Fangirl Down (Big Shots, #1)(3)

“No.”

Laughing without humor, he chucked his glove down the fairway. If only he could play a ball that straight. “Well, you’re going to be cheering for a ghost, because I’m done.”

Slowly, she lowered her sign.

The sight made his chest lurch, but he didn’t let himself flinch outwardly.

“You’re down but you’re not out, Wells Whitaker.”

“Listen to me. I’m out. I’m quitting the tour. There is no reason for you to come here anymore, Josephine.”

All at once, her smile brightened and, God help him, she went from cute to stunning—an observation that could mean absolutely nothing, since they were cutting ties right here and now. “You called me by my first name. You never have before.”

He knew that fact well, didn’t he? He’d refrained from calling her anything but her self-selected nickname, because anything else felt too personal. And there was nothing personal here. They were athlete and number one fan—and they needed to be done. Over. He had to sever this remaining tie to golf or he’d never be able to get on with the rest of his miserable has-been existence. At twenty-nine.

Goddamn this sport.

And goddamn her for making him want to show up and try.

Utterly ridiculous, considering this was the first time Wells had even said her name, despite the fact that she’d been cheering him on from behind the rope for the five years he’d been on the tour.

“What about the contest?” she said, folding up her sign and holding it to her chest. “Lunch and Lessons with Wells Whitaker. I won.”

He gestured to the trees. “Obviously I’m in no position to give you a lesson.”

She stared off down the fairway for a moment. Then said, “I’m a coach, myself. Maybe I could give you one.”

Wells did a double take. “Excuse me?”

“I said, maybe I could give you one.” She winced, as if she’d finally run that presumptuous suggestion through a filter. “My family owns a little pro shop nearby and I know everything there is to know about golf. My first pair of baby shoes had spikes on the bottom.” She took off her visor and now . . . her eyes looked even bigger. More compelling. And he didn’t know why, but letting this loyal girl down wasn’t sitting well. “You don’t love the sport anymore. Maybe I can help you love it again. That’s what I meant by giving you a lesson—”

“Josephine, listen to me. I don’t want to love it anymore. I’ve lost my soul to this game and it has given me nothing in return.”

She gasped. “Nothing except three majors titles.”

“You don’t understand. The titles start to mean nothing when you’re incapable of doing it again.” He closed his eyes and let the truth of those words sink in. First time he’d said them out loud. “The best thing you can do for me is leave. Pick some other golfer to harass, okay?”

His only remaining fan tried to keep her features stoic, but he’d inflicted some hurt with that suggestion. Keep going. Get it over with. Even if the idea of her cheering for another player made him want to impale himself on his wedge.

Wells bit down hard on his tongue so he wouldn’t take it back.

“It’s a bad day. Shake it off and get back out here tomorrow.” Her laugh was incredulous. “You can’t just quit golf.”

He laughed as he turned and strode for his bag, his caddie nowhere in sight. “Golf quit me. Go home, belle.” There was a note stuck between his clubs. Frowning, he plucked it up between two fingers to find a resignation letter from his caddie. If one could call a scrawled note on a bar napkin a resignation letter. Instead of being angry, Wells felt nothing but relief.

Excellent timing.

That saved him having to fire the son of a bitch.

“Wells, wait.”

His back muscles tightened at the sight of Josephine ducking under the rope and jogging in his direction, her deep, reddish-brown ponytail swinging side to side. Such a move was wildly against the rules, but there was no one left to care. He’d leave the club and no one would even notice, would they? Except her.

“There are people who still believe in you,” she said.

“Really? Where?” He hefted the bag onto his shoulder. “All I see is you.”

Again, hurt trickled into her gaze and he ignored the impulse to throw down his bag, tell her everything. How his mentor had abandoned him after one bad season and he’d realized his support system was all smoke and mirrors. At the end of the day, he was alone, like he’d been since age twelve. All anyone cared about now was how well he hit this little white ball and God, he resented that. Resented the game and everything about it.

“I’ll stay right here until everyone comes back,” she said.

Frustration raked down his insides like a pair of fingernails. He just wanted to throw in the towel and she was the only one preventing him from doing it.

Wells steeled himself against the urge to set down his bag and select a club one more time, for this person who unwisely continued to believe in him. He reached for her sign instead, calling himself ten times a bastard as he tore it straight down the middle. He threw the two sides onto the grass, forcing himself to look her in the eye, because he couldn’t be a bastard and a coward. “For the last time, I don’t want you here.”