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I allow myself a minute in the dimly lit shed to gather myself and let my mask fall into place. Conceal it all. Don’t feel it at all. That’s always been my motto…or at least it has been since Brevan. I need it now more than ever.

Because what I don’t want to admit is how much it hurt me to have Holland push me away.

What I don’t want to admit is that I want to be there for him as a person.

But I can’t do that and keep my job and do it well.

I need my job for my family, so I need to shut this all down.

All the concern. All the compassion. All the hugging and fun.

I need to focus on the golf and the golf alone .

I leave the shed and wander back toward the clubhouse.

The very last thing I want to do right now is go sit in the room with the rest of the Most Eligible Mister women, but what else can I do?

I let myself into the side entrance and follow the maze of hallways toward the room where they have us waiting.

But then I hear Holland’s voice, amplified through the press room microphone, and I realize I’ve unknowingly walked right past the press room.

Keep going.

That’s my brain telling me to cut my losses here. I don’t owe Holland anything, and I don’t need to care how he handles his interview.

Stay .

That’s my stupid heart, which in spite of my better judgment, is making my feet slow and backtrack.

I slip into the back of the press room, and no one pays me any attention.

Holland is up on the dais, higher than the reporters who are seated in chairs in front of him.

He looks calm and collected, a far cry from the man who fell apart in the storage shed ten minutes ago.

He’s doing what he’s been trained to do.

He’s not wallowing in his defeat…at least not in front of the cameras.

He’s also not being flippant. He’s got everything under control.

I shouldn’t be surprised. It’s another swift reminder that he doesn’t need me.

And my muddled heart doesn’t need to spend any more time in his presence.

I turn to leave the room, when one of the reporters asks, “You’re currently filming a reality dating show, correct?”

“I am.”

“And one of the contestants is your coach, Mallory Walsh?”

I freeze, my heart thumping painfully against my rib cage. I press my back flat against the wall outside the door to the presser and swivel my head around so I can see back into the room. I have no clue if Holland knows I’m here.

He keeps his face mostly impassive. I know all of his tells, though, so I know he doesn’t appreciate this line of questioning.

His hands are clasped in front of him, but there’s a strain in the way his knuckles are clenched.

I glance below the table, and sure enough, his knee is bouncing.

His cheeks betray him too. They’re a shade pinker than usual.

Is he embarrassed about the show? Embarrassed that someone is asking about me?

“Did all of the outside distraction have an impact on your game today, particularly on hole seventeen, when everything seemed to fall apart?”

Holland leans toward the mic. “I’m not able to comment on the show at this point.”

The same reporter scooches forward in his seat.

“Can you tell us if you’re developing romantic feelings for Ms. Walsh?

Maybe mixing business with pleasure with your coach wasn’t the smartest idea,” he offers with a shrug.

“For her or for you. Looked like you needed some more coaching—and not the dating kind—based on your performance today.”

My stomach drops to the floor before lurching up into the back of my throat.

I bring my hand up to cover my mouth, because I’m afraid I might vomit all over this hallway.

Everything I’ve always been afraid of—my reputation being thrown into question, my credibility undercut, being judged because I’m a woman and not for the work I do—is coming to fruition.

Because of this stupid dating show.

You signed up for it willingly.

I want to drop kick the unhelpful voice in my head right now. I want to walk away from this room, from this show, and forget any of it ever happened.

But the money is helping my mom. All of this will be worth it if she gets some relief and my parents both have some financial security. I need to remember that. It’s the only reason I’m here .

If I let my feelings for Holland grow, develop, and go unchecked, I’m signing up for a lifetime of these sorts of questions and insinuations.

At best, people will whisper about me behind my back.

At worst, I’ll be denied opportunities just like what happened with Brevan all those years ago.

In either case, nothing I ever do in the golf world will be taken seriously again.

I break into a cool sweat, anger mingling with annoyance mingling with acceptance.

I hate everything about this. But I need to stick out the show for my parents’ sake, and that’s what I’ll do.

I absolutely will not let my guard down around Holland.

My vision clears, and I focus in on him.

What would be nice right now is if he’d shut this smug reporter up.

Put him in his place. Stick up for me. Have my back and defend me to him.

But Holland’s mouth hangs open an inch, and he’s turned pale, like he might have another panic attack. My anger and annoyance fades, and I glance around. Is no one else seeing this? The reporters are all leaning forward like predators ready to pounce on a wounded antelope.

I take a step into the room, drawn toward Holland by some unseen and partially unwanted force.

But then the PGO staffer coordinating the interview room steps forward. “Okay! I think that’s enough questions for today.”

There’s a groan from among the reporters.

“Come on, let him answer!” one of them calls.

Noah, Holland’s agent, who has been standing off to the side of the platform, frowning, motions for Holland to come down.

He stands and does so, and I don’t wait to see what happens next.

I turn on my heel and walk away. From Holland. From the questions about his personal life and, by extension, mine. From the bruised part of my heart that’s always hoping to be healed and instead keeps getting trodden upon.