Fangirl Down (Big Shots, #1)(106)

Her caddie uniform from Torrey Pines hanging from his back pocket.

Josephine’s heart squeezed so hard she gasped.

“Has he been playing with that the whole time?”

Evelyn answered. “Yes.”

Josephine labored through a breath. A breath that hitched in her throat when the camera zeroed in on Wells’s face and she saw the patchy, whisker growth on his cheeks, the sunken quality of his eyes, the grim lines on either side of his mouth.

In short, he looked God-awful.

And yet . . . he was playing well and holding his own. Knowing the man like she did, however, it was impossible for Josephine to miss the effort it was costing him to maintain his spot on the leaderboard. He looked tired and haunted. Haggard.

A lot like she felt.

“Honey, you’ve done the hard part,” Evelyn said softly. “You’ve cleaned up the shop, restored it better than ever. We can rent clubs and sell merchandise for the first couple of days. Rolling Greens and the Golden Tee will be right here waiting when you get back.”

“Back from where?”

Jim implored the ceiling for patience. “Augusta!”

“Dad, he needs to do this without me. He wants that.”

“And I know you don’t want to hear this, but that decision was fair enough, Joey. Relationships should be built on even ground.” He squinted an eye at her. “Do you think that man wants what’s best for you?”

Of course he did.

The answer came to her without delay.

Her heart knew the truth, as well as her mind. She’d never stopped trusting Wells, even in the thick of her anger. She’d just been too hurt by his seeming rejection to acknowledge it. Now, though, with his beloved image moving on the screen, and quiet proof that he loved her adorning his body, there was no more avoiding what she already knew. He’d taken that growth they’d achieved together and he’d done the selfless thing. He’d made the decision she was too scared to make herself. His turn had arrived to be the strong one and he’d risen to the occasion. Maybe she could have celebrated him for it if she hadn’t been blindsided.

Now that she’d gained time and perspective, she had no choice but to see his actions for what they were. A man expressing his love the only way he’d known how.

“Yes, I know he wants what’s best for me,” Josephine said. “Always.”

“Do you want what’s best for him?”

“Yes,” she managed. “Of course.”

“That’s love, honey.” Evelyn tipped her head at the television. “And even when it’s hard or you have to swallow your pride, love should always be celebrated.”

*

It wasn’t that Wells didn’t know how to win.

In his early days, he’d won because being the best at something, being feared and revered, was like a drug after a lifetime of being ignored. Suddenly everyone loved him and that felt great. It was a relief to know the people who treated him like an afterthought had been wrong.

Then he started winning for Josephine. He’d barely taken himself into account when they’d joined forces. He’d wanted success only so he could share it with her.

But on the final hole at Augusta—day four, one shot off the lead—he didn’t have either of those things to win for. Accolades and reverence were fleeting in sports. Was it nice to win and earn back respect? Yeah. But if all of that shit went away, it wouldn’t break him this time. He’d let it send him into a tailspin once, but never again. He knew what real success looked like now—earning the love and loyalty of his soul mate.

Did he want to win for Josephine? Hell yes. Purely because she’d believed in him when no one else would. But she wasn’t there. In his head, maybe, but not physically.

And he was out of fucking steam.

Earlier today, he’d rallied. Birdied nine holes, climbed to number one on the leaderboard. But he’d bogeyed the last hole, gone into the water two holes prior, and slipped to number two. Nakamura was lining up his shot now, twenty yards from where Wells stood. The veteran golfer was poised to win the Masters and he deserved it. He’d played four solid rounds.

And the guy probably wanted it so bad.

Look at that. His wife was waiting on the sidelines with the rest of the gigantic crowd, holding on to an older woman’s hand. Probably her mother-in-law. They were bursting with pride, waiting for Nakamura to sink this final putt and take the green jacket home.

Good. He was welcome to it.

You’re burning it all down, Josephine said in his ear. Why?

At the sound of her imaginary voice, Wells drifted back to a conversation they’d had in the dark one night in California.

“Which win do you remember most?” Josephine had asked.

“My second major.”

“Really? Why?”

“I don’t know . . . I guess, because I wasn’t an imposter on the tour after that.”

Josephine was quiet for a few moments, her index finger drawing circles in the middle of his chest. “So you remember it mostly because of how . . . other people would see you differently afterward?”

He’d been a little taken aback by that interpretation, but he couldn’t completely deny it. “I guess.”

“But what made it feel good for you?”

Another minute passed while he peeled back layers he didn’t even know existed. That’s what Josephine did. “The game . . . I was honored to become a part of the game. It’s old and loved by people who’ve come and gone . . . and there’s this beautiful ritual to it. I’d never had anything beautiful in my life before that and I guess I was just stunned when it loved me back.”