at the bottom of her skirt—obviously working hard to avoid meeting my eyes. I pause my music and pull out an earbud.
“I’m really not interested.” Groupies. It’s always best to set them straight up front so they don’t think they have a chance. If you’re a nice guy, they think they can change your mind.
She blinks at me a couple of times before a slow smile crosses her face. “Oh my God. You really are a dick. To be clear, guy-I-could-not-care-less-about, I was never here for you. I’m here because I’m a good friend, but I’ve changed my mind.”
She turns to leave, pushing down on the handle to exit the workout room, when it hits me. If she’s not here about herself, then she must be here about…Bryn? Shit. I can’t believe I just jumped straight to a groupie assumption. What is wrong with me?
“Wait!” I scramble off the floor, my arms still a little rubbery from the chest work I did today.
She doesn’t, however, choose to wait. And, as I chase her out the door, I run face-first into something solid.
“Oh, shit. I’m sorry. I wasn’t—JT? What are you doing here?”
My best friend for the last ten years looks me up and down, rubbing his shoulder where we just collided. “Jameo, you look good, man.”
I shoot him a wink. “Thanks, bud. It’s all for you.”
He laughs, taking in the space around us. “Not a bad little setup you’ve got here. Think there will be enough room for both of us to work out in that tiny-ass gym?”
“Working out together? Damn, it’s like a flashback to our first year on the tour.”
JT flips his cap backward—a nervous tic of his that everyone and his mother knows about—and nods.
Then I remember why I was in a hurry. “Shit, JT, did you see a blonde woman leave?”
“A blonde woman? Jesus, man, Alexis hasn’t been here, has she?”
“Fuck, do you think I’m that big of an idiot? No, that parasite of a human has not been here. It was a different girl.”
JT’s blue eyes brighten at that information. “Ooo. A different girl, huh? Wait until I tell Lila about this. Maybe she’ll finally get off my jock about helping you move on.”
I push out of the building, searching the grounds for Bryn’s friend, only to catch a glimpse of blonde as she drives by in a dark blue Mazda. Wait, was she giving me the finger?
“Was that girl who just flipped you the bird the one we are looking for?” JT watches the cloud of dust that encapsulates the car as she leaves.
“Yeah, she was.” I nod, searching the rest of the mostly empty parking lot for any sign of Bryn or her sisters. “Though it is definitely not what you think. Come on, let me buy you a drink at the bar, and you can tell me why you are here and why the fuck you are texting with my little sister.”
***
The bar area and the restaurant around it are quiet as JT and I sit down to order our beers. I can’t get that girl’s taillights out of my head. Why was she leaving? Isn’t the party here for another night?
Shit, did Bryn ever actually tell me when she was leaving? I figured this morning when I told her I couldn’t play that we’d have time to set something else up, or for me to at least get her number for when she’s back in town.
I drag my hands through my hair, staring at the table the girls were at last night, hoping maybe I can will her back into existence. JT tips back in his chair next to me, his golden curls everyone loves so much bouncing cheerfully as he watches the football game on the big screen above the bar. Unsurprisingly, he hasn’t told me what he’s doing here or why he’s been texting my little sister. This charade, the one where we both pretend we are the silent, brooding type, unwilling to break the silence first, is a key part of our friendship.
The game switches to commercials as the bartender sets down our Stellas with a smile. “Thanks, Aubrey.”
“No problem, Mr. Walker.” Seeming to note our silence, she heads back into the kitchen.
Watching her leave, JT turns to me. “So you’re not fucking the bartender, though she apparently would be willing if asked…”
I sigh, mentally preparing myself for the come-to-Jesus JT clearly needs to have with me. I’m getting better at spotting them. “Why are you here, JT?”
He takes a long drink. “Isn’t it obvious?”
“No, it’s obviously not obvious, or I wouldn’t be asking. So why did you fly your happy ass all the way from California? It can’t just be for the sake of my bubbly personality.”
I decide to wait for him to say what he needs to say, so I turn in my seat, slowly perusing the course through the windows. Shit. The girls must really be gone. It hasn’t been anywhere near this quiet and still since they arrived.
JT’s eyes follow mine, scanning the area. “So, despite seeing the girl drive away, you’re still looking for someone? Interesting. I haven’t seen you this distracted by something that wasn’t in the bottom of a bottle for a while now.”
“Nope, not searching for anyone. Just trying to figure out why you’re here, and why you are speaking to my little sister when the two of you can’t stand each other.”
It’s true. In addition to the chaos they’ve caused at Thanksgiving with refusing to sit at the same table as one another, JT and Lila’s hatred of each other has been a thorn in my side for the last few years. Ever since Lila turned eighteen, it’s like she and JT can’t handle being in the same vicinity as one another. I don’t even bother inviting them out for drinks at the same time anymore, which really sucks, since they are two of my best, and only, friends.
“Oh, trust me, I still can’t stand Lila. Unfortunately, she is apparently worried enough about you to break the long-term silent treatment she has been giving me since she hit puberty and is instead texting me daily to ask me when I’m going to”—he makes those annoying little quote things with his fingers—“grow a pair and come talk to you.”
I turn to face him fully. “And why does Lila think you need to come talk to me?”
He sighs heavily. “Damnit, Jameo, you know why she thinks I need to come talk to you. The same reason I agreed with her enough to fly to the middle of nowhere to actually talk to you. You’ve had a shit year and followed it up by isolating yourself in the middle of godforsaken Kansas out here—”
“We’re in Colorado, man. Check a map.”
“Oh, okay, well, a very flat, no-mountains-in-sight Colorado doesn’t really count as Colorado. It might as well be Kansas.”
“I think you should ask the staff about it. I know for a fact that they love when people tell them about how this isn’t really Colorado,” I deadpan.
He rolls his eyes, pushing a hand through his hair before putting his hat back on. “Jameo, chasing after a random townie today was the first time I’ve seen a spark of life in your eyes in over a year. So yes, I’m worried about you. Your sister is really worried about you. She called me. On the phone. Your basically gen Z sister put a phone to her ear and actually talked on it, to me , to convince me this was a trip that I had to make. Turns out she’s been talking to your parents and Jon, and they all decided I was the only one you wouldn’t just kick out the minute I walked through the door. So cut the shit and tell me how you are really doing.”
Well, crap. I know the last year has sucked, and I have been failing on the course and off it, but damn, when he puts it that way… I hadn’t realized how worried everyone was about me. I can’t, however, stop the hurt that builds up in my chest. “What the hell? You all are talking about me now? What, do you have a meeting once a week to talk about how big of a fuckup I am and then vote on who has to come hang out with the poor loser?”
“Jameson, cut the shit.” The deep blue of his eyes burns as he glares at me. “You know that’s not how it is. We all love you, and we’re all worried as shit that you’re losing yourself in the pool of darkness Alexis threw you into.”
He’s not wrong. Not that I expected him to be. JT has been my best friend for a long time, and while being in the same sport naturally makes us competitors, it’s never felt that way. He’s a smart, truly good-hearted guy. No one, apart from Lila, has ever had anything but good things to say about him. Even the press can’t seem to find anything to dig in to other than his truly terrible decision to continue to be my friend last year.
“Fuck, man, I know,” I say. “I just—Fuck. Misplaced anger, I think is what my therapist would call it. I’m really glad you’re here. And I’m doing pretty well. I played the best round of golf in a while this morning. I’m finally getting my swing back. I’m not drowning myself in booze every night. I’m going to be back this year.”
He looks me up and down. “You do look like you’ve been hitting the gym fairly consistently. Or…have you just been chasing after a lot of women in cars? I suppose there’s more than one way to get back in shape.”
“Didn’t you hear? That’s how women want to be picked up. Chasing after their cars is the new foreplay. Just you wait, she’ll be back to find me later.”
JT raises his eyebrows, clearly amused. “Damn, things have changed. Here I thought it gave off desperate-stalker vibes.”
I chuckle, relaxing back into my chair and finishing my Stella in a long drink. “Honestly, I’m doing okay. There are days when everything still feels so out of control that I can’t mentally get myself where I need to be with my game, but for the first time in a while, I’m feeling like there might be a light at the end of the tunnel.”
“And does this light have anything to do with the blonde we were chasing out of the workout room?”
I pull on the bill of my cap, annoyed with myself for how poorly I behaved during that interaction. “No, but also yes. That girl—whose name I’m not even sure I’ve been told—is the friend of the girl who I golfed with today. And, shit, I think she might have something to do with me finding my love for the game again.”
“Why were you chasing her, then?” JT asks. “Like a complete stalker, might I add.”
“Yes, yes, you’ve mentioned the stalker part. I may have incorrectly assumed she was interrupting my workout to suggest a booty call. The evidence now suggests she was there to talk to me about her friend, Bryn—the girl I golfed with this morning. When Bryn asked me to golf with them again this afternoon, I turned her down. Which is likely for the best, but I’m not so sure now.”
“When are you going to stop assuming that every girl just wants to use you and walk away?” he asks, a slight grimace spreading across his face.
“It’s not the walking away that I’m worried about. It’s falling in love only to find out that all they wanted was my money, my name, my fame, but never me.” I take a deep breath. “But blondie wanted none of those things. And I don’t understand it, but I can’t stop thinking about the sarcastic girl who ruthlessly ragged on me, even while I was handing her her ass on the course. The one who never once seemed to care about who I am or the size of my bank account.”
“So why are we sitting in the bar, not out on the course with her?”
“I’m pretty sure she’s gone. And honestly, I’m not interested in finding someone to be serious with, and neither is she. But she definitely felt like the type of girl I could be serious with.”
“Then why were you chasing after the friend?”
“Fuck if I know.”
But maybe, just maybe, I do know. I’m just scared of what it would mean for my plan to only focus on my game.