The crowd let out an explosion of shock and disappointment.
A rush of fire blew over his nerve endings.
Holy shit.
That shot should have been a gimme.
But the guy had missed. Which brought them even at fifteen under par.
In other words, if Wells sank the next putt, he would win the fucking Masters.
And he couldn’t even see the shot. His brain wasn’t working. Lack of sleep, lack of her, too much of everything else.
Josephine, where are you?
Jesus.
He could recall her asking him, “If you could visualize the shot, what would it look like?” He strode to the quarter he’d left to hold his place, setting his ball in the same spot and pocketing the change. He turned his hat around, hunkering down and exhaling.
The crowd wasn’t breathing.
The air had stopped moving. Not a hint of wind to dry the sweat beading on his forehead. His temples throbbed, along with the insides of his wrists.
It wasn’t just a ball in front of him.
It wasn’t just a hole.
Or some sport.
It was the only good thing he’d had in his life at one time. And he wanted to give this shot everything he had, didn’t he? He had the right to want this win.
He’d gotten here because of love and that’s how he’d finish it.
Wells mentally calculated the yardage, the angle, took stock of the wind and the grass and his breathing. He took the putter from his caddie and lined up the shot.
And he took it for Josephine, but also for the directionless kid he’d been at sixteen, the guy who’d lost his will to win at twenty-six but found his way back at twenty-nine.
And hell if the ball didn’t curve high and right, then roll into the hole.
Wells dropped his club as the crowd erupted, his new caddie slapping him on the back, reporters rushing at him from every direction, the crowd surging toward the green as security attempted to keep them back, all under a totally airless blue sky. It was like something out of a dream, but it couldn’t be, because Josephine wasn’t there and he wouldn’t waste a dream like that. She’d be—
There. She was standing behind the rope.
Wells free-fell right where he stood. The ground felt like it was rushing up to meet him, his heart thundering in his ears, but the image of Josephine didn’t disappear no matter how many times he blinked or told himself it was a mirage. She was right there, smiling through tears.
Holding her wells’s belle sign.
The original.
She’d taped it together.
It fluttered to the ground when several fans boosted her up and over the rope, clearly recognizing her as his reason for living. His surroundings became a blur, because Wells was jogging. And then he was running. But he didn’t make it far before he was brought down to his knees, right in front of her, by gratitude and love so full and vast and all-encompassing that it rocked him to a core he didn’t even know he had.
One Josephine—and only Josephine—had reached.
Ten years from now, people would claim he cried like a baby as he wrapped his arms around Josephine’s waist and buried his face in her stomach. And he would deny it.
But he did. He cried like a motherfucker.
“You won,” she half sobbed, half laughed. “You won, you won.”
“You’re here,” he rasped, inhaling her scent, his hands roaming over her back to make sure she was real. “You’re here.”
“I’m so proud of you,” she whispered, her voice shaking with emotion. “Wells. Oh my God.”
He buried his face deeper in her stomach for a moment, those words—her pride—making it necessary to gather himself.
“You were right. You did the right thing. I never could have done it myself.” Her breath stuttered in and out. He held her tighter, trying to drown out the noise so he could hear. “I’m sorry I didn’t see your act of selflessness for what it was. You love me, that’s why you did it. Even though it was hard. And I’m just as proud of you for that, Wells, as I am of you winning today.”
Every syllable out of her mouth was an embarrassment of riches. He’d woken up this morning wondering if she’d ever speak to him again. Now she was validating the hardest decision of his life. Not merely forgiving him, but apologizing? Gratitude and relief poured down over his head like a healing rain, even as the need to reassure her overwhelmed him.
“You have no reason to be sorry. No. None. I hurt you.” He reached up and cradled her beautiful face in his hands, swiping away her tears with his thumbs. “You’re forgiving me for that?”