Fangirl Down: A Novel (Big Shots Book 1)
Fangirl Down: Chapter 7

Wells swiped a gym towel down his sweaty face, tossed it onto the bench press, and took another lap around his home gym. All week, he’d been subjecting himself to grueling workouts. Seven days later, the alcohol was still seeping out of his pores. Apart from the overall need to get himself back into playing condition, he’d been using exercise as a means of distraction. A way to stall. It was now or never, though.

The tournament started in two days and Wells wasn’t yet back on the roster.

He needed to call Buck.

Otherwise, he’d hired Josephine as his caddie for no reason and his new set of clubs had been shipped to the resort in San Antonio in advance of nothing.

“Quit being a coward,” he commanded himself, picking up the towel once more to wipe away the perspiration on his chest. “Make the damn call. What’s the worst that could happen?”

Buck could tell him to fuck off.

Technically, his mentor had already done that. There was nothing to lose here. Nothing but his pride.

Wells stared at his reflection in the wall mirror for long moments, caught off guard by the trepidation in his face. When had he become so indecisive? Before he’d been lauded as the next Tiger Woods, he’d never second-guessed himself. He’d made every decision, even the bad ones, with full confidence. What the hell happened to me?

Wells didn’t know. But apparently when he’d told Josephine that golf had stolen his soul, it wasn’t an exaggeration.

Josephine.

His other reason for distracting himself with exercise.

Women didn’t usually get under his skin. It was fucking annoying, was what it was. Last night, while in the shower, he’d had an imaginary conversation with her. Out loud. Defending his backswing. When he thought of the tournament, she was the first thing that popped up in his mind. How she’d be wearing a caddie uniform with his name on it in big, block letters. And how he liked that image a little too much.

Wells had no time for romantic bullshit. Occasional, casual hookups were part of his bachelor lifestyle, but anything beyond that only led to making plans, enduring long-winded phone calls, and taking on responsibilities he’d never asked for. He’d learned that early on in his career after three very short-term relationships. Being on television, making millions of dollars, had made him something of a magnet for people with a single motive: get a slice of that money pie. Relationships tended to move very quickly in the golf world. Because players were on the road so often, they were pressured into making commitments. To offset the doubt.

Not Wells. Not ever.

The fact that Josephine had been more than happy to wash her hands of Wells altogether—and seemed to kind of dislike him—was somewhat . . . reassuring. Hell, she’d tried to throw him out of her pro shop. She wouldn’t even take his money without working for it. He definitely wouldn’t have to worry that she had some secret plan to make a rich, devoted husband out of him.

Cool.

Great.

Wells realized he was staring at his own thunderous frown in the mirror and shook himself, snatching the phone out of his pocket and pulling up the contact for Buck Lee.

One deep breath and he dialed, hating the way his pulse raced.

Buck answered on the third ring, the older man’s voice as distinct as ever. A soft boom.

“Wells.”

“Buck.”

“I suppose if you’re calling me, you must be alive,” drawled the legend. “The question is why are you calling, Wells? We’ve got nothing to say to each other.”

Two years had passed since his mentor had washed his hands of Wells, but the memory still had the ability to sting. “I had no other choice but to call you. I’m asking you to hear me out.”

“Son, if you wanted to quit, you should have gone through the proper channels, instead of lighting on out of there without showing an ounce of respect. There is nothing anyone can do for you now.”

“Now that’s a lie, Buck. You could cancel the tour with a phone call, if you were so inclined.”

His mentor scoffed. “If you think flattery is going to get you anywhere—”

“We both know I don’t flatter anyone. It’s the truth.”

A long sigh on the other end. “What do you want from me? Hurry up, so I can tell you no.”

Panic moved like an ice cube slipping down his spine. “I want back on the tour.”

“Never going to happen,” Buck said, without hesitation. “But I am curious to know why. Why do you want back on the tour? You’re embarrassing yourself out there. I don’t know what happened to the Wells Whitaker I coached to greatness, but he’s long gone.”

Pressure spread behind Wells’s eyes, his head pounding.

This was humiliating. He wanted nothing more than to hang up.

The only thing that prevented him from doing so was Josephine. She would be on her way to Texas soon. For him. Because he’d asked. Because she needed help and caddying was the only way she’d take assistance from him. “There’s a . . .”

Girl? No, that sounded cliché. Or made it seem like there was a romantic connotation to his relationship with Josephine—and there definitely wasn’t. Even if he wouldn’t mind a good, long taste of her. Just one, to appease his curiosity.

“I have a new caddie,” Wells settled on, attempting to banish the thought of kissing the spirited redhead. “Something about the way she speaks about golf, my game in general, that makes me think . . . she could . . .” Make me love it again. “Make a difference.”

This time, the pause was so long, Wells checked to see if Buck had hung up.

Then finally, he said, “I’m sorry, did you say your caddie is a woman?”

Wells frowned. “What about it? You think that means she can’t be qualified?”

Buck let out a breath in his ear. “Qualified or not, you’ve already become a joke out there. Now you’re proposing a tour comeback with a woman carrying your bag? Have you thought about how that’s going to look, son? If another player made the same attempt, he’d probably be called progressive. But you? They’re just going to think it’s another way for you to mock the establishment.”

The word “mock” in the same sentence with Josephine made him want to throw a dumbbell at the mirror and shatter it to the ground. “First of all, Buck, I think you’re forgetting that I don’t give a flying fuck what anyone thinks.” Draw back the irritation. His mentor was his only hope. He’d be screwing himself and Josephine over if he lost his temper. He’d gone into this phone call knowing it would be hard, hadn’t he? “Second . . . she needs this.”

That wasn’t what he’d planned to say.

But when it came down to making the request about him or Josephine, his pride prevented him from asking for himself. Wells might not care what anyone thought about him, but there was still a significant part of him that wanted to make Buck proud. And that meant keeping his pride intact. Josephine was the main reason he was attempting to get back on the tour. He wouldn’t really allow himself to hope for some fairy-tale return to greatness, so he went with the simplest truth.

Besides, that information wouldn’t go any further than Buck and the tour chairmen.

“Her family’s pro shop was devastated by this storm and she’s just . . . good. All right? A good person. But I can just tell she’s also clever at reading the course.” Wells’s mouth nudged up at one corner. “She used to whisper conflicting advice to me from behind the rope. One time, she outright argued with my caddie—”

“Wait. Whoa whoa whoa, slow down. You’re talking about that fangirl who used to hold up signs for you down in Florida?”

“She’s not just some fangirl. She’s smart. And dedicated. Or . . . she was.” The throb behind Wells’s eye intensified. “Look, she’s in a bind. If I can finish in the money a few times, she can see her way out of it.”

He could practically hear Buck processing the whole explanation. “Let me get this straight. You expect me to believe you’re coming back on tour . . . purely out of goodwill. You want to help a fan rebuild her pro shop?”

Yes.

And maybe, on some level, she makes me want to try again. One last time.

Wells made a sound in his throat.

Buck’s fingers tapped on an unseen piece of furniture. “I’ll tell you something, but you didn’t hear it from me.”

“Done.”

“The tour has been quiet this year. Viewership is down. There’s no . . . Cinderella story. You know how the fans eat that kind of thing up. After all, you were the Cinderella story once.” He paused. “Against my better judgment, I’ll take this to the commissioner. Down-and-out golfer makes his return for a good cause.”

Wells dug his fingers into the center of his aching forehead and rubbed. “If that’s the story you need to go with to get me back in the lineup, so be it.”

He ignored the voice telling him he’d live to regret that decision.

* * *

Bright and early on Tuesday morning, Josephine set down her suitcase on her parents’ front stoop and willed herself to ring the doorbell. She had so much to tell them—and they weren’t going to believe a word of it. Probably not until they saw her on television, broadcasting live from the Texas Open in San Antonio in two days’ time.

It had been one week since Wells Whitaker blew back into her life and possibly changed it forever. Being offered a caddie position on the PGA tour was not something that happened to everyday people. In the golf world, caddying for a professional golfer was like replaceing a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. Golfers made, in scientific terms, a fuck-ton of money. Winning a major tournament, such as the Masters, paid out 2.5 million dollars for first place. Heck, coming in fortieth place earned thirty grand.

Caddies took 10 percent of the cut, in addition to their salaries.

Every night this week, she’d lain in bed well past midnight staring at the ceiling, spinning fantasy scenarios in her head. What if she could actually help Wells get his missing stroke back? What if he finished high in the money a couple of times? Not only would she be able to afford to rebuild the Golden Tee, but she wouldn’t have to beg her endocrinologist for spare medical supplies. She wouldn’t have to choose between groceries and rent money.

This unexpected fork in the road could be life changing.

Or, leaving Palm Beach when she could be replaceing a realistic solution to her family and personal problems could make things exponentially worse. She was putting her faith in Wells and it could cost her a lot of valuable time and effort.

There must have been part of Josephine that still believed in Wells, though. A piece of her that had never lost hope or counted him out, because staying home felt like a bigger risk than leaving. And man, she wanted him to win again so badly, the possibility was like a chocolate bar with almonds dangling in her face. Eating it could throw her blood sugar out of whack, but indulging in the anticipation tasted so good, she couldn’t help but reach for it.

Her mother opened the door, pink towel in place around her head. “Joey-Roo. What are you doing standing out here?” Evelyn Doyle leaned to one side. “Is that a suitcase? Did you come for a little staycation? I have sugar-free cookies in the pantry.”

She kissed her mother on the cheek. “No, not a staycation.” Josephine picked up the suitcase and followed her mother inside. “But, obviously, I’ll take some cookies.”

“I always keep them on hand!” Evelyn yelled, hustling through the über-Floridian living room toward the kitchen. The entire house was decorated in various shades of yellow and green, indoor plants in abundance, ceiling fans whirring lazily. A moment later, her mother emerged from the kitchen, shaking a white-and-blue box. “Yum yum!”

Josephine snort-laughed and took the box, hesitating to open it. “Is Dad here?”

“He’s in the backyard. Honey!” shouted her mother, pausing to listen. “Honey! Joey is here. Come inside. The man can’t hear a damn thing, I swear.”

“I can hear just fine,” Jim blustered, ambling into the living room while folding the newspaper under his arm. “Hello, honey.”

Cheek kisses were followed by her father gesturing to the suitcase with his folded-up newspaper. “What’s that?”

“I have some news.” Bold understatement. Her parents were golf fans—and knew quite well about her past devotion to Wells Whitaker. They were likely going to faint from shock. “Maybe you should sit before I tell you.”

Evelyn and Jim exchanged a look, plopping down on their plastic-covered couch simultaneously. They were already smiling, because they trusted that whatever she said was going to be positive. They were all fired up and ready to be supportive, just like always.

If only they knew how much she’d let them down.

A notch formed in her throat while she prepared to speak.

She’d let the insurance lapse on the Golden Tee. Hadn’t been taking care of her health, the way she’d promised to do in exchange for some independence.

Now she was betting on a long shot to fix everything. Would it pan out?

Yes. No.

Maybe.

Please. Let this work.

“Some volunteers helped me clean up the shop this week. It’s still waterlogged and damaged, but the ruined inventory has been thrown away and we pumped out the water.” She smiled at her father. “I think there’s a chance we’ll still be able to use Pop Pop’s old register, once it dries out a little bit.”

“That is excellent news, honey.”

“Yes.” She looked down at her suitcase, briefly wondering if she’d hit her head during the hurricane and this was an elaborate coma dream. “It’s going to take some time before we . . . have the money to repair the shop. But once we do, I’m going to meet with a contractor about finally making the additions we’ve been talking about forever. It’s going to be more functional and modern. We’ll have the drive-through window and consultation lounge. The putting green outside. It’s going to be bigger and better than ever. You’ll see. We just have to be patient.”

Her mother blew a raspberry. “Those darn insurance companies. They’ll take your money easy enough, but God forbid you try to get some back.”

“What your mother said.”

“Yes. That’s all very true.” No more stalling. Josephine opened her mouth to continue, but her phone buzzed in the pocket of her jean shorts. “Er . . . hold on. Someone is texting me.”

“Who is it?” Evelyn asked. “Is it the insurance company?”

“They don’t text people, Mom.”

Josephine’s stomach jolted at the name on her screen: Wells.

Wells was texting her.

It hadn’t stopped being weird.

The afternoon she’d taken him downtown for a haircut, they’d exchanged numbers out of necessity. After all, she was going to be working for him. Since then, however, he’d texted only once with her flight information and seven measly words.

She’d reread and analyzed that single sentence all week. Did that mean he’d succeeded in reinserting himself into the tour? Because that was not going to be easy. The PGA tour officials took tradition and sportsmanship very seriously. Walking off the course in the middle of a round without consulting anyone, followed by a highly publicized disappearance from the public eye? Not very sporting, indeed.

Josephine tapped on her second text from Wells, hoping it would provide more insight than his last message. Perhaps what she could expect once she reached San Antonio, a tee time for Thursday morning, his overall feelings about the course itself.

Nope.

“A dress?” she muttered.

For what? Certainly not to wear while caddying. All she’d packed was the proper attire for spending four days traipsing around in the hot Texas sun. She’d have to swing home on the way to the airport in order to pack something fancier.

Of course, he didn’t answer. Wells Whitaker didn’t like questions.

Josephine sighed. “While we’re waiting for the repair money, I’m going to be out of town a lot. Traveling.”

“Traveling?” Her mother lost some of the color in her face. “Where?”

Jim patted his wife’s hand. This was going to be hard for Evelyn. Sudden changes to the daily routine of a diabetic meant adjustments up the wazoo. Mainly meal planning, but the change in time zones also meant rearranging her long-acting insulin schedule and preparing for big fluctuations in her blood sugar numbers. Diabetes was a bucking bronco of a condition and it didn’t like change, which made traveling a challenge. While Josephine was growing up, they’d rarely gone anywhere outside of Florida as a result.

“This week, I’ll be in San Antonio. Texas.”

“Oh, I see.” Jim beamed. “She’s going to watch the tournament. Good for you, kiddo.”

“Well,” Josephine drew out. “I will be watching it in a sense. But I’ll also be caddying for Wells Whitaker.”

Evelyn and Jim looked at each other. And how they laughed.

“You really had us going for a second there, Joey-Roo,” said Evelyn, dabbing tears of mirth from her eyes.

Josephine had seen this reaction coming. “Guys, I’m serious.” She shook her phone at them. “Look, he’s texting me right this second.”

“Sure, he is,” her father said with an exaggerated wink. “Ask him how he managed to birdie the fifth hole at Pebble Beach back in ’21. Did he go into the rough on purpose?”

“Wells doesn’t like questions.”

Evelyn and Jim fell back against the plastic couch cushions, laughing.

“I knew you weren’t going to believe me,” Josephine called over their guffaws.

“She brought a suitcase as a prop and everything!” Evelyn hiccupped, before turning slightly serious. “Oh, Roo. It’s not that we don’t think you could caddie for Whitaker, but how in the world would that ever happen?”

Josephine debated telling them he’d arrived at the Golden Tee out of the blue, but they wouldn’t believe that, either. Frankly, she was still trying to decipher the logistics of his unannounced arrival at Rolling Greens. “Just watch the tournament kick off on Thursday morning, okay?” She pointed at their entertainment center, which was used primarily to hold plants, but there was a television somewhere among all the greenery. “You’re going to see me on TV. It’ll be live coverage, so I won’t be able to answer phone calls. Okay?”

“You’re too much.” Jim chuckled. “Where are you really going?”

“Did you pack an extra test kit?”

“Yes.”

“What about your emergency shot? Are you traveling with someone who knows how to use it?” Her mother stood, hands clasped beneath her chin. “Are you meeting Tallulah somewhere? She’s always so good about making sure you have a sugar stash for lows.”

“Tallulah is in Antarctica, remember? And I’m good, Mom,” Josephine called over her shoulder, already wheeling her baggage to the front door. If she stayed, Evelyn would inevitably beg her to open the suitcase so she could perform a medical supply checklist and it would never suffice. Packing an actual doctor in her carry-on wouldn’t be enough to make Evelyn stop worrying. “Don’t forget. Thursday morning.”

“Ohhhh-kay!” Evelyn and Jim singsonged simultaneously.

“You betcha,” tacked on her mother.

Josephine gestured to the Uber waiting for her at the curb. “I’m leaving for Texas now. As soon as I stop at home to get a dress, I’m going to the airport.”

“To caddie for your idol, Wells Whitaker,” Jim said, with an exaggerated wink.

“That’s right.”

She closed the door of the Uber on the sound of their laughter.