Chapter 17
brOOKES
Poppy: I just got to the hotel.
Idon’t miss the way the tension in my shoulders seems to subside the second I see Poppy’s message flash up on my phone.
I flew into Tulsa yesterday. The day was spent smiling for photographs I didn’t want taken, being grilled by assholes posing as reporters in back-to-back press conferences asking me the same damn question over and over again, hoping for a different answer each time.
“Brookes, how are you feeling after Hilton Head? Did you take some time to reflect after your last performance?”
I’m not sure what they were expecting from me.
It was a goddamn press conference, for chrissake.
Yes, I fucked up. I shouldn’t have snapped that nine iron in half.
And, no, I wasn’t aware there was a goddamn nine-year-old kid standing behind me when I called the ball a cunt.
Donald Spielman and the AGL would have my ass kicked off the tour so damn fast my head would be spinning.
Today, I battled through the first round and sucked, finishing on a dismal seventy-two and facing even more grilling by the reporters.
And now, here I am, trapped in the presidential dining room at the Tulsa Hills Country Club, forced to spend my evening with men I can’t stand for this stupid-ass Legend’s Dinner, which is really just a sorry excuse for a pissing competition of golf’s most intolerable players, with a side of over-cooked steak.
Poppy stayed back in Florida, but I know she was scared to fly out here. At twenty-three, she’s apparently only ever been on a plane three times in her life because she hates flying, so I kind of felt bad having her travel alone. I’ve been checking her flight schedule all afternoon.
We haven’t really seen much of one another since the children’s hospital charity gala due to my rigorous practice schedule, but we’ve been talking more and more, usually by text. And I’ve never been a big texter, but I have to admit, with Poppy, it’s kind of fun.
Me: How was the flight?
Poppy: Apart from the three times the plane almost dropped right out of the sky, it was fine.
I laugh to myself.
Me: It’s just turbulence.
Poppy: That’s what the man next to me kept promising. But I’m sure that’s just some made up thing people say to try to make themselves feel better before plummeting twenty-thousand feet to their death.
Me: As a physics major, I tend to disagree, but go off I guess.
Poppy: You were a physics major?
Me: I’m not just a pretty face, Pops.
Poppy:
“Well, well, well, if it isn’t Brookes Devereaux.”
I snap my head up from my phone to see the bane of my existence, my biggest rival on and off the course, Jackson Taylor, standing there, smirking at me.
When my gaze dips down to the lowball of amber liquor held in his hand, the smug asshole lifts it to his mouth, dropping it back in one go and smacking his lips to savor the taste.
Fuck, I hate this guy. He’s had a problem with me ever since I fucked his now wife. In my defense, I was wasted, plus I had no idea she was his girlfriend at the time. She sure as shit never said a damn thing to me.
“Jackson.” I nod, averting my eyes and, instead, looking out over the sea of pro golfers filling the room.
“Didn’t expect to see you here after today’s effort,” Jackson says with a low chuckle. “I’m surprised you were even invited after the display you put on at Hilton Head…”
I slide my gaze to meet his. “I’m just here to reclaim my spot at the top.”
He laughs. “Well, you’ll have to get past me first.”
Rubbing my chin, I look up at the beams in the ceiling in mock thought. “Last I checked you were, what? Bouncing between eight and nine.”
Jackson narrows one eye to a slit, his grip around the glass tightening enough to stretch his knuckles white. “Better than thirty-two,” he retorts through gritted teeth.
“I like a challenge.” I shrug a shoulder, acting as unbothered as I possibly can, because for guys like Jackson Taylor, that only pisses them off more.
His gaze drops to the glass in my hand, and with a scoff, he says, “How’s the sparkling water?”
With the hint of a smile, I lift my glass to my lips and take a sip before meeting his eyes and asking, “How’s the… wife?”
Jackson’s face twists with anger, and he takes a step closer, chest puffed out as he fronts up to me, positively seething. “You better watch your fuckin’ mouth, Devereaux.”
Noticing the commotion, a few of the guys nearby step in, one pulling Jackson away from me, another moving in to stand between us, and I have to tamp down my laughter because Jackson fucking Taylor couldn’t fight his way out of a wet paper bag.
He’s a little bitch. And the only reason he’s even trying me right now is because he knows the people around us are going to step in before it can escalate to me kicking his ass.
“Gentlemen?” The head of the tour, Greg Stoltz, steps in, eyes incredulously wide as they flit from me to Jackson and back again, glowering like I’m the instigator, because of fucking course. “Do we have a problem here?”
I shake my head. “No. No problem from me.”
Greg turns to Jackson, who is currently smoothing down the lapels of his sports jacket. With a huffed exhale, he pushes his blond hair back from his reddened face. “Nope.”
“Well, good,” Greg says, clearly unconvinced. Again, he turns to me as he continues, his warning loud and clear. “I don’t want to see any trouble from you this weekend, Mr. Devereaux. On or off the course. I don’t think I need to remind you that Donald Spielman is only a phone call away.”
I nod once, forcing a smile as I say with absolute insincerity, “I will be on my absolute best behavior, sir.” And then, sliding my gaze to fucking Jackson, I slam my empty glass onto a nearby table. My smile turns menacing as I jut my chin at him. “See you tomorrow, Jackson.”
Cam: What is this?
I look closer at the picture on my phone. It’s a blurry cell phone photo of Jackson and me back at the club, Jackson all up in my face, me grinning at him like a cocky son of a bitch.
Blake: Did you pick a fight with Taylor?
Me: Trust me. If I’d picked a fight with that kid, he would’ve walked away with a broken fucking nose.
Cam: Brookes, you need to stay out of trouble.
Me: Not to sound like a child, but he literally started it.
Blake: I’m flying out there.
I throw my head back on a groan, banging it a few times against the mirrored wall of the elevator. Just what I need.
Me: I play better when I don’t have a chaperone.
Blake: Well, I don’t trust you not to do something stupid.
My fist clenches around my phone so tight I hear the device crack under the pressure. Taking a deep breath, I count to three before tapping out my reply.
Me: Do I need to remind you who works for fucking whom?
Cam: Okay. Everyone just calm down.
Me: I don’t need a goddamn babysitter.
Blake: Well then stop acting like a child.
I switch my phone off before I say something I know I’ll regret, suddenly more worked up than I was earlier after leaving the Legend’s Dinner. Sometimes it really does feel like no one is ever on my fucking side.
When the elevator chimes, I hop off and continue to the end of the corridor, swiping my keycard and pushing through the doors to the suite.
Inside is quiet and dimly lit, and I glance to the side, noticing Poppy’s bedroom door is closed.
Huffing a hard breath, I push my hair back from my face and continue through to the French doors, opening them and walking out onto the terrace that looks over the city of Tulsa lit up against the darkness across the river.
Man, I could do with a drink. Beer, liquor, a shot of fucking tequila—I’d accept just about anything to take the edge off, something to dull the noise of the voices in my head screaming at me that, no matter how hard I try, I’m never going to be the best again, telling me I might as well just give in.
Hanging my head, I take a few steadying breaths, collecting myself as best as I can when I hear a faint whimper come from behind the French doors that open from the terrace into Poppy’s bedroom.
Snapping my head up, I listen again, but I’m met with nothing but silence. I take a step closer, closing my eyes as if that helps, but there’s nothing. Great. Not only am I desperate for a drink, now I’m fucking hearing things. Maybe I should go call my sponsor.
Heading back inside, I walk toward my bedroom, but I’m stopped dead in my tracks because I know for a damn sure I didn’t just imagine that.
Poppy is in her room… whimpering. And, of course, my dick stirs because I’m only fucking human, and it’s been over a year since the big guy’s had any real action.
Rubbing at the sudden knot in the back of my neck, I stand in the center of the room, momentarily debating with myself. Of course I should just ignore it, pretend I heard nothing, and go into my bedroom and straight to sleep. That’s exactly what I should do. But again… I’m only human.
Padding across the living area, I approach Poppy’s door like a goddamn creeper, my heart jumping up into the back of my throat when I hear another sound. A moan. Fuck. Me.
I pause again, dragging a hand down over my face.
This is wrong. This is so fucking wrong.
“Oh, God!”
I startle at that, every ounce of horniness brewing deep inside me suddenly disintegrating because she’s not doing what my perverted mind was imagining she’s doing. She’s… crying.
I close the distance in a few strides, knocking my fist gently against Poppy’s door. “Poppy? Are you… okay?”
My question is met with nothing but another whimper, but it’s far from a sexy whimper. It almost sounds like a sob.
“Pops?” I knock again.
Poppy groans. “Hang on… let me… put on some… pants.”
My brows knit together because she is crying. “Poppy, I’m coming in, pants or no pants.”
She huffs in response, and I push open the door to find her lying on the floor, dressed only in a t-shirt and underwear, her legs elevated up on the king bed.
“W-what are you doing?” I ask, equally confused and concerned.
Sniffling, tears streaming down her face, Poppy tugs at the hem of her t-shirt in an attempt to try to cover as much as she can, but I’m really not concerned with what she is or isn’t showing. I’m more worried about what the hell happened and why she’s on the goddamn floor.
“Did you fall?” I ask, crouching down next to her.
“No,” she whimpers. “My legs are just… sore.”
I do look then, allowing my gaze to trail down to where she has her legs up, knees bent over the side of the bed, and holy shit, they’re super swollen. I mean, she’s naturally thick, but even her lower legs, her ankles, her feet—they’re all puffy, the skin red and tight.
“Are you having an allergic reaction?” I ask, suddenly panicked. “Did… did something bite you?”
“No!” Poppy says through a sob, but it’s combined with a laugh despite the tears still rolling down her cheeks.
“Okay, so I’m a little confused.” I shake my head. “Poppy, what the hell is going on?”
“I have lipedema,” she finally says, wiping her damp cheeks.
I don’t miss the way my stomach dips at that because I don’t know what it is, but it sounds bad. And although I don’t really know this woman, the thought of her being sick incites a wave of concern I’ve never felt before to rush through me.
“What is that?” I press impatiently. “Are—are you okay?”
“No, Brookes. Clearly I’m not okay.” She laughs through another sob mixed with a groan.
“What can I do?” I ask quickly. “W-what do you need?”
“It’ll go down soon,” she says. “It’s just from the flight…”
“Wait! This is from the flight?” I wave a hand over her swollen limbs.
She nods. “I told you I hate flying…”
I balk. “I thought you hated it because you were afraid or something. I-I didn’t know it was because of this!
” I’m incredulous, my voice all high and pitchy as I indicate her legs again which, on closer inspection, look like they’re about ready to bust open.
“I think we need to get you to a hospital!”
“Brookes, I’m fine,” Poppy says with a groan. “If I keep my legs elevated, it should ease. And I can just book in for a massage in the morning.”
“A massage?”
“Yeah, I need a lymphatic massage,” she says. “To drain the fluid.”
I glance at her legs again, shaking my head. “No. You’re not gonna suffer like this all night.”
Hopping up, I move to the side table, pick up the receiver to the hotel telephone, dial zero, and the concierge picks up almost immediately with a cheerful, “Good evening, Mr. Devereaux, how can I be of service?”
“I need a massage therapist to my suite as soon as possible,” I say, glancing at Poppy and meeting her wide eyes. “One that specializes in… lymphatic drainage.”