Epilogue
POPPY
Ten Months Later
As I stand between Lori and Jonesy off to the side of the eighteenth green, the energy in the air is palpable and electric, but also eerily still and deathly silent.
The roars from earlier today feel like a long-forgotten memory.
The chaos, the anxiety, the anticipation, the nerves, the mistakes—it’s all boiled down to this.
Just Brookes, his putter, and a few feet of impossibly manicured grass separating his ball from what will soon be written in history, one way or another.
For everyone else, it’s just a putt.
For Brookes, it’s so much more.
It’s every four a.m. wake up call. It’s every missed moment. Every frustrated silence. Every stubborn step he took back, retreating into himself when the pressure was overwhelming.
I watch Brookes walk around the line of the putt, crouching down, then standing tall, adjusting his ball cap, covering his mouth while murmuring something to Max.
He looks calm—the calm he puts on for the cameras—but I know the tells.
It’s the tic in his jaw. The slight bounce in his knee.
The way he rubs the back of his neck when he’s fighting against the noise in his head, the voices trying to convince him that no matter what, he can’t, and he might as well give up.
It’s a never-ending battle, one I’m not sure he’ll ever overcome, but a battle I choose to fight alongside him every single day.
The gallery forms a wide ring around the green, hundreds of spectators holding their breath. Even the Georgia pines seem still, no longer swaying where they reach high up into the azure sky.
He’s tied for first. One stroke can and will change everything.
My heart hammers louder than the low murmurs that hum through the crowd.
My hands are clasped together so tight, my fingers ache.
Part of me wants to look away. Fear. Self-preservation.
Maybe both. I don’t know. What I do know is what this moment is costing him.
Not just the years he’s spent on the tour, but the time he lost. I wasn’t around for all of it, but I’ve spent countless nights staying up past dawn, listening to Brookes while he told me everything: the good, the bad, the ugly.
The unforgiving newspaper headlines. The hotel rooms with the curtains drawn at noon.
The self-loathing. The burn of whiskey as it hit the back of his throat before nine a.m. The constant questioning of whether he’d die or wind up worse off if he ever tried to kill himself.
The heaviness of the pills. The shame that had started to settle into his bones.
The same shame he hid with more liquor, more pills, and a smile that never quite reached his eyes.
The unnerving silence when golf—the thing that once defined him—was all but gone.
Brookes lines up the shot.
There’s a pause. A breath. The kind of silence that only exists on a Sunday at The Masters. The kind that feels sacred and merciless all at once.
He makes the stroke. It’s smooth. Almost too smooth. And for a split second, the ball looks like it might drift right. My stomach drops. Time stretches thin and fragile.
The ball catches the edge. The rim seems to hold it there forever. Teetering. So close, yet not quite guaranteed. Balancing precariously between triumph and heartbreak in a suspended beat.
Then it falls. The sound—that clean, unmistakable plop as the ball hits the bottom of the cup—detonates the silence.
The gallery erupts. A wave of all-consuming noise crashes over the green.
Camera shutters go off. Strangers are shouting.
Hats are thrown in the air. Somewhere, someone is crying.
And I am too. So is Lori and Jonesy. And Cam.
Because this isn’t just a win at the Masters.
This is proof. Proof that the man right there in the thick of it all, the man who owns my heart and every fiber of my being, the man currently falling to his knees, is no longer the man who got lost in the haze of addiction.
This moment is proof that the work—the non-stop grind, the countless therapy sessions, the brutal honesty, and the daily sacrifices—mattered.
Brookes looks up, almost stunned, and then when his bright blue eyes cut to me, he breaks into that dimpled grin that takes my breath away and I run. Like my life depends on getting to him, I run with all that I have, crashing into his arms as they open just in time to catch me.
“You did it, baby!” I cry, wrapping my arms around his neck.
Brookes cups my face, thumbs stroking my tear-stained cheeks, his own eyes glossing over as he shakes his head. “No, Pops. We did it.”
A sob bubbles up the back of my throat, and I crash my lips to his. As the crowd starts to close in around us, everyone cheering for the man of the moment, he and I get lost in the kind of kiss that will go down in history, everything else slowly fading away.
Fresh tears burn my eyes as I watch last year’s Masters winner place the green jacket onto Brookes.
The sprawling crowd cheers, and camera flashes flicker through the dull glow of the setting sun as Brookes holds his arms out wide, showing off his new ’fit.
And, when he looks in my direction, pointing his finger at me, he winks, and I lose it.
“Aw, baby girl,” Lori whispers, wrapping her arm around me and squeezing tight.
The Chairman of Augusta talks about Brookes’ comeback in a way that makes it sound like a family-friendly Disney movie, but those closest to him know it’s been anything but.
And as I glance up at Cam standing next to me, the one constant in Brookes’ life for the last decade, I see the struggle, the pain, the sleepless nights, the stress, but above all of that, I see the pride.
And, snaking my hand between us, I envelop Cam’s, giving it a squeeze.
Startling ever so slightly, Cam looks down at me, meeting my eyes, an understanding no one else will ever share passing between us.
And, with the slightest hint of a smile, he squeezes my hand right back, winking at me.
After that night when Blake attacked me, I told Brookes that I didn’t want to press charges. Maybe it was selfish of me, but I knew taking the matter to the police would likely dredge up much of the painful past I’ve spent so long trying to forget. And I couldn’t risk it.
Brookes kept my wishes. And, after some legal back-and-forth, NDAs were signed and Blake Mestroni formally resigned as Brookes Devereaux’s agent, citing nothing more than irreconcilable differences.
Cam effortlessly took on the role of Brookes’ agent in the wake of Blake’s resignation. And he’s been doing an amazing job. Brookes trusts and loves Cam like a father. And, I guess, now so do I.
Blake went on to sign Jackson Taylor as a client, which wasn’t a big surprise; the two were a perfect fit, given they’re both snakes.
What was a big surprise was when it came out only a few months later that Jackson Taylor was firing Blake Mestroni after it was found that Blake was having an affair with Jackson’s wife.
I don’t feel bad for anyone in that whole messy situation; in my opinion, they all deserve each other.
“Brookes, the green jacket looks good on you,” the Chairman says, causing the crowd around us to hoot and holler.
Brookes’ gaze immediately cuts to me, a suggestive arch of one of his eyebrows causing me to throw my head back on a laugh, knowing exactly what he’s thinking. Pervert.
“Come on over here and say a few words.” The older man waves Brookes closer to the podium, and the excited din of the crowd immediately dies down.
“Fits like a glove,” is all Brookes says into the microphone, looking down at himself in his jacket, huffing an exasperated laugh as he shakes his head to himself like he still can’t quite believe it.
Gripping the podium, Brookes clears his throat, his gaze meeting mine again. “I’m not going to say a lot because y’all know I hate this fuckin’ shit.”
A collective gasp rings through the crowd.
Cameras flash.
Jonesy laughs out loud.
“Fuck’s sake, Brookes,” Cam mutters beside me, dragging a hand down his face.
I bite back my smirk. That’s my boy.
“Sorry,” Brookes murmurs, shooting the Chairman an apologetic glance. “I just wanted to thank a few people. My manager-slash-agent, Cameron Davies. My unofficial mentor, Philip ‘Jonesy’ Jones.”
The crowd cheers at the mention of Jonesy, and the old man waves a wrinkled hand in the air, dismissing the kudos.
“I want to thank Matt, my swing coach for helping me to finally get my shit together.” Brookes grins, nodding at Matt. “And my caddy, Max, who will be standing in this very spot in the next few years, I guarantee it. And I will be right here with you, bud.”
Max’s cheeks turn beet red, and he ducks his head to hide his embarrassment.
“I don’t trust a lot of people, so I don’t have a huge team on my side.
But those who are with me, those who have stuck by me through the good times, and the…
not so good times”—Brookes looks pointedly from Jonesy to Lori to Cam—“they’re the people I call my family and I owe them everything, because I wouldn’t be here without ’em. ”
Lori sniffles next to me, and I return her hug from earlier, squeezing her tight.
“Lastly, I want to thank my girl,” Brookes says, his voice wavering with a touch of unexpected emotion as he looks directly at me. “My light. My sunshine. My Poppy.”
My smile just about splits my face in two, tears blurring my vision as I stare at him.
“I love you, baby,” Brookes says, and it’s suddenly as if it’s just the two of us, in this sea of at least a few thousand souls.
“I love you, and I appreciate you, and I am so thankful every goddamn day that you are in my life. And I can’t wait for all our tomorrows.
” He winks then and steps back from the podium to an almost deafening round of applause and cheers, holding his hands up and waving to the crowd before jogging across the lawn directly to me.
Wrapping his arms around my waist, Brookes lifts me up and spins me around to the tune of the crowd going absolutely wild as more blinding camera flashes light up around us. Security moves in close, surrounding us, and I gaze up into Brookes’ eyes.
“Green looks good on you,” I say with a grin.
“It’ll look way better on you wearing it when I fuck you later,” he murmurs lowly against the shell of my ear, causing me to shudder.
And as Brookes holds my hand tight, pulling me with him as he makes the long walk back to the club house and through the crowd cheering him on, he stops to answer the occasional question for the press, giving his most PR-approved answers.
That is until a pretty blonde shoves a microphone in his face and asks, “Now that you have your green jacket, what’s next, Brookes? ”
Brookes looks from the reporter down to me, pulling me closer to him. Staring into the camera he shakes his head. “Nothing. This is all I wanted. I’m done. Now, I’m gonna go help my girl make sparkly earrings…”
I gape up at him, shocked by his words. I’d had a thought he might retire, but I didn’t want to assume or ask him, and I didn’t want to jinx anything. But now, hearing him say the words… I’m crying. Again.
Brookes just winks at me, and loud enough for everyone to hear and likely wonder what the hell he’s talking about, he simply says, “Megalodon.”
THE END