Page 10 of Fore Better or Worse (Return to Starlight Bay #16)

Chapter ten

Hays | Five Months Later

T he bottle of champagne refuses to cooperate, the cork wedged tight as I wrestle with it one-handed.

My wrist throbs in its brace, a constant reminder I’m officially done for the season.

There are three tournaments left on the schedule, including the Tour Championship, and I’m sitting on my ass in Scottsdale like some weekend warrior, who can’t even grip his own shaft properly.

“Need help there, champ?” Rory calls from the living room, where he and the guys are sprawled across my sectional, ESPN highlights playing on the massive screen.

“I’ve got it,” I grit out, though the cork hasn’t budged. Sweat beads on my forehead as I try to get leverage without aggravating the ligament damage that’s kept me out of commission for two weeks so far. The orthopedist said four to six weeks recovery minimum, which means my season’s toast.

I didn’t want to celebrate my birthday at all.

When your season ends with a whimper instead of the bang you’d been building toward, the last thing you want is a bunch of guys reminding you of everything that’s gone to shit.

But Rory wouldn’t take no for an answer, and when he puts his mind to something, there’s no stopping him.

“Famous last words,” someone laughs—Emmitt, I think, though with the acoustics in this place, it’s hard to tell who’s chirping from the peanut gallery.

The cork finally gives with a satisfying pop, champagne foam cascading over my hand and onto the granite countertop. I grab a paper towel, dabbing at the mess.

“Dom Pérignon for a pity party,” Marcus calls out, appearing in the kitchen doorway with an empty beer can. “That’s very you, Granger.”

“It’s a belated birthday celebration, asshole. I can drink whatever I want.” I pour champagne into six whiskey tumblers because I don’t own champagne flutes. “Besides, someone’s got to drink the good stuff since you degenerates showed up with cheap beer.”

“Some of us don’t make millions hitting a ball around. We have real jobs,” he shoots back, grabbing two glasses to ferry to the living room.

“Except for Emmitt,” Tyler adds. “Not that whacking a puck while getting your teeth knocked out screams ‘stable career path.’”

The truth is, I’m grateful my childhood friends and some college buddies are here, having flown in from across the country over the last twenty-four hours to join my local friends.

And that no one is fussing about the no women unless she’s got a ring on her finger and shares your last name rule , a policy I had to enact months ago when Thompson brought a handful of aspiring models to my Super Bowl party.

I sent them packing before they snapped a single pic.

“You okay?” Rory asks, eyeing me as he comes to help carry glasses.

“Awesome,” I lie, following him into the living room where the guys have made themselves at home. ESPN is dissecting today’s third round action from the BMW Championship, showing highlight reels of guys I should be competing against instead of watching from my couch like some amateur.

“This is fun?” He gestures toward my face with a glass. “Because you look like someone pissed in your protein shake.”

“Fuck off.”

“At least, you’re not missing much,” Jake says, nodding toward the TV where they’re showing the leader drain a thirty-footer. “Field’s pretty stacked this year. You probably would’ve missed the cut, anyway.”

The comment earns him a chorus of “ooohs” and a thrown pillow, but he’s dead wrong.

After winning in Phoenix in February and earning two more top-tens, including a T-3 at Trinity Forest, I was on a roll, my head in the right place after a long season.

My name wasn’t just being mentioned in conversations as a player in major contention; it was being tossed around as the winner.

Then one fat shot, where I chunked the ball during a Callaway photo shoot, landed me with a hyper-extended wrist, and suddenly, I’m watching the playoffs from my couch instead of competing for a spot in Atlanta.

“Remind me how you injured that wrist again,” Marcus says with a knowing smirk. “Was it swinging for the cameras, or were you handling your equipment a little too aggressively?”

“Jesus Christ.” I roll my eyes as the room erupts in laughter.

“What? You haven’t been spotted with a woman in what? A year?” he continues, clearly enjoying himself. “And now, you can’t even take matters into your own hands. That’s got to be rough.”

“I’m not discussing my habits with you degenerates.”

“So you admit there are habits to discuss,” Tyler jumps in. “Plural. As in, frequent and regular.”

“Multiple times daily,” Jake adds helpfully. “Maybe, it explains the wrist injury, after all.”

I flip them off with my good hand, which only makes the bastards laugh harder. The worst part is, they’re not entirely wrong. My current limitation is driving me slowly insane.

“You could always switch hands,” Rory suggests with mock seriousness. “Might be good practice for your short game.”

“Or he could just, you know, get laid like a normal person,” Marcus counters. “There are literally hundreds of women in this city who would volunteer for the job.”

“Probably hundreds of thousands.”

The conversation continues around me, but I tune them out. They love giving me a hard time, plus their ribbing changes nothing. I’m still one thousand percent focused on my goal, even if my wrist injury is a setback I didn’t plan on.

I’m about to drain my Dom when Rory stands, stretching. “I need another beer. Anyone else?” He heads toward the kitchen as a Ping commercial comes on.

“Hey, Granger,” he calls out a moment later, his tone catching my attention. “You see this letter in your mail pile? The return address is from Starlight Bay.”

My heart stops.

Completely fucking stops.

I’m out of my chair and across the room, nearly tripping over the coffee table in my haste. There, tucked in the stack of bills and junk mail my housekeeper must have left earlier, is a letter-sized envelope. Cream-colored with the addresses typed neatly, standing out like a diamond in a coal mine.

“Holy shit,” I breathe. So she got the birthday present I sent after all.

I snatch up the envelope and rip into it.

I hoped for some sort of acknowledgement, even though I broke our no- contact rule.

Hell, a scolding would be better than nothing.

Instead, the typed letter and handwritten pages inside make me lose my mind.

Hays,

I should probably return the typewriter. According to the terms of our agreement, birthday presents technically constitute contact, which we both agreed to avoid. But it’s a vintage beauty in pristine condition—and mint green—which I have a feeling wasn’t a coincidence. So I’m keeping it. Sue me.

I hope you enjoyed a large slice of birthday cake, since you’re such a sucker for dessert, and that there wasn’t anything more tempting to distract you.

I celebrated with a red velvet cake this year, with old-fashioned candles that dripped wax all over and a pointed party hat.

It was perfect. I wonder what your favorite cake flavor is.

For some reason, I’m thinking anything but vanilla.

I can’t help but point out that the typewriter arrived three days before my birthday, which means, once again, you are early, or as, some might say, ‘premature.’ So despite never having been called that before, I find myself justified in once again assigning that descriptor to you.

You can, however, consider it a character flaw I’m willing to overlook, given the circumstances.

After all, enthusiasm has its merits, even if your execution needs work.

But, since you broke the rules, I figure I’m entitled to a little payback.

Your enclosed ‘note’ was not only classic, over-the-top sexy Hays, it also had exactly the effect I’m sure you intended.

Which meant I had to take matters into my own hands, considering you weren’t here to handle my situation yourself.

So in addition to planting that picture of me in your mind, I thought you might enjoy some Hays Granger fanfic. One possible way that night might have played out if I’d said yes to your hotel invitation. Because, the truth is, I’ve thought about that evening more times than I care to admit.

Happy birthday, hotshot.

- Leah

P.S. This letter changes nothing regarding our no-contact rule. Oh, and I hope your wrist heals quickly. I’m sure you have very important…activities…besides golf that require a full range of motion.

The postscript nearly kills me. She’d fit right in with the jokers in my living room and hold her own. Even she’s not above teasing me about my injury and how it’s impacting my needs.

Behind me, my friends are still jabbering something about the playoff race and FedEx Cup standings, but their voices fade to background noise as I flip to the first handwritten page.

Jesus fucking Christ. I figured Leah could write, but this?

After a single paragraph, I’m convinced this is by far the sexiest thing I’ve ever read.

Internet porn’s got nothing on this, and not just because it features me.

It’s a glimpse into Leah’s deepest, darkest desires.

And knowing the brilliant, guarded woman, who fact-checks casual conversation, has been having dirty thoughts like this and took the time to send me what equates to a Leah Sullivan Course Management Plan makes it infinitely hotter than any fantasy I could’ve ever dreamed up.

My cock is harder than trying to read the greens at TPC Sawgrass, straining against my jeans in a way that’s both painful and desperate. I need to get to my room, need privacy, need to do something about this situation. Now. But my legs feel like they’re made of concrete.

“Granger?” Rory’s voice sounds like it’s coming from underwater. “You okay, man? You look—”

“Fine,” I croak, trying to shove the letter back into the envelope before he can read a word. I back toward the hallway that leads to the master suite, the letter clutched against my chest like a lifeline. “I’m fine. I just need to…make a phone call.”

I turn and practically run down the hallway.

“Is he okay?” I hear Marcus ask, setting a glass down on the kitchen counter.

“He’s going to be just fine,” Rory answers with a chuckle.

With more force than necessary, I slam the double doors shut behind me and turn the lock. I need to get these jeans off. Except my fucking wrist has other plans. The button fights me like a stubborn lie in deep rough, my good hand shaking with need.

I manage to get the zipper down, but the fuckers are so are tight getting them off one-handed while sporting the erection of a lifetime proves to be more challenging than any golf shot I’ve ever attempted.

But when I do and open that envelope again, for the first time in weeks, I’m grinning as if I just sank a hole-in-one.