Page 3 of Reality With You (Arden Beach #1)

M etal snapped against the golf ball, sending it soaring into the crisp blue sky. Spectators surrounding the course watched in silent anticipation as the ball arced in the general direction of the flag marking the tenth hole yet plopped several yards away in a sand trap.

Dylan, shielding his eyes with a gloved hand, pressed his lips together as shame struck a match up his neck.

The silence at his back burned more than the hot morning sun.

He hated losing, and golf was not his game—a fact made worse by his head being a thousand miles away on a New York City train instead of a South Florida golf course.

He’d stopped in the middle of the break room at the sight of Lennon’s name lighting up his phone, nearly wearing another golfer’s beverage as he narrowly avoided a collision with Dylan. He’d muttered an apology as his heart restarted—and then pounded like a jackhammer.

Finally, after six years.

He hadn’t expected it, but a part of him hadn’t given up hope that she’d give him a chance to make things right. He’d rehearsed what he wanted to say to her a thousand times. Except the call today hadn’t been the appropriate time to say it all.

She was hurting.

Dylan’s chest clenched all over again as he recalled the sound of Lennon’s voice breaking while he’d helplessly listened in a lounge at a fucking country club. It’s how she’d sounded the night she left him—holding back tears, trying not to let him see how much he’d broken her.

Something had broken inside him that night, too.

Dylan felt as useless then as he did now, wishing he’d known what the hell to say, what the hell to do , to ease her suffering. He sat there on the line like an idiot, offering sympathy and platitudes from probably the last person she wanted to hear them from.

And guiltily enjoying hearing her voice again. Being in her presence.

“Good thing you’re not from a golf dynasty,” another golfer quipped, yanking him back to the green. To the blazing sun, sweat lining the inner rim of his baseball cap, and hundreds of people watching him fail at yet another thing. He was zero for two today.

“Yeah, better stick to bigger balls,” someone else commented.

Low chuckles murmured around them. Flags brandishing the Arden Beach Country Club logos and other sponsors of the charity event danced in the breeze, drawing Dylan’s attention to one of the event photographers crouched beneath one. A reminder of why he was there.

To fix something else he’d broken.

Sweat slid under the collar of his tight polo shirt. Dylan smiled with a nod, taking the hits in his stride on the surface while each one scraped his pride like sand on a sunburn. “Maybe I’d do better if the clubs were wood,” he remarked.

That got a bigger laugh.

With the tension successfully diffused, the group of golfers began filing into two golf carts to ride to the next hole. He flipped the club around in his hand and gripped it tightly, glancing at the sand trap where his ball sat alone.

Bunker shots were some of the hardest in golf. He probably had no business being hopeful of scoring, but that wouldn’t stop him from trying.

After the tournament—he ended up ranking a pitiful seventy-five out of a hundred and forty-two players on the leaderboard—Dylan made small talk with some of the other players and spectators and stopped to talk to some of the press covering the event.

When questions about “the incident” and the future of his baseball career came up, he politely cut the conversation short and made a swift escape to one of the VIP lounges.

On his way, he checked his phone notifications. It was a long shot that Lennon’s name would show up again, but his chest deflated a little anyway when it didn’t.

He found an empty lounge, further away from the main event area, where he could avoid most of the players and guests busy mingling.

A buffet and assortment of bottled beverages lined the tables on a raised veranda overlooking the course.

His stomach growled at the sight. As he browsed the table with charcuterie boards, a boy’s voice and the sound of sneakers pounding the wooden floorboards stole his attention.

“Hey! ‘Scuse me! Are you Dylan Strickland?”

Dylan turned to the boy, who was no more than ten or so. The child’s eyes widened in awe. He smiled. “Last I checked,” he confirmed. “Definitely not one of the pro golfers, that’s for sure.” He knelt down. “What’s your name, buddy?”

“Caden. You’re one of my favorite baseball players.”

“Really? Aw, man. I’m honored.” Dylan pressed a hand to his heart, warmth fanning from the spot.

“Can I have your autograph?”

“Of course—”

“Caden!” A frazzled woman in a red polo dress appeared around the corner, letting out a sigh of relief when she spotted the boy, then immediately tensing again when her gaze fell on Dylan. She took quick steps to Caden, snatching his hand. “I’ve told you not to run off like that.”

“Sorry, Mom, but this is important. I found Dylan Strickland . The best starting pitcher for the Arden Beach Tidebreakers! He’s going to give me an autograph.”

“We don’t have time for that. Sorry.” Her attention locked on Dylan, the condemnation in her eyes slicing him like a blade.

Dylan slightly recoiled, stunned.

“Let’s go.”

“But Mom!—”

“Now, Caden.” She tugged him away, the boy’s expression awash with devastation as he watched Dylan over his shoulder.

Dylan raised a hand to wave goodbye, forcing a smile. “Nice to meet you, Caden,” he called out.

As the boy disappeared around the corner, Dylan dropped his hand, remaining in a squat as he tried to process what just happened.

Though he’d primarily been a hermit since the accident, he’d noticed fewer fans came up to him than they used to when he did venture out of his cave. It had never dawned on him that parents wouldn’t want their kids near him anymore.

Shame carved an icy pit in him.

Dylan rose and returned to the buffet, trying to shake it off. He plucked a roll of sliced ham and cheese from one of the tiers, popping the entire thing in his mouth as he reached for a buttery roll and some sort of granola cluster.

“There you are. I’ve been looking for you,” Erin said, her voice drifting from behind him.

“How’d you find me?” Dylan asked around a mouthful of food.

“Figured you’d be hiding somewhere food was involved and other people weren’t.” His sister’s blonde ponytail filled his peripheral vision as she strolled up beside him, acquiring a toothpick from a small ceramic holder and piercing a couple of grapes on the fruit tier.

“Good call.”

“I’d be hiding, too, after a game like that.” Erin slid the grapes off the toothpick with her teeth.

Dylan glared at her. “Thanks.”

“You’re such a good batter. You’d think you’d be good at this, too.” Her expression twinkled with sisterly teasing as she smiled back. “How’s your shoulder?”

She was right—he should be good at golf.

Although he pitched professionally, batting had always been his favorite position, and those skills typically transferred well to golf.

He never could get his head into the game.

The slowness of it, the eerie quietness of the course.

It was like trying to play a game in a boardroom.

“It’s OK. A little sore.” Dylan absently rolled it as he finished off the food he’d snatched.

“We should do some PT today. My schedule’s clear.”

“I’ll be alright. Take a day off for once.” Dylan ignored the ache in his shoulder, instead brushing off his hands and moving to a cooler beside one of the tables. He plucked a bottle of mango juice from the bed of ice, unscrewing the cap.

Erin hopped up on the wide ledge overlooking the course, scooting back a bit to get comfortable as her legs dangled over the edge. “You know, losing a celebrity golf tournament isn’t going to turn the tide in your favor.”

“It’s for charity, Erin,” he said before bringing the bottle to his lips.

“That’s what I mean. Everyone knows you’re on an image rehabilitation tour. No one sees you leave the house unless you do something like this. It looks a little too …”

He’d nearly downed the entire juice bottle. Coming up for air, he lifted an eyebrow in her direction. “Go on, say it.”

Erin scrunched her nose apologetically. “Desperate.”

Dylan snorted a laugh, shaking his head. His sister was more ruthless than any shit-talking athlete he’d ever met. “I’ve always done charity events. How is this any different?”

“You hate golf. And everyone knows you need the good press.”

That one hurt. He shot her a sharp look. “That’s not why I—”

“I know, Dyl,” Erin interrupted. Tilting her head, her light hazel eyes looked at him with sincerity.

“I know your heart is in the right place, but the public doesn’t.

And neither does the league’s board, who’s unfortunately deciding your fate.

” The last part was bitter on her tongue.

She’d never been quiet about her distaste for the politics of baseball, but especially now.

“It’s about perception, fair or not. And right now, people don’t know what to believe. ”

Dylan sighed. He couldn’t win for losing.

He drained the rest of his drink and tossed the bottle into the recycling bin before joining Erin at the ledge.

He leaned his forearms on smooth white surface, removing his baseball cap to run a hand through his damp hair.

As he stared into the interior of his Tidebreakers cap, the sunlight glinting off the United Baseball League holographic authentication sticker inside, he asked, “How am I supposed to convince people I’m not who they think I am?

That I’m not just doing damage control.”

Erin offered a faint shrug. “You have to find a way to let people see who you really are.”

Dylan looked out onto the vibrant green lawn filled with people laughing and taking photos as they enjoyed a carefree Friday in the sun. He’d forgotten what that felt like—having fun, living for the moment—or even how to do it.