2. Jameson
Chapter two
Jameson
After I finish the back nine, I head to the weight room for my second workout of the day.
Yes, I may have gained a few too many pounds in the last year. Yes, it may have been equally due to stress eating chocolate chip cookies and sad beer drinking.
After a month of two-a-days in the gym and walking at least thirty-six holes a day, I’m finally back in shape. Okay, fine, it probably doesn’t hurt that I’ve also cut back to a few beers a week rather than the few beers an hour I was consuming before.
But it’s mostly the extra workouts.
I finish the final set of my core round, wishing I were back home in my gym with extra fans and air-conditioning rather than sweating my ass off in this little one the course keeps open for nonlocals like me who stay the night in their guesthouses and hotel rooms.
As I start the short trip back to my hotel room in the building just next to the putting green, I notice a group of women sitting around the fire. They’re cute, but as one catches my eye, I quickly turn my face away, hoping she doesn’t recognize me.
The girl from this afternoon wasn’t with them. Maybe she went home? Why do I feel a little sad about that? I mentally shake my head. I’ve learned my lesson about getting involved with women like her.
After closing the door to my room behind me, I lie down on my bed, letting the air-conditioning cool my sweat. The extra endorphins from my workout didn’t even last all two minutes of my walk back, and the scorecard sitting on my desk sapped what little joy remained in me as I walked in.
I bury my face in my pillow and let out a deep sigh.
Ugh. I suck at golf.
My phone rings, and I barely register it’s Erica, the head of the public relations team handling my downhill spiral, before I answer it.
“Hi, Erica.”
“Just calling to check in on my favorite golfer.”
“I can’t possibly be your favorite golfer, Erica. Tell me what’s really up.”
“I just wanted to let you know that my team has been in contact with all your current sponsors, and things are starting to settle down now that you’re out of the spotlight. I think we’re going to be able to keep them all.”
Thank God. While I wouldn’t be hard up for cash or anything like that if I lost those deals, I’m not sure my ego can handle any more losses this year. I’ve always been the go-to golfer for sponsorship deals and ad campaigns, and the fact that I’ve lost that status hurts far more than I ever expected it to.
“Thanks, Erica. That’s great news. Any news of the couple of new ones you were chasing?”
"Nothing yet, Jameo," she says, underemphasizing the “O” in my nickname so it comes out as “Jame-ah” instead of “Jame- oh,” like it does for everyone else. “Just focus on your game. Don’t get drunk. Don’t hit on random women. You know what? Let’s just say no women whatsoever.”
“Of course. I haven’t done anything but golf and exercise since I got here.”
“That’s what I like to hear.”
We make small talk for another minute before Erica has to go. As I hang up my phone, I think about how stupid I’ve been the last year. Sure, I was hurting, but I made some bad decisions that almost cost me the profession I love and a lot of money in winnings and sponsorships.
But I’m totally focused now. I’ve barely looked at a woman since arriving at Wild Bluffs until today, and she only serves to remind me what terrible taste I have in women.
With that thought, I roll off the side of the bed and make my way slowly toward the shower, legs burning from the extra eighteen I got in today after the first two rounds ended poorly.
The water pounds down on me like a hundred tiny punches but doesn’t put a dent in the feeling of defeat that has settled into my bones. I stand in the shower, my six-foot-four frame slumped as I let the hot water run over me, trying to wash away the disappointment of failing to score more than five under par yet again during my third round.
The round started out fine. And then it had been rough—the trudging through cacti and yuccas to find my balls in the, well, rough . That is the essence of golf: the more time you spend in the rough, the rougher the round becomes.
And the hot-as-hell girl who stole my ball and called me a dick before casually mentioning I’m rich? Why is it that women can’t help but focus on my money?
Been there, done that. It is the one mistake I’m not interested in making again.
As soon as a woman mentions me being rich, I’m out.
Not that my dick seems to remember the last part.
“Damn it, Jameo,” I mutter to myself as I lean against the tiled wall. “Get your head in the game.” But the image of her smirking at me from under the brim of her cap refuses to leave. If it weren’t for my self-imposed celibacy and her clear interest in me being “rich,” she’d be my usual kryptonite, all tanned legs and a fiery mouth.
Just what I need to screw up my already precarious career.
Unfortunately, my brain and my anatomy down south don’t seem to agree on what our focus is in Wild Bluffs.
Knowing my head is unlikely to win this battle, I let my mind wander back to the girl from this afternoon. Down her long legs and back up to her adorable smirk, my hand and thoughts wandering into carnal territory. I’m just about to give in to the urge—it’s been a hot second since that specific club of mine has gotten any play—when the sound of an incoming text pierces the steamy air.
That, of course, will be Lila, my younger sister and—jeez, I’m lame—my best friend. Unfortunately, and unbeknown to her, she has always had a disturbing habit of interrupting my most private moments. And getting a text while thinking about getting myself off in the shower is actually very low on the list of embarrassing moments she’s intruded on.
In high school, as I was losing my virginity, I heard my sister’s pipsqueak friends giggling about Lila playing seven minutes in Heaven…as I was about to come inside a girl for the first time.
Needless to say, it was not my best showing, and no one had a happy ending, least of all Bryan Godsey, the sixteen-year-old I found behind a tree with my thirteen-year-old sister. He was so scared, he may have left with a bit of pee running down his leg. He should feel lucky it was me rather than my dad who heard her friends.
It wasn't until college that I met Sarah, who fortunately hadn't heard the story of me leaving my date unsatisfied in a field. Unfortunately, Lila called halfway through, and my phone played the “Cheetah Girls, Cheetah Sisters” song she had picked out as her ringtone until I finally found the Decline button through my horny haze. Luckily, Sarah was willing to try again after I figured out how to silence my phone.
I have, thankfully, gotten better since then, although my sister’s bad timing remains the same.
Knowing the moment is gone—shit, how pathetic am I that I can’t even romance myself these days?—I sigh and turn off the water.
I grab one of the white, fluffy towels from the rack, sling it around my waist, and sit on the edge of my room’s extra bed.
Lila
Hey, Jameo, how’s the golf thing going?
I can’t help but smile at her nonchalant way of referring to my career.
Me
Could be better.
How’s grad school treating you? Need more cash for textbooks or late-night pizza?
Lila
Haha. I asked for pizza ONE TIME. And I was drunk and very hungry, in my defense.
Plus, you’ve paid for enough. I told you my internship should be enough to cover tuition this semester.
My heart tightens at the memory of the first time she had to ask me for help with her tuition and how embarrassed she had been. If I hadn’t been such a self-centered ass, I would’ve known the small college fund our parents had saved wouldn’t be enough to cover all four years of an engineering degree plus a master’s degree. Especially with no sports scholarship like I had.
Me
I’m happy to help you. You get paid shit at your internship, and you should be having fun.
Lila
Like you’re having fun right now? When was the last time you saw any of your friends?
Me
You know being seen with me right now is a black mark on someone’s image, right?
Lila
That’s what private clubs are for. I thought that’s why you were out in the middle of nowhere at the only fancy golf course on the planet where you might accidentally step in cow shit.
Plus, JT reached out to me. You’ve ignored all his texts and calls. FOR A MONTH.
Me
How did he get your number? I swear to God, if he was hitting on you, I’ll shove my driver so far up his ass, it tees up his eyes.
I’m actually very certain Lila and JT haven’t been talking about anything other than how pathetic I am. They actively hate each other with a passion so strong, I can rarely be in the same area as both my favorite people at once. My parents set up two tables at Thanksgiving, supposedly because there are so many of us, but really so JT can come without having to fight with Lila the entire time. Still, it’s nice to remind her every once in a while that she’s too good for every man ever.
Lila
Super gross, oddly specific visual, bud. Plus, who I text is not your concern.
You avoiding the world for the last month, on the other hand, is my concern. I know you haven’t seen your BEST friend. Have you talked to anyone?
Me
I would gladly endure the required brain bleach to even know you’d had a one-night stand at this point.
I sigh, running a hand through my wet hair.
Me
I talked to a hot girl just this afternoon, in fact.
Not not true.
Lila
Ooh. Tell me everything.
Actually, on second thought, don’t. Go find her. Kiss her. Hold her hand. TALK TO HER. And then never tell me what happens.
Me
(…)
Lila
UGH. You are so infuriating. You need a rebound. It has been a year since you broke up with she-who-will-not-be-named. YOU NEED TO GET LAID. I have it on good authority it has been A YEAR. That’s too long for anyone, including yours truly.
Me
Jesus, Lila, TMI.
Lila may be twenty-four and completing her master’s in engineering next spring, but I do not need to think about her getting laid. And as much as I want to deny it, I also know she’s right. It has been a long time since I’ve felt any interest in anyone—until that infuriating girl today.
Fuck. No, not the girl today. That zing I felt in my chest was pure anger at her comment, nothing else. No sparks.
Me
And just who is this “good authority”?? Stop talking to JT!
Lila
Gotta run to class. Love you!
“All right, Sis,” I say out loud, grabbing my keys and wallet. “You win. I’ll go to the bar tonight and see what happens.”
Let’s just hope the woman from today isn’t there. I’m not sure how long my body will let me stay away from her, even knowing she is just after my money.