Chapter 3
brOOKES
It’s dark by the time I get home, and my anxiety begins to stir.
Nights are notoriously bad for me. Nights are when I start thinking about having a drink, and my mind tries to trick me into thinking that just one beer won’t hurt.
Of course, I don’t have any beer in the fridge, but it really wouldn’t take a lot to get some delivered.
I hop out of my car and head into the house, walking through to the main living area, the auto-illuminating lights the only thing here to greet me.
It’s kind of stupid to live in such a big house.
Six bedrooms and eight-and-a-half bathrooms for just one person?
Insane. Much to Cam’s dismay, I bought this place without any fiscal advice whatsoever, when I was at my highest, right after I signed a lucrative ten-year deal with Royale worth more money than even made sense; a deal that was prematurely terminated just a few days ago due to my bad behavior at Hilton Head.
But I do love this house. It’s right on the beach, the neighbors are out of sight, and there was enough land for me to have my own tailor-made putting green installed in the front.
It’s a compound. One I rarely have to leave.
Perfect for a newfound recluse like me. But, on nights like tonight when it’s just me with nothing but the roar of the Atlantic Ocean crashing against the sand outside, sometimes it feels like I’m the only person left in the world, and to be honest, it can be super fucking lonely.
I grab a Gatorade from the fridge and crack it open, taking a big swig as I look out over the view of the water glowing beneath the light of the moon hanging low in the night sky, which is when my gaze snags on a stack of mail I assume Cam probably dropped off today and left on the countertop for me because he knows I rarely use my designated office for anything more than additional Big Swing storage.
As I rifle through the stack, there’s nothing of much interest. Accounts Cam already paid, event invitations Cam’s already accepted or declined, but when I see an unopened shimmering white envelope with fancy font addressed to me here at the house instead of the PO Box that goes to Cam, my interest piques.
Lifting the tab, I pull out a card with even fancier font in shiny gold embossed letters that read You’re Invited.
Opening the card, my heart sinks because I know what this is; I’ve been dreading it ever since I got the Save the Date a few months back.
Together with their families, Hannah Draper and Happy Slater request the honor of your presence to join with them to celebrate their wedding.
Fuck.
I met Hannah last year, when I was in New York.
She works for SNN, the top sports news broadcast in the country.
She was looking after me while I was there filming some face-to-camera segments for my special that was supposed to air with the leadup to The Masters.
Unfortunately, that was the time I hit rock bottom.
Hannah saved my fucking life. She found me, passed out, covered in my own vomit, close to death.
And it was her boyfriend, Happy, a hockey player for the New York Thunder and son of rock legend, Jonny Slater—a man who has publicly faced his own alcohol and drug-induced demons—who made me take the first step and admit to those closest to me that I had a problem.
It was then that I pulled out of The Masters and went to rehab instead.
I owe both Happy and Hannah my life, and over the last year, we’ve formed a special bond.
Friends doesn’t seem enough; I consider them pretty much family.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m happy for them. So happy for them. They’re perfect together. But the longer I stare down at the invitation in my hand, that same trepidation I’ve been feeling more and more lately starts to swirl in the pit of my chest, making it suddenly hard to breathe.
The thing is, I thought things would be different by now, better.
I thought I’d be back to my old self. The old cocky, arrogant, self-assured Brookes people know and can’t help but love.
Or hate. But, somewhere along my journey to recovery I seem to have lost myself.
And, as much as I try to act like it doesn’t bother me, deep down, I can’t help but wonder if maybe the old Brookes is gone for good.
As I reread the invitation, focusing on the big bolded PLUS ONE right next to my name, I think back to what Cam and Blake said, about what Jonesy said.
And, while a relationship is literally the last thing I want in my life right now, maybe a woman on my arm might make these things a little less unbearable.
Ever since I first started to make a name for myself in golf, back when I played on the college team, people have criticized my swing.
What can I say? Compared to the greats, it’s goofy as hell.
There are books, YouTube channels, social media pages dedicated to my weird-ass swing.
Throughout my entire career, top golf analysts have spent years studying it, trying to make sense of it.
My competitors have tried to emulate it, every single one of them failing and making fools of themselves in the process.
Retired greats have even commented on it, making fun of it, making fun of me, claiming that my swing has made a mockery of the prestigious game of golf.
But it’s my swing. And, in my defense, I don’t even know how I do it, or why I do it, but it works. For me. At least it did.
“You’re pulling up too much, Brookes,” Matt, my long-term swing coach, yells, interrupting me for the umpteenth time. “Your right shoulder is dropping and you’re not locking your elbow.”
“Fuck!” I shout, turning and hurling the club across the fairway.
I take a moment to collect myself, hands on my hips as I stare off into the thicket of trees, focusing on my breaths.
But it’s pointless. We’ve been out here, in the brutal sun, for over an hour, and I’ve successfully hit three balls.
Three. Today is not a good day. And, for whatever reason, my mind is absolutely not on golf.
I hear footsteps approach from behind, and I close my eyes on a steady exhale.
“What’s going on today, man?” Matt asks, his voice calmer. “This isn’t you.”
What’s going on? I almost laugh. Where do I start?
I’m afraid I’ll never be good at golf again.
I’m scared Brookes Devereaux was only ever at his best when he was drunk, or fucking high.
I’m terrified I’ve lost whatever it is I used to have.
I really thought I’d be back to normal by now.
But now, I don’t even remember what normal is.
I truly am starting to worry that the old Brookes is gone for good.
“Brookes?” Matt presses, pulling me from my thoughts.
“Looks like a case of blue balls to me!”
I spear Jonesy with a warning glower and he just shrugs and goes back to the newspaper he’s reading from the golf cart where he’s been watching and adding his two cents every now and again like he always does during my coaching.
“Jonesy,” Matt warns.
Stifling a pained groan, I drag a hand down my face. “Sorry, I’m just… tired. Didn’t sleep much last night.”
Matt checks his watch. “Why don’t we call it for the day. I’ll send you the session recording and my notes, you can study it tonight, and we’ll reconvene in the morning.”
I nod once, looking away.
“Take it easy on yourself, Brookes.” Matt slaps my shoulder. “You’re entitled to have a bad day every now and again.”
A bad day, sure. But a bad fucking year? Grinding my molars, I nod again and offer him a forced smile before walking over to retrieve my driver from the deep rough.
When I return, I walk back up toward the cart, untangling the reeds from my club, when I’m startled by a sing-song, “Good morning, fellas!”
I glance over my shoulder to see Poppy and her beverage cart puttering up the cart path toward us, and immediately my gaze flits to Jonesy to find him already grinning at me in that way that makes my stomach drop down into the bottom of my ass.
“Good morning, love of my life,” Jonesy bellows.
“Can I interest either of you in a coffee before I head back to the club house?”
“Not for me, sweetie,” Jonesy says, patting his rounded belly. “Doc’s put me on a one-cup a day rule. Says the old bowels don’t work the way they used to.”
I wince, spearing him with a what-the-fuck look as I make my way to my golf bag.
Poppy bites back a smile. “How about you, Brookes?”
Glancing over my shoulder, I meet her midnight-blue eyes.
“Can I interest you in anything?” She arches a brow, her smile sweet.
“Yeah, Brookes,” Jonesy says from the cart with a teasing tone, low enough so only I can hear him. “Can she interest you in anything?”
My jaw clenches and I shake my head, looking back at Poppy with a forced smile. “No. Thanks.”
“Okay, well y’all have a good rest of your day!” Poppy calls before carefully easing her cart around mine.
“Hey, Sweetheart?” Jonesy yells out after her, causing me to stiffen because what the hell is he doing?
“What is it, Jonesy?” Poppy stops her cart, turning to look back at him.
“You got a boyfriend?”
“Fuck’s sake,” I mutter under my breath, shaking my head.
“Why?” Her eyebrows dance up and down as she says, “You looking for wife number three?”
Jonesy throws his head back on a roaring laugh, scaring the flock of ibis scrounging around off to the side of the cart path. “Oh, no, honey. My Lori would have my balls cut off and mounted above the fireplace before she agrees on a divorce.”
Poppy giggles. “No, I don’t have a boyfriend. Not anymore, at least…”
I don’t miss the flash of sadness that flickers in her eyes as she says that. It’s gone so fast, I wonder for a moment whether I was imagining it, but her smile wavers a touch before it’s back to its regular full wattage, so I know it was there.
“Bye, boys.” She waves and continues off down the cart path back in the direction of the club.
After I secure my clubs in my bag, I hop into the cart, feeling Jonesy’s eyes on me instead of his newspaper, his gaze weighty and dubious. I ignore him of course, moving my head side to side to crack my neck in an attempt to relieve some of the pent-up tension in my shoulders. But it’s pointless.
“Hungry?”
I glance at Jonesy to find him smirking at his newspaper.
“You’re buying, old man,” I mutter, starting up the cart and turning to head for the clubhouse.