Chapter 32 Jax
Jax
Iwas a man on a mission, and when I had a mission, there was no backing down. Not on the golf course, and sure as hell not here in Ballybeg.
The first thing I’d done was track down every scrap of information I could find about the Shamrock people and their plans.
Emails, phone calls, late-night research sessions with my new trusty mobile Wi-Fi (because the pub network was shite)—I’d been living and breathing this battle.
Turns out, the project Big Gil and his posse of bastards had set up had more loopholes than a broken fishing net, and I was determined to use every single one of them to throw a wrench in their plans.
I’d spoken to Paddy, Mickey, and half the landowners in the area—good, hardworking people who were being squeezed to their breaking points by inflated land assessments and impossible taxes.
Cillian had been clever, I’d give him that, but his greed left a trail so clear even an amateur could follow it.
I wasn’t an amateur.
I’d spent hours on the phone with Brad, working to mobilize his social media team for our “small village versus corporate greed” campaign.
Brad thought I’d lost my mind at first, but when I told him how much this mattered to Dee—to us—he got on board. By the time we were done, Ballybeg would be a headline in every golf magazine and Irish news outlet from Dublin to Donegal.
I was going to do interviews and talk about my personal life—about Dee, about Ballybeg. If there was ever a reason to put myself under a media microscope, this was it.
Then there were the financials. I crunched the numbers, consulted lawyers, and set things in motion—strategically buying up land to make life difficult for the developers. To keep it quiet, I used a shell company instead of my own name.
Fergus showing up meant they’d figured it out.
In the middle of all that, my father called.
I considered letting it ring out. Instead, I stepped away from Dee and answered. She didn’t need to hear it. She’d feel guilty—and only because she hadn’t met my parents. If she had, she’d be the first to tell me to tell him to feck off.
“I hear you’re doing this because of a woman,” he thundered as I sat on the bench outside the pub, musing about how much at home I felt here.
“Yeah, Dad, it’s your future daughter-in-law.” I knew that would needle him right where it hurts, and it did.
“A fucking pub owner? Are you out of your mind?”
“No, Dad, I’m in love.”
“Same difference,” Dad growled. “Now look, everyone likes a little strange, and you’re—”
“We’re not gonna discuss my sex life.” I kept my tone light, but I was gritting my teeth.
“First, you give up your family legacy, and now—”
“Dad, you need to pull out of Big Gil’s Irish deal,” I put enough steel in my voice so he’d know I was serious.
“Not happenin’, son.”
“In that case, when the media calls you a money-hungry arsehole who’s screwing his son’s fiancée’s village, don’t come complaining to me about it.”
“Why would the media call me anything?” he asked cautiously.
“Because in about a half hour, I have a Zoom interview with Scott Van Pelt, and I’m going to tell him all about how wonderful Ballybeg is, and how Big Gil and the guys in Cork are a bunch of gobshites.”
My father knew Scott Van Pelt; in fact, half the sports fans in the world did.
Scott was a prominent ESPN host known for his conversational and engaging style on SportsCenter. He was the first media personality Brad had called, and Scott was excited to talk to me when he saw what I was trying to do.
“Jax, you’re going to ruin your life.”
“Dad, that’s what you said when I said I wanted to play golf, and now I have two PGL championships.” I looked at my watch. “Now, think about what I said, and I’ll talk to you later.”
I hung up on him and got ready for my interview with Scott, which would air in two days, kicking off our social media assault.
Meanwhile, I’d spoken to my finance guy, and we were ready to start covering property taxes for the villagers who wanted to stay put.
Paddy and Mickey were hard at work convincing those willing to sell to choose me over Shamrock Global Ventures.
It was an expensive endeavor, no doubt, but I didn’t mind it at all. I’d never been prouder of how I was spending my money.
Sure, convincing Dee to let me help had been harder than any PGL tournament I ever played, but every argument, every exasperated sigh, and every time she glared at me with those emerald-green eyes made me love her more.
“You really think this will work?” she asked nervously after I finished my interview with Scott at the bar. Brad thought the setting would give it the right flavor, so we chose a quiet hour before opening.
“Everyone I’ve talked to thinks it will.”
She frowned. “Who is everyone?”
“Everyone. Paddy, Mickey, the lads down at the council office—hell, I even chatted up the guy who delivers flour for Cadhla’s Bakery. I’ve been pulling every string I can find.”
“What is it you’re looking for?”
“Any information I can get about Big Gil’s venture and Cillian O’Farrell.”
She arched an eyebrow at me. “You’re telling me my village’s future depends on Ballybeg gossip?”
I grinned. “Darlin’, in a village like this, gossip might just save the day.”
“You think we’re going to save the day?”
She sounded scared, and I didn’t like that at all. I wanted her to feel confident, but it was hard when even I knew this was a freaking Hail Mary.
“When the social media posts, interviews, and videos about how Ballybeg’s heritage is at risk hit the airwaves, it’s going to put pressure on all the right people.” I flash a grin at her. “People love a good David versus Goliath story, and that’s exactly what this is.”
“And you’re the David in this scenario?”
“No, I’m your slingshot.”
Her lips twitched as she fought a smile, and that pleased me because it meant she wasn’t scared anymore.
I had approved several social media posts to go out from my account and reached out to friends with bigger followings than mine—like Nikolai, a soccer superstar—who had agreed to amplify my posts and add their own.
Brad’s social media team was handling the logistics, and according to him, they were getting invested in the fight.
They saw this for what it was—another case of rich white assholes trying to bulldoze a historic village for profit—and if they felt that strongly about it, I knew their audience would, too.
My goal was simple: put enough public pressure on the county council that they had no choice but to change their vote.
I was in my old bedroom, which I had been using as an office since I’d moved into Dee’s room, when Brad texted me with a link: Ask your Irish lass not to freak out.
I frowned as I opened the link and saw the headline on some site called The Irish Star staring back at me like a bad dream.
“Golf Star Jax Caldwell Caught in Scandalous Love Affair!”
Beneath the headline was a grainy photo of Francia and me from that damned event in Dublin, taken at just the right angle to make it look like we were cozying up to each other.
Never mind that I’d been standing full feet away from her, and the only thing on my mind had been how quickly I could leave without causing a scene.
Jesus Fucking Christ! This was not what I needed right now…or ever.
Of course, the article didn’t stop there.
It rehashed every detail of my so-called breakup with Francia, spun a few wild theories about why I was “hiding out in Ireland,” and, for good measure, tossed in a couple of recycled rumors about my so-called bad boy reputation—because God forbid the tabloids ever let that one die.
I texted Brad: Get someone to write a detailed response to this shit. I’m shutting Francia down.
Brad replied: Really? Hallelujah! Christmas is here early.
I slammed my phone down on the table, my heart sinking.
It wasn’t the article itself that bothered me—I’d been dealing with this kind of crap for years, and Brad would take care of making sure Francia would be shut down.
No, what worried me was how Dee would react when she saw it.
I didn’t need another reason for her to question me, to doubt what we had. Things had just started to feel solid between us, and the last thing I wanted was for some stupid tabloid story to mess that up.
I found Saoirse stacking whiskey bottles under the bar.
“Do you read The Irish Star?”
She gave me a quizzical look. “Aye.”
“Does everybody in Ballybeg read the feckin’ thing?”
She shrugged carelessly. “Not everybody, but many do.”
Damn it!
“Where’s Dee?”
“In the kitchen.” She stood up and put her hands on her hips quite like Dee did. “What did you do, Jax Caldwell?”
“I didn’t do anything, but tabloid journalism is fucking with my life.”
Saoirse grinned. “Is this about you and that fancy supermodel?”
I shot her a glare brimming with frustration and panic. “You saw it.”
“Aye, I did.”
“Dee?”
She scoffed. “Like Dee would sully her eyes with that kind of gobshite.”
Okay, that was something.
Dee came into the bar then, a bright smile on her face.
I froze, my heart pounding. “Hey.”
She raised an eyebrow. “What’s with you? You look like you’ve spotted a banshee wailin’.”
I had no idea what that meant. “There’s, uh…something you should probably see.”
“Okay.” She walked to me, wiping her hands on her apron.
I swallowed and pulled out my phone. I gave it to her, my stomach twisting into knots as she picked it up and scanned the headline.
For a moment, her face was unreadable, her green eyes narrowing slightly as she skimmed the article.
Then, without a word, she handed my phone back to me. “Was that it?” she asked nonchalantly.
“Yeah.”
“Good, ‘cause I need to check on that arsehole Martin Glancy because he shorted me last week.”
I blinked, stunned. “Wait…that’s it?”
She smirked. “What did you think I was going to do? Throw a fit? You think I’m going to let some stupid tabloid photo get to me?”
I let out a shaky laugh, relief washing over me. “You never stop surprising me, you know that?”