Page 23 of Fore Better or Worse (Return to Starlight Bay #16)

Chapter twenty-three

Hays

Y esterday’s cloud coverage blew out to sea overnight. The threat of storms has passed, and the late June sun burned off the last wisps of the misty morning hanging over the Harbor course hours ago.

I take a deep breath, trying to let the familiar scent of fresh-cut grass center me, but it doesn’t help.

I’m in the second-to-last pairing, six shots back, going into the final round.

Not exactly where I pictured myself when I arrived in Starlight Bay six days ago with a ring in my pocket and forever on my mind.

The practice range is nearly empty, with most of the field already out on the course. Only the top players gunning for the trophy remain, but the energy from those still here is palpable.

We all have a shot at the win.

The rhythmic punch of balls being struck echoes through the air. Caddies stand watch over their players, their voices creating a low hum of strategy and encouragement.

In the distance, a growing rumble of spectators across the course can be heard spread, but a good number have gathered behind the ropes here at the range, watching the leaders warm up with the intensity of scouts evaluating prospects.

Fragments of their conversations drift over.

Predictions being made and bets being placed on who’s going to come out on top when the dust settles.

I ignore everything, determined to focus on my game today. I line up another seven-iron, settling into my pre-shot routine, but something feels off. The ball flies true enough, but it lacks that crisp contact that tells me everything’s dialed in.

“That’s…better.” Rory’s tone is carefully neutral, which means he sees what I’m feeling. “Just need to find your rhythm. How about another?”

I step away and adjust my grip, rolling my shoulders before setting another ball. Ever since Leah’s text on Friday night, I haven’t quite felt myself. I’m not sure I was right to follow Rory’s advice and give Leah the space she asked for, but I have, and there’s no going back now.

Today, I’ve got to leave it all on the course, and then I’ll deal with what’s next for us. But I did wear mint green.

“Conditions are perfect today,” Rory continues, his voice taking on that tone he uses when he’s trying to pump me up without being obvious about it. “No wind to speak of. Greens are going to be receptive. This is a day made for going low.”

I nod, working through my bag. Driver, three-wood, five-iron. Finally, some swings seem to connect, muscle memory taking over as my body remembers what it’s supposed to do when my head isn’t completely fucked.

“Plus,” he adds, pulling out his yardage book, “half the guys ahead of you have never been in contention at a major on Sunday. Pressure does funny things to people who aren’t used to it.”

“And I am?” The question comes out more bitter than I intend.

He looks at me as if I’ve lost my mind. “You’ve been handling pressure since you were little, playing in junior tournaments and standing over putts with your college scholarship on the line. This is just a bigger stage.”

He’s right, of course. But yesterday felt different. As if I were carrying the weight of the tournament, the media scrutiny, Leah’s absence, and my own expectations. And rather than step up, it crushed me.

“Hays!”

A voice cuts through the background noise, familiar enough to make my heart stutter. But it can’t be. The sound gets swallowed by the crowd noise and the general chaos of a major championship Sunday morning.

I must be hearing things. Wishful thinking mixed with sleep deprivation and the kind of hope that makes you imagine what you need most.

“Hays!”

There it is again, clearer this time, slicing through the air as if it’s meant for my ears only. I turn slowly, afraid to believe, my heart hammering against my ribs. But there she is.

For a split second, the entire world goes silent. The practice range, the crowd, the other players—everything fades to white noise.

Leah stands against the rope, wearing a fuchsia shirt. The same bright pink I used to wear on Sundays. My original signature color. Paired with a white skirt and sneakers along with a ponytail, she looks as if she belongs here, as if she were born to stand beside fairways and cheer from galleries.

But it’s her left hand gripping the rope that makes the seven-iron slip from my fingers. The engagement ring catches the sunlight, the diamond sparkling. She’s wearing it. Actually, wearing it.

My brain short-circuits. This can’t be real. Two days ago, she needed space, convinced she was ruining my career, and now…

“Leah,” I breathe, moving toward her before conscious thought kicks in.

The rhythmic thwacks of practice swings die out around us.

Conversations taper off midsentence. I feel every eye on the range turning our way.

Fans, caddies, officials, even the other players pause their warmups to watch this unfold.

Camera phones appear, quiet murmurs of excitement filling the near silence.

“You’re here,” I say when I reach the rope, because apparently my vocabulary has been reduced to stating the obvious.

“I’m here.” Her voice is soft but steady, carrying the mix of vulnerability and strength that first made me fall for her. “And I’m wearing your ring.”

“I can see that.” The words come out rough, as if I’ve been swallowing sand. I want to vault the rope, pull her into my arms, kiss her until neither of us can think straight. Instead, I settle for covering her hands with mine. “But what are you doing here?”

“You want the honest answer?”

The question is one I asked on the boat that night. I answer the same as she did. “Always.”

“I was wrong.” The words come out in a rush, as if she’s been practicing them. “I was wrong to pull away on Friday. Wrong to let the media noise get in my head. Wrong to keep making you prove yourself when you’ve done nothing but love me since that first night.”

My throat goes tight. The practice range has gone completely still, everyone holding their breath.

“When I saw you on TV yesterday struggling,” she continues, her voice growing stronger, “I knew it was my fault. Not because you can’t handle pressure, but because I took away the one thing you asked for. Me.”

“Sweetheart—”

“I love you. Win or lose today, major championship or not, I love you and I want to marry you. As soon as possible.”

The air rushes from my lungs as her words sink in, settling deep in my chest as if they’ve found their home. My vision blurs, and I have to blink hard, my throat working. Three years of waiting, of wondering, of hoping, but now, she’s here, and she’s wearing my ring and she loves me.

“I spent yesterday hiding,” she continues, “convinced I was protecting you by staying away. But all I was doing was proving I don’t trust you, don’t trust us. And that’s not fair, because you’ve never given me a reason not to.”

I squeeze her hands, the familiar feel of her grounding me, pulling me back from the edge of losing it completely in front of half the golf world.

“The headlines, the distraction—”

“Are bullshit.” The curse word sounds foreign coming from her, but the conviction is pure Leah. “I’ve been so busy cataloging all the reasons we shouldn’t work that I forgot to appreciate the miracle that we do.”

My throat clears, and the cocky confidence that’s been my trademark since junior golf resurfaces. Because she’s right. We do work. Against all logic, against all odds, we work perfectly.

“Damn right, we do,” I say with a smile. “I told you that first night we were perfect together.”

“You did.” Her laugh is watery but genuine. She pulls her hands from mine to reach into her pocket, pulling out something that makes my heart stop.

My ball marker.

The pressed penny from Pikes Peak I convinced my dad to get for me the time we went to play The Broadmoor and enjoyed a detour to the base of the mountain together. The one thing I could give her that first night, that would show how serious I was.

Tears prick the back of my eyes.

“I want you to have this back,” she says, pressing the warm metal into my palm. “I want you to play with it today knowing that no matter what happens, I’m yours.”

I close my fist around it, unable to speak.

“I know what being with you means now,” she says, her dropping. “But I’m ready for the adventure. As long as you’re by my side.”

I can’t hold back anymore. Leaning across the rope, I cup her face in my hands and kiss her as if my life depends on it. She tastes like a dream finally coming true.

Around us, the practice range erupts in cheers and applause. Camera phones have captured everything, and voices call out congratulations, but I don’t give a damn about the photos or the headlines or what story the media might spin from this moment.

Because this woman is mine.

When we break apart, my heart is pounding. “Will you meet me at eighteen? Whether I’m in contention or not, will you be there when I finish?”

“Try and stop me.” Her laugh is pure joy.

My assigned tour official, a middle-aged man with graying temples and the efficient demeanor of someone who’s worked dozens of these events over the years, stands about ten feet away, clipboard in hand, having watched the entire reunion play out along with everyone else.

“Jim,” I call out. “Could you help me with something?”

He approaches with obvious recognition of what’s coming, his eyes darting between Leah and me. “What can I do for you, Mr. Granger?”

“Player Family credentials,” I say, gesturing to Leah. “She needs to be inside the ropes.”

“I’m sorry, but without official documentation, you won’t be able to get Family credentials.” His tone is apologetic but firm.

I notice the gold band on his left hand and shift tactics, my voice softening but loud enough for the gathered spectators to hear. “You’re married, Jim?”

He blinks at the change in direction. “Twenty-three years next month.”

“Do you remember the first time your wife told you she loved you?”

His expression shifts, confusion mixing with something warmer. “Of course.”

“How did it feel?”

A small smile tugs at his lips, despite himself. “Like I was the luckiest guy in the world.”

A few murmurs of agreement ripple through the crowd behind the ropes. I feel their energy shifting, getting invested in this moment.

I nod toward Leah. “She just told me she loves me for the first time. Right here, in front of all these people.” My voice catches. “This is the biggest round of my career, and having her there when I finish… It would mean everything.”

“Come on, Jim!” someone calls out from the crowd. “Let love win!”

“Make it happen!” another voice adds.

Jim looks at Leah, then he glances at the crowd, all of them invested in our story, now.

“Player Guest credentials,” he says finally, pulling out his radio. “I’ll make it happen.”

More cheers and applause from the crowd.

“Thank, man,” I say as he steps away to make the arrangements.

Leah shakes her head in amused disbelief. “That was smooth. Reminds me of that time you bribed my waiter.”

“Anything for you. But hey, I have to get back to warming up.” Even though everything in me wants to stay right here, holding onto this moment, I do have to go.

“I know.” She reaches to wipe lipstick off my lips with her thumb. “Go show them what Hays Granger is really made of.”

I press a kiss to her dark hair. “I love you, too,” I whisper. “More than any major championship, more than any win. You’re my trophy, sweetheart.”

“Go,” she says, giving me a gentle push, her blush beautiful in the midday light. “Play this round, so we can celebrate properly tonight.”

As I walk back to my bay, the ball marker warm in my palm, I feel like a million bucks. Filled with the kind of bone-deep confidence that comes from knowing exactly who you are and what you’re capable of.

The media wrote me off after yesterday’s round. Six shots back, playing in the third-to-last group, they’ve already started crafting narratives about my “disappointing week” and how the pressure got to golf’s golden boy.

But they don’t know what I know. They don’t understand everything just changed.

I close my fist around the pressed penny, thinking about my dad. About the nine-year-old boy who learned life doesn’t wait for you to be ready, that when something matters, you go all in.

“Well?” Rory asks as I approach, but his wide grin tells me he already knows exactly what I’m about to say.

“Let’s do this.”

He whoops loud enough to turn heads then pulls me into a fierce hug that’s part celebration, part relief.

“About damn time,” he says against my shoulder. “Congrats.”

When he pulls back, his expression shifts into the focused intensity I’ve seen a thousand times. “Alright then,” he says, shouldering my bag. “It’s on.”

I take one last look toward the ropes where Leah still stands.

She raises her left hand in a small wave, the diamond flashing like a promise.

For the first time all week, I can’t wait to get to the first tee.

I already have everything I want. And now, I’m about to show the world what happens when I have nothing to lose.