“As a matter of fact, I am,” Ricky replied, grinning. “If we don’t have a good round, at least we know there’s a good round of drinks afterward.”
“Amen to that.”
All eyes were on them, the two newcomers, as they headed to the exit.
“Good luck with Whitaker,” someone called behind her. It was a veteran caddie she recognized well. He carried the bag for Calhoun and got a lot of screen time while his pro cleaned up at every tournament. “His last three caddies hated his guts.”
“She’s going to need more than luck,” said someone else. “She needs a miracle.”
“Legend has it, Whitaker’s game is still at the bottom of the lake at Sawgrass.”
Snorts and chuckles filled the room.
“That’s enough,” one of the older caddies snapped at the men, before winking at her. “You’re going to do just fine out there.”
Josephine gave him a grateful look. “I will, thanks.” She hesitated before walking out the door behind Ricky. Now would be a good time to show them they could push her around if they wanted, but she could give it back just as easily. “By the way,” she called to the caddie who’d made the crack about Wells’s leaving his game at the bottom of a lake. “I’m sure it’s not your fault your golfer always ends up in the sand trap. But maybe if you like the beach so much, you should book a vacation, instead.”
A roar of laughter carried Josephine out of the bag room.
Ricky fist-bumped her.
And that was the last good thing that happened that day.
*
Golf tournaments lasted four grueling days.
On the afternoon of day one, shit did not look good.
As a once-certified Wells Whitaker fangirl, she’d already been aware of his difficult attitude. But he must have shoveled cranky pills into his mouth by the fistful, because as soon as she handed him the driver at the first hole, he became a stone-faced gargoyle. Everything she suggested was greeted with a grunt or some sort of disagreement. He did so much cursing, not one, but two, officials had to roll up on their golf carts to warn him, and he’d broken his five iron by bashing it into a tree.
As soon as they finished, Wells stormed off the green to deliver his daily scorecard to the officials.
“Damn,” Ricky said, coming up beside her. “And I thought we had a bad round.”
Simultaneously, they looked over at Ricky’s golfer, Manny Tagaloa. He was standing just off the green, utterly still, with a towel draped over his head.
“At least you finished even,” Josephine muttered, throwing her bag up onto her shoulder. “We’re going into tomorrow three over par.”
“Drinks after we clean up?”
“The stiffer the better.”
An hour and a half later, Josephine slumped onto her stool beside Ricky at the hotel’s lobby bar. They were lucky to find seats, with sunburned and half-drunk golf spectators taking up every inch of real estate. When the bartender finally found a moment to take their orders, Ricky asked for a pint of lager and a lemon drop martini for Josephine. Normally, she would avoid something so sweet, but her blood sugar was flagging after walking all day and she desperately needed the boost.
“How did you get hooked up with Tagaloa?” she asked, after sighing into her first sip.
“He’s a friend of my brother’s from college, actually,” Ricky answered. “We met at a bachelor party. Vegas. We were paired up for a round and something clicked. He got his tour card a week later. Right place, right time, I guess.”
“Love that for you.”
“Me too.” The other caddie laughed quietly to himself. “What about you and Whitaker? How did that happen?”
“Well.” She drew out the word. “I used to be a fan. Like, that’s an understatement. I was a sideline warrior. Wore his merch to tournaments and cheered him on.”
Ricky’s eyes widened during her explanation. “Back when he was winning?”
“No, as recently as a month ago.”
“Wow.” He took a pull of his beer. “That’s . . . admirable.”
“Thanks. That’s how we met, anyway. Then he quit.” She peered down into the yellowish-white depths of her drink. “When the hurricane hit Palm Beach, he happened to be in the neighborhood and came to check on me. It kind of just . . . went from there.”
Ricky blinked a couple of times. “He happened to be in the neighborhood?”
“That’s right.”
Another pause. “Doesn’t he live in Miami?”