Chapter 1
brOOKES
Not so long ago, I was the world number one golfer.
This generation’s Tiger. The very first college player to get direct access to the AGL.
After winning the U.S. Open in my first year as pro, I was propelled into greatness so suddenly.
Unfortunately, the years that followed are nothing but a blur of non-stop tournaments, fame, money, and a hell of a lot of women.
When I tore my rotator cuff a few years back, my surgeon handed me a bottle of oxy to help manage the post-op pain, and that’s when things started to become a little hazy.
According to Sir Isaac Newton, what goes up must come down, and when I came down, I hit rock bottom hard.
Forced to forgo my invitation to The Masters, the only major I’m yet to clinch, I went straight to rehab in the foothills of the Camelback mountains in Arizona instead.
Do not pass Augusta; do not collect a green jacket.
I was once admired—feared by some, envied by others, revered by most. Now, it feels like I’m just some washed-up has-been junkie, trying to cling to the glory days, and hell, I’m only thirty-two years old.
The dinging of the seatbelt sign pulls me from my thoughts, and I turn away from the clouds outside my window, looking up as the flight attendant appears through the door.
“Can I offer you gentlemen a drink?” she asks, smiling directly at me with that look in her eyes like she wants to try and blow me.
I press my lips together in a semblance of an awkward smile, averting my eyes and hoping she does the same.
“I’ll grab a Corona, Katie-Lyn. With a wedge of lime,” Blake says, staring down at his phone.
“A beer? Really?” Cam balks, looking from Blake, to me, to the flight attendant and back to Blake again.
Christ, here we go. I shift uncomfortably in my chair, choosing to stare down at my hands. I’ve told Cam I don’t care if people drink around me—it truly doesn’t bother me in the slightest. But this is the father-figure in him.
Cam’s been my manager since the day after I won my first major.
I was a lost, twenty-three-year-old kid with a cool five million bucks worth of prize money that I didn’t know what to do with.
Someone recommended Cameron Davies, an ex-club pro who never made it onto the tour but who’d been around the circuit for years and whose love for the sport of golf was unmatched.
He’d started his own management company.
Nothing big. His only clients were a golfer who hadn’t ranked anywhere close to the top one hundred in three years, and a triple-A baseball player out of Tampa.
I met with Cam that same day and he was frank.
He told me that there are a lot of snakes in this industry who will take advantage of newcomers like me, he told me to be careful, and he didn’t once try to pressure me into anything.
There was just something about him that made me realize he was one of the few good guys in the professional sports industry.
Maybe it was his vibe. Or the fact that he drove a Toyota that was at least ten years old.
He wasn’t trying to be someone he’s not, wasn’t trying hard to impress me, or anyone for that matter.
Whatever it was, I knew Cam Davies was a man I could trust. So, I signed with him.
Five years later, I invested a big chunk of money into his company that now has three managers who look after a whole roster of professional athletes, including me.
And in the decade we’ve been working together, Cam hasn’t ever given me a single reason to doubt him or question my decision to sign with him all those years ago.
Cam was around long before Blake wormed his way into my circle.
When my original agent and I parted ways, Blake was waiting in the wings ready to do anything but commit a felony to win my business.
And where Cam is like family—the father I wish I’d had growing up—Blake is unfortunately just like my real dad: a slick-back grease ball with dollar signs in his eyes.
The only reason I’ve stayed with him this long is because he knows his shit and, whether ethical or not, he does a good job.
“Katie-Lyn, you can just bring us a few bottles of water,” Cam says, offering Blake a fleeting yet chastising glance.
Did I mention the two of them fucking hate each other?
The flight attendant looks genuinely confused. “Do you still want the wedge of lime?”
I’m forced to cover my mouth with a hand in an attempt to conceal my snorted laugh.
Blake shifts uncomfortably in his chair, spearing Cam with a glower before forcing a tight smile up at the flight attendant. “Just the water’s fine for now, Katie-Lyn.”
She scurries off, leaving us alone in the cabin, and I turn back to the two men currently glaring at one another, embroiled in some impromptu game of loser blinks first, and I roll my eyes, huffing a sigh.
Blake looks away first, and I don’t miss the victorious grin Cam is forced to bite back, both men turning to acknowledge me across the aisle.
“We need to discuss these… conditions,” Blake says, opening his leather folio. But then his gaze lifts and he eyes me. “I think a haircut is definitely first on the to-do list.”
I bite back the vitriol burning my tongue. “Whatever.”
He purses his lips but says nothing, looking back down at his notes.
“I’ll speak to the Big Swing creative director first thing,” Cam says. “See if they can design some long-sleeved sweat-wicking polos.”
I grit my teeth.
“If they’re going to make you cover yourself from head to toe, I’m not going to risk you passing out from heat exhaustion,” Cam adds with a mutter, tapping something into his phone.
“Most of these other conditions are easy to comply with, but we really need to focus on your—” Blake lifts his gaze, meeting mine again. “Anger management.”
“Anger management?” I snort. “Fuck, they really make it sound like I’m out there cracking skulls all over the fuckin’ course.”
With an exasperated huff, Blake throws his hands up, looking at Cam as if he might hold all the answers. “See! It’s like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.”
I look between the two men, one brow quirked. “Doing what?”
“Cussing!” Blake guffaws.
Biting back my grin, I shake my head. “No. I’m fully aware. I just don’t fucking give a shit.”
Blake deadpans, and Cam shifts in his chair so he’s turned to me. “Brookes, Blake and I had a quick chat, and I think we really do need to focus on improving your image. We’d hoped rehab would help, but there’s been little to no improvement whatsoever.”
“I mean, in my defense, at least I’m no longer secretly filling my water bottles with vodka before each round…” I say with a cocky grin, my sarcasm met with nothing but steely silence, so I snap mouth shut.
“Spielman and the AGL… Brookes, they’re not bluffing with this agreement.” Cam indicates the papers in front of Blake. “Hilton Head cannot happen again.”
I cower a little because, deep down, despite my aversion to being told what to do by a bunch of assholes who are so much like the father I went no contact with more than ten years ago, I know Donald Spielman is serious.
“Brookes,” Cam says, softening. “Are you… are you sure this is still what you want?”
I search his eyes, my brow furrowing with confusion because is he asking me what I think he’s asking me?
“You know there’s no harm in bowing out, retiring early.”
And there it is. My eyes widen with both shock and anger because what the fuck? Without golf what the fuck else do I have?
“Yeah, sure. I could retire at thirty-two,” I scoff.
To date, in my career, I’ve made just shy of seventy-five million dollars in prize money alone.
“I could fuck off to The Keys and never have to work a day in my life. But I can’t.
” I shake my head vehemently. “Golf is literally all I’ve got.
It’s all I’ve known. And I am not about to let those red-hat-wearing motherfuckers at the AGL dictate when I can and cannot play. ”
“Then you need to comply,” Blake says, tapping a finger against the list of conditions laid out on the small table between him and Cam. “Or… you could always go and join the circus.” He shrugs a shoulder.
I throw him a steely, long-leveled look across the aisle.
He’s referring the AGL’s only competitor.
A whole new tour created by some billionaire who wanted to combine golf and, I don’t know, extreme sports or some shit.
For no other reason than shits and gigs, apparently.
It’s basically the AGL but with pyrotechnics and shirtless, drunk frat guys acting like assholes.
“Okay,” Blake says, seemingly accepting my silence as a response. “So, we’re going to cut our hair, work on our anger response, and… maybe look at a finding a nice young lady to settle down with.”
I rear back, snapping my head up. “Huh?” Gaping from Blake to Cam and back again, I can’t help but laugh. “Um, where the hell did that come from?”
Blake and Cam trade a glance, and I hate that they’ve so obviously been discussing my life without me.
“It wouldn’t hurt you to start showing up to events with a nice lady on your arm,” Blake says with another casual shrug. “In fact,” he continues, flicking through his folio, “I have a few women in mind who are currently single, who have—”
“Wait—” My face twists. “You’re actually fucking serious?”
Blake blinks, looking down at his apparent list of women like it’s not at all weird and kind of creepy that he’s compiled a list of matches for me to potentially date. “One of them is a Sports Illustrated model,” he declares, matter-of-factly.
I stare at him like he’s lost his goddamn mind. “So, you’re just gonna, what? Start doling out single chicks for me to date like some fuckin’ pimp?”
Cam winces, lowering his voice as he says, “Brookes, it wouldn’t hurt you to maybe look at meeting someone…”
“I don’t want to meet anyone,” I say, enunciating the words.
“Here we are, gentlemen.” Thankfully, the heated exchange is interrupted by the flight attendant returning with a tray of drinks, smiling obliviously as she sashays down the aisle toward us.
“You two just need to do your jobs and manage my business,” I mutter with a pointed look to the two men as I shove my AirPods into my ears. “Leave my fucking personal life out of it.”
Reclining my chair, I rest my head back against the soft leather, closing my eyes and smirking to myself the moment I press play on my phone, Spotify conveniently shuffling to “I Hate Everyone” by Falling in Reverse.