Page 29

Wailing

Mallory

I did not react when Holland landed a ball in the water hazard on seventeen, even though my entire body felt like it went through a paper shredder as I watched him struggle.

I didn’t groan or yell or sigh when he overshot the green with his next shot.

I kept my head high and my chin up, sunglasses and baseball cap firmly in place.

The cameras were rolling from even more directions than usual, and I refused to let any one of them see me with my guard down.

Internally, though, I was wailing.

I’m still wailing. I’m cooped up in this room that feels like a holding cell with the other Most Eligible Mister contestants. Mindy Sue is napping in her chair. Britt and Zelda are playing cards.

I’m not an inherently violent person, but if the other women don’t stop talking about where we’re going for dinner, I’m going to go full-on mixed martial arts on them. Don’t they have any idea what Holland is going through right now?

He ended up finishing the Grand Masters in a tie for second place, even after the complete meltdown he had on the seventeenth hole, where he notched a triple bogey. He fought back with a birdie on the eighteenth.

Under any other circumstances, a tie for second at a major tournament like this one would be considered a good day—but not when he basically had the thing on lock. He was on the cusp of defending his title here. Instead, a tie for second feels like he didn’t even make the cut .

It’s still a decent pay day, but I’m not even thinking about that right now. My mind is on Holland and where his head is at.

“I’m so hungry,” Jennah laments.

I close my eyes and start saying Hail Marys, like my mom does fifty times a day.

My heart tugs uncomfortably in my chest, and I feel an inordinate need to find Holland right now, to check in on him. I’m chalking it up to my coach instincts, but deep down, I know it’s more than that.

All week, I’ve observed him. Like I usually do, sure.

But it’s like I have a new set of eyes. I’ve looked on as he’s carried himself with confidence, yukking it up with the other golfers and the fans.

I’ve seen the man I know well. But I’ve also seen moments that have surprised me.

Like when I caught him talking to a group of food service workers at the clubhouse after his practice round on Wednesday.

Or when he walked into our meeting room as I was finishing up a call with my mom, and when I hung up, he immediately asked how she was doing.

He gives me a hard time when I coach him, like always.

But he also holds eye contact and nods along.

He listens to me. He’s been going out of his way to make sure the MEM women are having a good time.

He’s taken on the role of tour guide and golf teacher, explaining the rules and the process to the women with good humor and patience.

As much as it goes against everything I’ve been trying to cling to from a professional standpoint…

I’ve developed unprofessional feelings for Holland.

Right now, I want to see him. To make sure he’s okay.

“I’m going to the bathroom,” I announce, and I don’t wait for a response from producers before I duck out of the room.

Once in the hallway, I pull my phone out from the fanny pack I’ve been wearing at my waist. A quick scan shows I have texts from my mom and dad and Poppy, but I ignore them all for now and pull up Holland’s contact information.

Mallory

Where are you?

It’s a long shot that he’ll answer. He could still be in the clubhouse, turning in his scorecard. Or he could be in interviews. He’s supposed to connect up with us after, but I have no clue how long that’ll be.

My phone vibrates, and I glance down.

He’s responded with a dropped pin.

I follow my map to his location—a garden shed behind the clubhouse. I glance around to make sure no one is following me or paying me any attention before I open the door a crack and step inside the darkened space.

“Bradley?”

I hear a grunt and audible breathing and then a strangled voice. “H-h-h-ere.”

My heart quivers, and as my eyes adjust to the dim light of the shed, I walk to the corner where he’s sitting on an overturned five-gallon bucket. He’s got his head between his legs, and he’s gasping. I immediately drop down to my knees.

“Breathe with me.” I count in and out, just like I did night one of filming. “Good. That’s good. Again.”

We go through several rounds of breathing before Holland lifts his head, letting it fall back and rolling his neck from side to side.

I stay quiet. Not sure exactly what to do or say. Not sure what to make of the painful knob of emotion that feels like dough pressing into the crevices at the back of my throat.

When Holland straightens and looks at me, there’s devastation in his gaze. Devastation and hopelessness.

“I guess everyone knows I’m a fraud now.”

I frown, shaking my head. “That’s not true.”

“I choked, Mal. For all the world to see.” He rubs his hands across his face.

“In front of the Most Eligible Mister cameras and the women too. I’m going to have to relive this all again when the show airs later this summer.

I’ll be a laughingstock. Worse, even…which of those women are going to want to be with me now? “ He sounds disgusted with himself.

My body is moving before my brain has a chance to catch up. I lean toward him and wrap my arms around his shoulders, tugging him to me in a hug.

I’m not thinking about the professional boundaries I’m crossing. I’m not thinking about how this would look to anyone who might peek into this shed. I’ve very, very much not thinking about how there’s a little voice inside my head that cried, Me! I’ll be with you! in response to his question.

All I’m focused on right now is Holland and how I want to shoulder some of the burden he’s carrying.

He’s stiff in my arms, and I can tell by the sharp intake of breath that I’ve surprised him. It takes him a couple seconds, but then he relaxes and drops his head onto my shoulder.

I squeeze him harder, and he brings his arms up and wraps them around my back.

We stay in this embrace for a couple minutes. I don’t have any words, and I don’t think Holland wants words right now. Nothing I say is going to change how he feels in this moment. It’s his single greatest professional defeat to date. This one is going to sting for a while.

Eventually, he pulls back, and as I lean away from him, his gaze searches mine.

“I…uh…thanks,” he says.

I nod, swallowing down the emotion that’s still hanging out at the tippy top of my esophagus, threatening to spill out and take who knows what form.

“I guess I needed that,” he says on a sigh. “I hate that you keep seeing me fall apart.”

“It’s okay,” I say quietly. The tangle of emotions I’m feeling for Holland has me tongue-tied.

I don’t like feeling like this…off balance, unsure, out of control.

Heck, am I jealous that he’s thinking ab out the other woman, and who in this competition he might end up with?

I don’t want to admit it, but I think I might be.

What is happening to me right now?

Holland stretches his arms over his head and stands, and I follow suit.

“What do you have to do next?” I ask. Better to keep it surface level right now.

He checks his phone and curses. “They’re looking for me in the interview room. I’ve gotta get over there.”

“Are you going to be okay? I mean…your voice…you stuttered…” I trail off, suddenly unsure.

I don’t know anything about Holland’s stutter except for what I’ve heard with my own ears on two occasions now.

It’s obviously not something he talks about, but if he goes in there and gets panicky and can’t speak how he wants to speak, that’s only going to make the repercussions of this loss harder to come back from, at least in his eyes. I want to protect him.

He shifts his jaw, and his gaze hardens before he looks away from me. “I’m fine.”

He sounds like a guy with a chip on his shoulder. I’m used to playful, carefree Holland. A guy with more charisma and charm in his pinky finger than I have in my entire body. But right now, he’s shut down. He turns to leave, and I hold out my hand, grabbing him by the wrist.

“Are you sure? I can talk to someone. Get you out of it,” I offer.

“I said I was fine, Mallory. You don’t need to baby me. I can handle it.”

I flinch, pulling my hand back at his hardened tone. I open my mouth to respond, but no words come out.

Holland blinks a long blink, keeping his eyes closed for an extra beat. When he looks at me again, his gaze is devoid of any emotion. I don’t see even a whiff of remorse, and I feel my walls flying up.

“Forget I said anything,” I keep my tone cool. “Go ahead. ”

He studies me and sighs. His gaze softens a fraction. “I didn’t mean…I wasn’t trying…” He blows out a breath. “You know what, it doesn’t matter. Never mind.”

“Right. Yeah. Never mind.” I cross my arms over my chest as he strides out the door. If only they could function as a literal shield, to protect me from a sudden wave of unwanted feelings.

He strides out the door, and I’m left alone in a storage shed. Traitorous tears prick the corners of my eyes.

You will not cry. You will not cry over him, or golf, or any of this .

I issue the demand to myself over and over as I go through my own breathing exercises, willing my heart rate to drop and my emotions to get the heck back under control.

This right here is the problem. This is the issue with blurring personal and professional lines.

Because now, instead of analyzing Holland as a golfer, going through his round and pinpointing the areas we need to hone in on and improve for his next outing, I’m worrying about Holland as a person, asking questions about his stutter and feeling my heart crack open at his obvious loss of self-confidence.

And where did my concern for him get me?

Shut down and shut out.

Where have I seen this before?