Fangirl Down (Big Shots, #1)(5)

Getting sucker punched hurt like hell, but the brawl itself was a relief. He’d grown up fighting. In school, he’d spent more time in the principal’s office than the principal herself. An angry kid—that’s what he’d been. Resentful over being abandoned by his parents. Turbulent and hot-tempered.

Then Buck Lee had gotten ahold of him.

The summer Wells turned sixteen, he’d scored a job shagging balls at the local golf course and mainly, he’d been excited for an opportunity to silently mock the rich kids while he earned a few bucks. Where would he be now if he’d never picked up that driver and smashed a ball three hundred yards while Buck watched from the clubhouse?

Probably not sitting in a five-million-dollar condo.

Stressing about a girl he barely knew.

Wells’s Belle.

A pressing sense of responsibility had him growling and reaching for his phone. His manager had quit weeks ago and they’d had zero communication, but he’d bite the bullet for some information. Otherwise, he’d always wonder if something bad had happened to her on his watch—

On his watch?

“Stop acting like she’s your girlfriend. She’s a fan.”

Big, optimistic green eyes shining up at him.

I’ll stay right here until everyone comes back.

“Dammit.” Was his head pounding with the force of his hangover or was it something else? Wells didn’t know, nor did he care to explore the reason he felt a responsibility to a certain redhead. So he just dialed.

His ex-manager, Nate, answered on the third ring, sounding groggy. “You better not be calling me to bail you out.”

“I’m not.” On the screen of his television, the news was showing a shelter full of people displaced by the storm and he furiously scanned the faces for one full of hope and humor. “Listen, remember that contest? People entered to have lunch and a putting lesson with me.”

“The contest only eighty-one people entered?”

Wells winced. “I’m not sure it was necessary to give me that number.”

He could almost see his old manager giving a negligent shrug. “Why are you suddenly concerned about the contest? The clubhouse restaurant called to let me know you’d blown off the reservation. I’m telling you, I was shocked.”

“You shouldn’t be. Their food sucks.” He pictured himself sitting across from Josephine in the brightly lit clubhouse restaurant and felt his stupid pulse move just a little faster. “Christ. I could have taken her somewhere nicer.”

“The quality of their ni?oise salad is neither here nor there, because you didn’t hold up your end of the bargain, my man.”

“You don’t need to remind me,” Wells snapped, triggering an ache behind his eye.

Had Josephine been really disappointed he didn’t take her to lunch?

Of course, she had. He’d done nothing but let her down. For years.

“Just give me the winner’s number and I’ll leave you alone,” Wells rasped.

“What?” Nate laughed. “I can’t do that. Ever heard of privacy laws?”

The pinch of panic he experienced really didn’t agree with him. “I’m taking her to fucking lunch, all right? I don’t like the loose end.”

“She doesn’t want lunch. She doesn’t want anything from you.”

Wells’s hand tightened around the remote, the sound of the news reporter’s voice turning muffled in his ears. “What the hell does that mean?”

“It means . . .” Nate groaned, followed by the sound of bed springs creaking in the background. “I don’t like loose ends, either. After I found out you pulled a no-show on the reservation, I called the winner and offered to set up the same deal—lunch and a lesson—with another, less grouchy golfer.”

“You what?” His hangover leaked out of his ears, leaving him so painfully sharp and clearheaded, it was almost disorienting. “She’s my fan.”

“Not anymore. I offered to send her some Wells Whitaker memorabilia and she turned that down, too. Your beer koozies hath no power here.”

Wells was out of bed and pacing now, but he couldn’t remember standing up. Was the floor tilting or was he still drunk? “I don’t give a shit about privacy laws. Just give me her number.”

“Not a chance. I escaped your employment without getting sued and I don’t intend to open myself up for those legal ramifications, especially now that I’m not on your payroll.”

“This is crazy,” Wells shouted into the phone. “I’m trying to do the right thing.”

“It’s too late, man,” Nate said back, his voice elevating to match Wells’s. “You’ve ignored obligations and behaved like a royal prick for two years. You’ve always been a royal prick, but now that you don’t have the golf game to back it up, no one has to deal with you. Especially me. Goodbye, Wells.”

Silence swam in his ear.

God, he needed a drink. Badly.

But he couldn’t seem to make the move to the kitchen to get a fresh bottle of scotch. Everything Nate had said was true—he had behaved like a relentless prick his entire career. Trash-talked the other pros instead of making friends. Been indifferent toward the fans. Either outright ignored the press or gave them answers they couldn’t air on television.