Fangirl Down （Big Shots, #1）
Tessa Bailey
Chapter One
I am the number one Wells Whitaker fangirl.
Sure, golf’s resident bad boy has seen better days, but that’s the thing about being a fangirl.
Be in it for life or keep walking, pal.
There are three qualities one must possess to make an impact as a fangirl.
Number one: Enthusiasm. Let them know you’re there, baby. Otherwise blend into the polo shirts and khakis like everyone else.
Number two: Persistence. Skipping tour stops in one’s home state isn’t an option. Fangirls show up and show out.
Number three: Bring snacks. Food at a golf course is expensive and no one is cheerful after shelling out fourteen dollars for a hot dog.
To be fair, it hurt to drop five bucks on lunch these days, but Josephine Doyle wasn’t thinking about that now, because Wells Whitaker himself was making his way to the tee box of the ninth hole. And oh, he was in rare form today. Surly as a snake, unshaven, ignoring the outstretched hands of spectators hoping for a high five from the once-promising golfer. He raked a hand down his handsome face, shook out a tattooed forearm, and yanked the driver out of his bag with all the ceremony of a lint flick.
Utterly majestic.
Josephine popped in one of her AirPods and tapped on the tournament livestream, her ear flooded by the jocular tones of the commentators, Skip and Connie.
Skip: Well, it’s a beautiful day here in Palm Beach Gardens, Florida. Unless, of course, you’re Wells Whitaker. In which case the sunlight is probably irritating your hangover.
Connie: This year’s tour has presented quite a challenge to the golfer, who has already seen better days at twenty-nine. He swung into the tour on a wrecking ball five years ago, won three majors. Now? Most weeks, he’s lucky to make it past the opening round.
Skip: Today . . . well, let’s put it bluntly, there isn’t a chance on God’s green earth Wells makes it through to tomorrow. And frankly, Connie, I don’t think he cares.
Connie: Not if his nocturnal activities are any indication, Skip. Take to the internet for proof that golf is the furthest thing from Whitaker’s mind. A mere six hours ago, he was questioned by police after a bar brawl in Miami—
Josephine plucked out her AirPod and shoved it into the pocket of her official Wells Whitaker brand pants. It wasn’t so long ago that Skip and Connie worshipped Wells. In the fangirl business, they were called Fair Weather Fans. They showed up for a player only on his best day. When the window into success wasn’t even a smidgen grimy.
That’s fine. Josephine would more than compensate for those Judases.
And today?
Today she would finally get the chance to tell Wells she hadn’t counted him out. Down? Sure. But never out. She’d look right into those bloodshot eyes and remind him that his greatness wasn’t something that could go away. It had simply gotten hidden beneath self-doubt, alcohol, and a frown that could scare the feathers off a duck.
Josephine still couldn’t believe she’d won the contest.
Even if she had entered it sixty-one times.
Lunch and Lessons with Wells Whitaker. One lucky fan would share a meal with the once-great and soon-to-be-great-again Wells, followed by a putting lesson. Technically, Josephine didn’t need the lesson, as she’d grown up on a golf course, worked in a pro shop, and spent her days teaching proper techniques to customers.
Golf was her life. She was more stoked for her chance to shake some sense into the defeated athlete. No one else seemed inclined to take on the task. Especially his caddie, who appeared to be watching Vanderpump Rules on his phone.
Really, the sparse crowd that had followed Wells to this hole seemed inclined to knock off early or find a more popular player to watch, a couple of them breaking from the pack and wandering toward the clubhouse before Wells even took his shot. A bunch of Fair Weathers if Josephine had ever seen them.
Unfortunately, Wells looked like he was considering dropping out of the tournament altogether, too. On one hand, that would mean Josephine would get lunch sooner. Her waning blood sugar could use the boost.
On the other, she’d rather see him finish the day on a high note.
Time to make an impact.
Josephine reached down deep for her fangirl wail and set it loose, startling many a khaki-pants-wearing man in the process. “Let’s go, Wells. Put it in the hole!”
The golfer gave her a stone-faced look over his generously muscled shoulder, affording her a view of his light brown eyes and square jaw. “Oh, look. It’s you. Again.”
Josephine gave him a winning smile and held up her sign, which read wells’s belle. “You’re welcome.”