42. Epilogue
Holland
I stare at the happy couple in front of me—the way they keep shooting each other secret glances that aren’t secret at all, the way their hands are intertwined and their shoulders are curved toward each other—and I feel an unfamiliar longing in my chest.
Not just for female contact—as a popular pro-golfer, I could snap my fingers, and socialites and drop-dead-gorgeous women would be lining up to go out with me—but for true companionship. To spend time with someone who sees me as more than just a no-strings-attached good time.
I don’t know what’s gotten into me.
I am a famous golf pro and a guy who likes to have a good time. Nothing wrong with that.
But lately, I’ve been feeling…I don’t know. Unmoored? Juvenile? Like maybe I’m ready for something more than casual flings with pretty women.
I blink, bringing my thoughts back to Rose and Anton. “Everything should be all set up for you here. Make yourselves at home.”
“We can’t thank you enough for this, Holland.” Rose’s gaze sweeps around the mansion. “I’m so excited.”
I step out of the way so they can move inside. Anton reached out to me about using some of my contacts in the golf world to secure a house right near the course here in South Carolina. They’ve got the fairway on one side of the property, and it’s a quick drive to the ocean in the opposite direction. It’s a tranquil place that I hope will be the perfect getaway for the two of them. Rose isn’t back to full strength after getting shot this past winter, but she’s moving pretty well.
“This is perfect, man. Thanks again.” Anton shakes my hand and follows Rose inside.
“Call if you need anything, but otherwise, I’ll let you two be.”
I slip out the front door but not before I hear Rose squeal, “Anton, put me down!”
I smirk, but the tugging in my chest tightens. Maybe it would be nice to have a true partner…
My phone lights up with a call from my agent. I answer it as I walk to my car. “What’s up, Noah?”
“Holland, how’s it going? Look, I know you’re busy, but I’ve got a big offer to talk through with you. You got a sec?”
My chest puffs out, and a rush of satisfaction makes me stand up straighter. My career is on the upswing. Endorsement deals are rolling in. I’m the golf world’s darling. Basically, I’m living the dream.
“Sure. Go ahead.” I ease behind the wheel of my car but don’t start it. I check my watch. I’m late, but whatever.
“You know how we talked about the benefit of getting more face time in the mainstream, like beyond your sports deals?”
“Yep.”
“Well, I’ve been working my contacts within the TV world, and I hit pay dirt.”
“I’m listening.”
“How would you like to be the star of the next season of Most Eligible Mister ?”
Whoa.
“Are you serious?” I don’t watch a lot of TV that’s not sports-related, but everyone knows about Most Eligible Mister . It’s the longest-running reality dating show on network television. My mom has been watching it religiously since I was eight years old.
“Would I joke with you about something like this? It’s huge, man. A massive opportunity. But only if you want it,” Noah adds .
God bless him. Noah is a really good agent. He has my best interests in mind at all times, and he cares about me as a person.
“I know you’re enjoying your singlehood,” he says, “so no pressure. But if you’re at all interested, tell me, and I’ll get to work hammering out some details.”
I glance out the window of my car to where I left Anton and Rose, blissfully happy, and the feeling of want returns in my chest, humming a bit louder. I do want to find my person. That’s always been part of my plan. I’ve just had so many women lining up for a chance to spend a night out on the town with me. It’s great for my ego, not gonna lie, and I’ve leaned into it and enjoyed the attention for all it’s worth. But I have no intention of being a playboy for the rest of my life.
“How would it work with my tournament schedule?” I ask, starting the car.
“Filming takes six weeks. Producers would want to squeeze you in this spring so they could air the show at the end of summer and have it coincide with the Tour Championship in late August. Added exposure for you and the show with follow-ups of you and the lucky lady during that tournament. It would be like your coming out party.”
I grin. This is sounding better and better. Find a nice lady in a fun way—being surrounded by twenty beautiful women—and draw more attention to my golf game?
Sounds like a win on all fronts.
My Bluetooth connects to the car, and Noah’s voice sounds through the speakers. “What do you say?”
“I’m liking what I’m hearing. We’d have to work it around my golf schedule, though. I’ll need to practice, especially if we’re filming this spring, with the Grandmasters and the PGO Championship.”
The fiery face of my coach pops into my head. She’s going to hate this .
“I’ll need to stay in one place to film, except the travel I’d be doing otherwise for tournaments,” I tell Noah. “My training can’t be affected.”
“I’m sure we could work that all out,” Noah says. “You let me handle the details. I’ll talk to the producers and loop you back in when I have something solid. You good with that?”
“Yeah, man. Thanks. You’re the best.”
“I know,” Noah says on a chuckle. “Later.”
No sooner does our call disconnect than my phone rings again.
Speaking of my coach…
“What now?” I let my eye roll color my tone.
The at once silky-smooth and hard-as-a-rock voice of Mallory Walsh comes through my car’s speakers. “Where are you?”
“Aw, did you miss me?”
“Not even a little bit.”
“Ouch.”
“You were supposed to meet me at the driving range twenty minutes ago, Holland.”
I sigh. I owe most of my success to Mallory. She’s a year older than I am and a heck of a golfer in her own right. But she’s an even better coach.
Still, I wish she would lay off. I’ve put in the work. I’m reaping the benefits.
“I’m on my way. I had something to do.”
“It’s always something.” She scolds me like I’m five years old. “What did I tell you about not taking this seriously?”
“I was helping out some friends. Give me a break.”
“What about this weekend? I saw the pictures online. You were out both nights. When did you get home? Did you get any sleep?”
“Jeez, Mom.” She hates when I call her that. “Lay off. I’ve got plenty of time to recover.”
“You say that, but you’d be surprised. Hurry up and get your butt over here.”
“I always knew you liked my butt. ”
“It’s good for kicking, I’ll give you that.”
“Looking forward to it.”
In response, she ends the call.
I huff out a laugh. This is how our relationship works. She pushes me. I push back. She gets the best out of me in the process. But it always seems like she hates my guts.
If she’s unhappy with me for being late, she’s going to be totally rage-y when I tell her about the Most Eligible Mister opportunity. She’ll consider it an unnecessary distraction, tell me it is completely ludicrous to even consider it. Basically make me feel like an idiot.
Mallory is all golf, all the time. She’s the most driven, focused person I know. But sometimes I wonder if she has a life outside of the sport. I mean, what good is all of this if I don’t get to enjoy the perks of the hard work?
I spend the next few precious minutes bracing for the totality of her wrath.
When I park, I bypass the clubhouse and head straight to the range. No use poking the beast any more by making her wait while I yuk it up with the guys inside.
She’s standing at a tee box, hands on her trim hips. She’s wearing her usual ensemble: a snug-fitting white polo shirt, a black baseball cap over her copper hair, and a black golf skirt.
Her eyes are narrowed at me.
I hold up my hands. “I’m sorry.”
Best to get out ahead of it.
“You will be sorry if your stupidity translates to the links this weekend,” she says coolly.
“Not going to happen.” It’s easy to be cocky when you’re as good as I am. “Now let’s not waste time standing around.”
Her nostrils flare.
Gosh, it’s fun messing with her.
“I’ve got something to run by you.” I smirk. “But first, put me to work, Coach.”