Chapter 2
brOOKES
Philip “Jonesy” Jones is an eighty-year-old retired professional golfer.
He was the best in his day. Two green jackets and countless other trophies and cups.
The guy is an institution. And I’ve been lucky enough to call him my unofficial mentor for the last six years.
But he’s more than just my mentor; the grumpy old bastard is my friend.
In fact, as embarrassing as it is, Jonesy’s pretty much my only friend.
Turns out sober Brookes is not a big people person. Who the fuck knew?
“I’d chip it left and edge the decline,” Jonesy says over me while I’m crouched down, trying to get a read on the green.
Rising, I nod because, as always, he’s right. In fact, I bet Philip Jones could play this course with his eyes closed and still come out at least seven under.
I line up the shot, taking my time before chipping it to the left. But, of course, I’m not Jonesy, and the damn ball falls a touch too far right, finally rolling to a stop more than five inches from the fucking hole.
“Goddamn it,” I murmur under my breath, stepping up and nudging it in with a one-handed chip.
“Should change your name from Brookes to Bogey,” Jonesy jibes, limping to his ball marker with his putter clasped under his arm.
“That’s enough out of you, old man,” I mutter, tucking my ball into the pocket of my shorts and swapping Jonesy’s marker for his ball.
“How’d it go with Spielman and his band of merry fuckwits out in Dallas?” he asks, reading the green.
I sniff a laugh. Sometimes, I think the reason Jonesy and I connected the way we did is because we’re basically the same person, just in different font.
“They want me to… clean up my act,” I say through gritted teeth. “Golf is a gentlemen’s sport, after all.”
“Oh yeah, because Donald Spielman’s the poster child of chivalry.” Jonesy scoffs. “As if he didn’t knock up a teenager when he was a married thirty-five-year-old father of three.”
I grimace. I know the story—everyone does, despite it happening more than thirty years ago.
And although I’m not one to gossip, I’ve heard it wasn’t a one-time thing.
Turns out Donald Spielman has a penchant for much, much younger women, and at least two children he’s never claimed.
For him to sit there yesterday and lecture me on gentlemanly conduct was the highest-level of hypocrisy I’ve ever come face-to-face with in my life.
As I watch Jonesy line up the shot, I’m in awe of how effortless he makes it look, even still, at eighty.
He does exactly what I did moments ago, only for Jonesy, the ball does as it’s told and hits the decline at the perfect angle, turning and traveling directly for the hole before dropping in to the cup to the tune of that all-too satisfying pop.
Jonesy flashes me a smug smile, bushy eyebrows waggling.
I roll my eyes. “Beginner’s luck.”
He laughs a smokey, rasped chuckle, and I collect his ball for him, placing the pin into the hole. Carrying our clubs back to the cart, I secure them back into our bags while I tell Jonesy all about what happened in Dallas, and the terms of the notice agreement I was forced to sign.
“I hope you told ’em to go fuck themselves?”
“I really wanted to, man,” I say on a sigh. “But I’m not ready to give it up yet. Sadly, golf is my life.”
“Well, well, well,” Jonesy calls out, looking around me. “If it isn’t the love of my life.”
Turning, I pull off my glove, watching as he makes a direct beeline for the beverage cart pulling up behind me, his favorite cart girl, Poppy, perched behind the wheel, beaming at us.
“Ha! Flattery will get you everywhere, Jonesy,” Poppy responds with an airy giggle. “The usual?”
Tucking my glove into the back pocket of my shorts, I remove my ball cap and wipe the sweat from my brow before flipping it backwards as I approach the cart.
“Hey, Brookes,” Poppy chirps, her smile sweet as hell as she hops out from behind the wheel.
I lift my chin in greeting, standing next to Jonesy, arms folded across my chest as I watch her open the cooler in the back of her cart.
She’s forced to lean over a little, elbow-deep as she digs around in the ice, and her skirt flaps up with the breeze, showing off the generous curve of her ass covered only by the tiny shorts underneath.
I, at least, have the decency to look away.
Not Jonesy, though. That guy gawks at her like she’s the first woman he’s ever seen in real life, as if she’s not young enough to be his goddamn granddaughter.
Don’t get me wrong. She’s cute. Long dark hair, blue eyes, freckles dotted over her nose, a pretty smile.
She’s barely five-foot something, and a hell of a lot curvier than any of the other cart girls who work the private course, but she owns it, and she still rocks the unnecessarily short skirts and skin-tight polo shirts that make up the Vista Palm sorry-excuse-for-a-cart-girl uniform.
I think the main thing that differentiates Poppy from the rest of the cart girls is her sassy attitude.
She’s sunshine personified, but she’s got a spunkiness about her.
Where most of the other girls are eager to please and scared to make much more than a peep, Poppy gives it as good as the golfers tend to dish it out.
She’s one of the favorites among the regulars, especially old Jonesy here.
“Here we are, fellas,” Poppy says, turning to hand me a crisp, non-alcoholic IPA, and Jonesy his usual Coors Lite. “Having a good round?” she asks, wiping the condensation from her hands on the back of her silly little skirt, grinning from Jonesy to me and back again.
“Well, I am. Can’t say too much for this chump.” Jonesy casts me a pointed look, handing Poppy some money. “Keep the change, sweetheart.”
“Jonesy, this is a hundred dollars.” Poppy balks incredulously, holding up the cash.
“Oh, it is?” Jonesy narrows his eyes, getting a closer look at the money. Then, he shoves his hand into the pocket of his trousers and pulls out another fifty, handing it to her with a wink. “Buy yourself something nice, angel.”
“Jonesy,” Poppy hisses, shaking her head and offering him a wry smile. “One of these days you’re gonna get me in trouble…”
He chuckles deviously.
“Y’all have a good round!” Poppy climbs back into her cart and navigates mine before disappearing around the bend with a wave of her hand.
“What I wouldn’t give to be forty years younger,” Jonesy says, staring off into the distance with a wistful smile.
“Only forty?” I guffaw, almost choking on my beer. “She’s gotta be barely twenty years old, you creepy old man.”
“Can you blame me?” He lets out a low whistle, shaking his head to himself as he whispers, “Those curves.”
“Dude,” I scoff, hopping in behind the wheel of my cart. “Do I need to remind you that you’re married?”
Philip Jones wasn’t just the best golfer of his day; after the death of his first wife when he was just twenty-seven years old, he turned into quite the player.
Hanging out at the Playboy Mansion, breaking hearts all over Hollywood and beyond, in between winning every major golf tournament, worldwide.
But that all changed when he met Lori, a woman more than thirty years his junior, who worked as a Las Vegas cocktail waitress.
Literally overnight, Philip Jones went from notorious playboy to wholeheartedly devoted to the woman he married less than thirty-six hours after meeting her.
Jonesy and Lori are definite goals—if you’re into all that romance bullshit, of course. Which I am definitely not.
“No harm in looking.” Jonesy grins at me, waggling his bushy eyebrows up and down as he takes a sip from his beer.
Sadly, Jonesy and I rarely make it to the eighteenth nowadays without the course marshals doing their rounds, telling us to wrap it up for the day.
After twelve holes, we start back toward the club house, the floodlights that line the cart path lighting the way through the dusk as the cicadas chirp a chorus through the evening air.
“As much as it kills you, and I know it does because you’re exactly like I was at your age, you’re best to listen to them assholes and do what they say,” Jonesy says after a few silent beats, pulling me from my thoughts.
“Those fat cats at the AGL can end your career with a snap of their fingers. Play their game. Do as your told. And then, only when you’re ready to give it, stick it to ’em. ”
“That’s the plan,” I say, not looking at him. “I’m not ready to give it up just yet.”
“Nor should you be,” he’s quick to say. “I’ve seen a lot of golfers in my time and, trust me, you ain’t done yet, kid.”
I smile at that. Because if I trust anyone when it comes to golf, it’s this man sitting right next to me.
“You want me to drop you up at the club house or take you back to the parking lot?” I ask as the sprawling country club comes into view over the last rise.
“Drop me off at the club, kid,” Jonesy says, rubbing his hands together. “Lori’s meeting me for date night.”
I grin, turning left at the fork and following the path to the club, slowing to a stop at the bottom of the stone steps that lead up to the entrance of the member’s only bar.
“You should date Poppy,” Jonesy says, hefting himself out of the cart.
I balk, gaping at him, wondering if I just heard him correctly. “Huh?”
“Poppy,” he says again, louder this time, like I’m one of his eighty-year-old buddies whose hearing aid isn’t turned up enough.
I blink. “Yeah, that’s what I thought you said. What the fuck are you talking about, old man?”
“Blake and Cam want you to settle down with a woman,” he continues with a shrug. “What better woman is there than Poppy?”
“Oh my God,” I mutter under my breath and, shaking my head, I watch him toddle up the steps, mumbling something to himself, and I wait until I see him go safely inside before I pull away.