Page 9 of Fore Better or Worse (Return to Starlight Bay #16)
Chapter nine
Hays | Six Months Later
T he California sun beats down mercilessly as Rory, my caddy and best friend, and I trudge off the eighteenth green. Four over par. Four fucking over. The giant scoreboard might as well be a flashing neon sign that reads HAYS GRANGER: CAN’T FIND THE HOLE WHEN IT MATTERS .
I yank off my glove and stuff it into my back pocket, the leather still damp with sweat. Every muscle is wound tight, but I keep my chin up as we walk past the gallery, flashing a quick smile and a wave to the fans still lingering there.
“That lie on sixteen was bullshit.” Rory’s hustling to keep pace with me as I stride toward the scoring tent. He adjusts my bag on his shoulder, the clubs rattling. “Ball was sitting down in the rough like it had been buried by a fucking gopher. Nobody could’ve made that shot clean.”
“Shot was fine. I just pulled it left.”
“Okay, but what about fourteen? That putt broke way more than we read. Even the commentators were talking about guys three-putting from eight feet because the slopes were so deceptive.”
I bite my tongue. If I open my mouth right now, every curse word known to man will come spilling out.
The gallery is already thinning as word spreads about who made the cut and who’s heading home early.
I pause to sign a kid’s hat, ruffling his hair when I hand it back, and ignore the mom who’s blushing and fumbling with her phone camera.
Four months of grinding in the off-season.
Four months of five a.m. workouts, protein shakes that taste like chalk, and swing changes that felt like learning to walk all over again.
And for what? To flame out on Friday afternoon while the leaders, players who’ve been on tour longer than I’ve been shaving, cruise into the weekend.
I can already hear the whispers. The Golf Channel guys will have a field day with this. Can Hays Granger handle the pressure? or Is the hype around golf’s golden boy just hot air?
“The media’s going to crucify me,” I mutter.
“Fuck the media. Davidson tweeted about your ‘sophomore slump’ before you even teed off yesterday.”
The scoring tent looms ahead, and my stomach churns.
Officials in their crisp white polos stand with clipboards and tablets, ready to make my loss official.
Inside, I sign my scorecard and hand it to the woman behind the table.
She cross-references it against Rory’s matching card then inputs the scores.
“Seventy-three and seventy-five. That puts you at plus-four for the tournament and the cut line is—”
“Plus-two,” I finish for her.
“That’s right.” She makes a mark next to my name on a clipboard with the efficiency of someone who’s delivered this news a thousand times. “Thank you for playing. We’ll see you next week in Phoenix.”
At least, next week’s event is close to home. Not that it makes the sting of this missed cut any less painful. Especially after last week’s less than stellar thirty-sixth place finish.
Rory claps me on the shoulder as we slip out of the tent and head to the clubhouse. “I’m going to tell you something you don’t want to hear.”
My teeth grind, but I don’t bother trying to stop him. If nothing else, twenty years of friendship have taught me Rory will talk until he’s said his peace. Fighting him on it is nothing but a waste of time. And somewhere buried in his bullshit is usually a grain of truth I need to hear.
“You’re playing like a guy who’s got somewhere else to be. Like you’re in such a hurry to race to the finish line, you forgot how to enjoy the journey.”
I pull up and turn to face him. “Easy for you to say. You’re not the one with expectations breathing down your neck.”
“Bullshit. You’ve always thrived under pressure. Remember the NCAA Championship in Stillwater your junior year? You were three shots back going into Sunday, and you walked up to the first tee grinning like you’d already won.”
“That was different.”
“How?”
I lift my hat and run a hand through my hair. “Because I don’t have twelve years to stroke my way to the top, that’s how.”
“Well, rushing your game sure isn’t doing the trick these days, is it?”
“Taking a decade or more to win my first major isn’t an option,” I snap then lower my voice again. “Not for me. The leader out there? He’s in his twelfth year on tour, Rory. Twelve fucking years before he’s even sniffing a major championship. I can’t wait that long.”
“Why? Because of some arbitrary timeline you set for yourself because of your father? Or because of a certain brunette bookworm?”
It’s bad enough he brings up my dad, but throwing Leah into the mix hits like a punch to the gut.
I wonder if either of them is watching. If they’re following the scores and noticing my name is nowhere near the top.
If they’re thinking I’m all talk and no substance, just like everyone else seems to.
“Don’t,” I warn, but Rory’s already nodding with that knowing expression he gets when he’s connecting dots I wish he’d leave scattered.
“If not me, then who?” he presses, his voice serious.
“Look, I get that you want to win. Hell, you’ve been driven to come in first at everything from rock-paper-scissors to Mario Kart since we were six years old.
But as your caddy and your friend, I have to tell you, this pressure you’re putting on yourself…
it’s different now. Ever since that night on the boat. ”
“You’re damn right it’s different.” The words come out sharper than I intend. “Everything changed that night.”
“I know it did. And honestly? Leah read you perfectly on that cruise. You’ve got something to prove. And you’ve always wanted to live up to the player your dad thought you could be. Until you get that win, you’d be a shit husband. She was smart enough to see that.”
I don’t bother to respond. We both know he’s spot on, as usual. Plus, I know he’s not done speaking his piece.
When he continues, his tone is softer. “When you told me you gave her your ball marker, man…I knew you were serious. But now, you’re trying so hard to get back to her that you’re forgetting how to play the game that’s supposed to get you there.”
Of course, he’s right. But that’s what’s killing me.
Six months of radio silence and I’m fucking losing my mind. Without contact, I’m forced to imagine what her days are like and wish I was there to fill her bed at night.
Six months of wondering what book she’s reading while I’m over here fantasizing about that smart mouth doing more than just calling me on my bullshit.
Endless hours of replaying that little gasp she made when I backed her against the railing, the way she fit perfectly against me and kissed as if she were all in.
Hell, I’ve jerked off hundreds of times since Starlight Bay, picturing Leah in every position possible.
Especially with my face buried between her legs.
And every time, I imagine the day when I finally get my hands on her again, knowing it’ll be worth the wait.
She’ll scream my name so loud the neighbors will file noise complaints.
“When’s the last time you got laid?” Rory asks, reading the frustration written all over my face. “There was that cocktail waitress at the bar giving you the eye—”
“Not happening.” I grab a bottle of water from an ice-filled tub and take a long drink. “I told you, no distractions.”
“Yeah, but I didn’t believe you.”
“Believe me now,” I snap, cutting him off. “Look, I know how this sounds, but I meant what I said that night. When I win a major, I’m going to marry her. And that means no distractions until then.”
“Okay, I get it. But if that’s the plan, you need to stay focused. You’re going to win a major—hell, probably multiple majors in your career, but—”
“I’m glad we agree on that.” Since the day I was warming up and overheard my dad predicting I’d win a major someday, and likely many, the driving need to prove him right has haunted me. Because that was the day he died.
“But not anytime soon if you don’t get your head straight.”
I throw open the door to the clubhouse with more force than necessary. “Pressure makes diamonds.”
He shakes his head as if he knows it’s useless to continue the pep talk. “Alright then. Phoenix it is. But next week, you play for you. Everything else—including your future wife—will have to wait. At least, for now.”
I’m still rolling my shoulders, trying to shake off the shit round, when a woman in a navy blazer appears at my elbow. I recognize her immediately from the Tour’s media relations team. Her smile is professional but warm.
“Hays, do you have a few minutes for the media room?” she asks, tablet in hand. “I know it wasn’t the week you hoped for, but there are still a few reporters who’d like to chat. Jenna Morely from Golf Channel among them.”
I wave off Rory, who’s already heading to the equipment area, then straighten my shoulders and flash my most charming smile. “Absolutely, I’m always happy to talk golf.”