Chapter 8
I relaxmy shoulders and take a deep breath.
There’s a pause before I pull my driver back, twisting my body as I swing the club behind me and back down to the tee with as much force as I can.
My body tilts and leans as I watch the ball sail through the air.
“Stay right! Stay right!”
Sand explodes from the bunker, letting me know the ball didn’t stay right.
“See?” I turn over my shoulder to Pete. “Everything pulls left.”
Pete glances down at the iPad in his hands, tapping a few buttons. His jet-black hair from my teenage years has peppered into a mix of gray, black, and white. “On film, your setup position and body alignment look good.” I lean over, glancing at the footage he just recorded. “I like where the ball is in relation to your stance. It’s not too far forward. But if you look right here…” He slows the video so we can break down each movement. “You’re not committing to turning through to the target. Your hips, ribs, and knees need to continue their movement.” He looks up at me with a hitched smile. “Walker, that’s just basic stuff. You know this. I taught you this.”
My head shakes in frustration. “I know, but somewhere along the line, I’ve lost it.”
“You haven’t lost anything. You still have what it takes. Let’s try another.”
I use the end of my driver to push over another ball into the tee box and ready my stance. My body twists, and the ball flies, landing in the deep grass to the left of the bunker.
I drop my head, swearing under my breath.
“For the most part, everything looks good.” Pete replays the video. “Your form and follow-through looked good. And your swing speed was one hundred twenty-seven. I think you’re just overthinking everything, and that’s what’s causing you to pull left. You’re in your own head.”
“Well, how do I get out of my head?”
Pete laughs, unfazed by my frustration. “You’re the only one who can get out of your own way. You have to learn to enjoy the game of golf again. And remember, it is just a game.”
“Easier said than done,” I mutter as I push another ball forward. No matter how hard I try, nothing about golf seems fun anymore.
“Walker, I thought that was you.”
I turn over my shoulder to see Noah Belacourt walking toward us. He’s another friend from junior high that I haven’t seen in years. We were more like default friends, forced together because we were the same age on this small island. But since his family is in the news a lot, I feel like we’ve kept in touch.
“Noah Belacourt.” I reach my hand out to him. “How’s it going?”
“I heard you were in town, working with the best.” He smiles at Pete.
“I hope you’re not referring to me as the best.”
“You’ve been the golf pro at the resort longer than I’ve been alive.” Noah slaps Pete on the back. “Of course I’m referring to you as the best.” He glances at me again. “I hope Pete is taking care of you and getting you whatever you need.”
“Yeah, he’s been great. Although, I think he had to move some of your guests’ tee times around to fit me in. Sorry if you get some complaints.”
“Eh, don’t worry about that. Normally, it shouldn’t be so hard to squeeze you in. We’re just extra busy this week because we have a wedding on Friday.”
“That’s what Pete said. I’ll be sure to stay out of the way.”
“Anytime we can host a professional golfer is a good thing.” Noah smiles. “Besides, you grew up on this course. You know it better than anyone else. In fact, you still hold the course record for the lowest score.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, but that was when you were eighteen. I’m sure you could crush that score now.”
I lift my brows, eyeing Pete. “I doubt that.”
“Of course he could,” Pete reassures. “Walker is in the prime of his golf career.”
I know Pete’s just blowing smoke, but there’s something about his unwavering confidence and belief in me that calms my anxiety. He doesn’t care if I win or lose, make the cut, or go home early. Pete just accepts me for who I am, like a father would—like what I hope my father would’ve done if he were still here.
“Good for you, man.” Noah nods in a genuine way. “I hear the pressure of the majors can just suck the fun right out of golf.”
You have no idea.
“Some days are better than others.”
“So, how long are you in town for?”
Everyone’s favorite question and another reason why I hated growing up in Sunset Harbor—the people who live here are so dang nosy. I would’ve expected Noah Belacourt to be more private with how public his sisters are. They parade around upper-crust circles like they own the place.
“I’m here until Pete thinks I’m ready to win a tournament.”
“So he won’t be here long,” Pete says.
“Well, I’m in and out at the hotel, but hopefully, I’ll see you around. Maybe we could even golf the front nine together.”
Yeah, I don’t think so.The entire reason why I’m on this island is so that I can golf alone without anyone watching or judging me. That includes Noah Belacourt.
“That would be fun. Let’s do it,” I say what he wants to hear.
“Sounds good.” Noah taps me on the back. “I’ll let you guys get back to work.”
When he’s out of earshot, Pete looks at me. “Let’s do it?”
“Oh, shut up.” I bite back my smile.
Even Pete knows I have no intention of hanging out with anyone while I’m on this island.
I finishedseven over the course rating.
Seven.
And that was with a few mulligans that no one needs to know about.
Eighteen-year-old Walker would’ve destroyed me today.
I was worse than a toddler playing mini-golf, needing nine putts just to get the ball six inches into the hole.
Luckily, Pete hasn’t disowned me yet. We have another session scheduled for tomorrow and Friday.
A slow, drawn-out breath trickles out of me as I sit in the resort parking lot with my hands on the steering wheel of Stan’s golf cart.
I want to be numb and feel nothing—dead inside—but instead, I feel too much. The disappointment inside weighs me down.
The last time I felt this way was when my dad died, and my mom moved us to Sunset Harbor to live with my grandma. To a fourteen-year-old, my life was over. Not only had I lost my dad, but now I had to start over with friends. I wasn’t mature enough back then to realize my mom had no other choices. I blamed my family for my unhappiness, bottling up my anger in public and projecting it onto my family in private.
Golf helped, though.
It was the one place in my life where I could control things.
My preparation.
My study of a course.
My commitment.
My reaction.
All my control paid off. I was good. No, actually, I was great.
And the better I got at golf, the happier I became.
It wasn’t just a fake show of happiness, either. Golf gave me an outlet I couldn’t find at home.
Now that outlet is gone. I can’t control anything anymore—even my reaction to losing. All I want is to get that kind of happiness back and ease the constant ache in my chest.
A horn honks, rattling me a bit. I glance in the rearview mirror and realize I’m blocking another cart from exiting the parking lot. I push the gas and pull to the side, letting the other golf cart pass. I give a little wave and a forced smile as they go by, even though I’m not in the mood for friendliness.
Belacourt Resort is on the tip of the island, so once I pull out on the main road, I head south back to Stan’s house. Warm wind whips through my hair, gently lifting the visor of my baseball hat.
I’ve always felt more comfortable in a golf cart than in a car. The openness makes it easy to watch the pinkish-purple sky fade into dark navy as the moon takes over.
This is the north end, where all the upscale houses are, where Jane’s parents” house is. Maybe she still lives with them, like in the apartment above the detached garage.
I glance to the right, checking out the houses beyond the fences and bushes, trying to remember which one belongs to Loretta Lee and Tucker Hayes. I think it’s coming up, but I need to verify with Google to be sure. I reach into my pocket and pull out my phone. It’s a balance of Googling Tucker Hayes’s house and driving. Images pull up, confirming I was right.
It’s this one.
I crane my neck, trying to peer through the white wrought iron fence that lines the front of the property. When I glance back to the road, there’s no time to react. The cart lurches forward straight into the Hayes’s fancy metal mailbox—which I didn’t see because I wasn’t paying attention to driving. The mailbox tips to the ground, but the golf cart doesn’t stop until it’s centered over the pole.
Lights coming down the road blind me. I’m not the hit-and-run type, but I try to push the gas again just to see if I can escape. It’s no use. The front tire is lifted in the air, spinning and spinning.
My foot eases off the gas as the approaching golf cart slows to a stop at the edge of the Hayes’s driveway.
Jane is sitting in the passenger seat.
That’s just great.
I only make brief eye contact with her when a man steps out of the driver’s side of the cart.
Freaking Beau Palmer.
“Walker?” Jane gasps as she rushes to the crash site. “What are you doing?”
I do the only thing I can think of. I turn on my charm. “Hi, Jane!” I say with a smile. “Is this your house?”
Her brows drop, but it’s Beau who says something next.
“Walker, are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. I was just looking at my phone and veered off the road.” My hands go up playfully as I chuckle. “Don’t arrest me.”
“You’re bleeding,” Jane says with those same furrowed brows.
“Am I?” My fingers go to the side of my head, where I feel warm blood trickling down. “Probably just a scratch.”
“Come inside, and we’ll get a BandAid or something.” Jane looks at me one last time before shaking her head and walking down the driveway to her house.
I gather my phone and clubs and follow after her and Beau, probably leaving a trail of blood as I go.