Bryn #2
“While it was pretty obvious from the fact that you were best friends with all the guys in high school that you were a virgin then, we all assumed you and Peter had sex. You dated for three years and never once complained that he was the one holding out.”
“Meh. The effort of fighting him on a decree from his mother did not seem to be worth the reward.”
She grimaces. “It’s like he gets worse every time I hear about him.”
“You know, he wasn’t a bad guy. He was actually a good boyfriend the majority of the time. He just had mommy issues.”
“And, apparently, performance issues.”
“I want to deny it, but in hindsight, it does feel like there could’ve been a bit more spark.”
“A lot more spark, Sis. A lot more spark,” Izzy says as we make our way after our friends.
***
Jameson
After I finish the back nine, I head to the weight room for my second workout of the day.
Yes, I may have gained a few too many pounds in the last year. Yes, it may have been equally due to stress eating chocolate chip cookies and sad beer drinking.
After a month of two-a-days in the gym and walking at least thirty-six holes a day, I’m finally back in shape. Okay, fine, it probably doesn’t hurt that I’ve also cut back to a few beers a week rather than the few beers an hour I was consuming before.
But it’s mostly the extra workouts.
I finish the final set of my core round, wishing I were back home in my gym with extra fans and air-conditioning rather than sweating my ass off in this little one the course keeps open for nonlocals like me who stay the night in their guesthouses and hotel rooms.
As I start the short trip back to my hotel room in the building just next to the putting green, I notice a group of women sitting around the fire. They’re cute, but as one catches my eye, I quickly turn my face away, hoping she doesn’t recognize me.
The girl from this afternoon wasn’t with them. Maybe she went home? Why do I feel a little sad about that? I mentally shake my head. I’ve learned my lesson about getting involved with women like her.
After closing the door to my room behind me, I lie down on my bed, letting the air-conditioning cool my sweat. The extra endorphins from my workout didn’t even last all two minutes of my walk back, and the scorecard sitting on my desk sapped what little joy remained in me as I walked in.
I bury my face in my pillow and let out a deep sigh.
Ugh. I suck at golf.
My phone rings, and I barely register it’s Erica, the head of the public relations team handling my downhill spiral, before I answer it.
“Hi, Erica.”
“Just calling to check in on my favorite golfer.”
“I can’t possibly be your favorite golfer, Erica. Tell me what’s really up.”
“I just wanted to let you know that my team has been in contact with all your current sponsors, and things are starting to settle down now that you’re out of the spotlight. I think we’re going to be able to keep them all.”
Thank God. While I wouldn’t be hard up for cash or anything like that if I lost those deals, I’m not sure my ego can handle any more losses this year.
I’ve always been the go-to golfer for sponsorship deals and ad campaigns, and the fact that I’ve lost that status hurts far more than I ever expected it to.
“Thanks, Erica. That’s great news. Any news of the couple of new ones you were chasing?”
"Nothing yet, Jameo," she says, underemphasizing the “O” in my nickname so it comes out as “Jame-ah” instead of “Jame-oh,” like it does for everyone else. “Just focus on your game. Don’t get drunk. Don’t hit on random women. You know what? Let’s just say no women whatsoever.”
“Of course. I haven’t done anything but golf and exercise since I got here.”
“That’s what I like to hear.”
We make small talk for another minute before Erica has to go. As I hang up my phone, I think about how stupid I’ve been the last year. Sure, I was hurting, but I made some bad decisions that almost cost me the profession I love and a lot of money in winnings and sponsorships.
But I’m totally focused now. I’ve barely looked at a woman since arriving at Wild Bluffs until today, and she only serves to remind me what terrible taste I have in women.
With that thought, I roll off the side of the bed and make my way slowly toward the shower, legs burning from the extra eighteen I got in today after the first two rounds ended poorly.
The water pounds down on me like a hundred tiny punches but doesn’t put a dent in the feeling of defeat that has settled into my bones.
I stand in the shower, my six-foot-four frame slumped as I let the hot water run over me, trying to wash away the disappointment of failing to score more than five under par yet again during my third round.
The round started out fine. And then it had been rough—the trudging through cacti and yuccas to find my balls in the, well, rough. That is the essence of golf: the more time you spend in the rough, the rougher the round becomes.
And the hot-as-hell girl who stole my ball and called me a dick before casually mentioning I’m rich? Why is it that women can’t help but focus on my money?
Been there, done that. It is the one mistake I’m not interested in making again.
As soon as a woman mentions me being rich, I’m out.
Not that my dick seems to remember the last part.