Wells remained steady throughout the morning, managing to maintain his position on the leaderboard. Fifteenth place. To Josephine, they might as well have been in first.
All he needed to do was make par on the eighteenth hole and Wells would bank thirty thousand dollars. Ten percent of that would go to Josephine. Three thousand dollars. On top of the Under Armour sponsorship money. It was more money than she’d ever had at one time. But at that very moment, the imminent hope of rebuilding the Golden Tee and restoring her health insurance came second to Wells getting his professional footing back. Every time he swung the club, he did it with a little more of his old finesse.
The crowd had doubled since the morning—and they were excited.
She could practically hear her parents freaking out on the couch at home.
That being said, Josephine was allowing herself to anticipate the changes she would make to the family shop. The shine of new hardwood flooring, the wall of reference books, the technology she would incorporate to modernize the space. How she would take it from a necessary stop for visitors to an experience that would keep them coming back.
She’d dream more later, though.
Right here and now, she was focused on Wells. Finishing the day off strong.
Calhoun was sulking over in the rough after an average round, waiting for Wells to take his putt. Meanwhile, Josephine stood on the green of the final hole. One putt. A single putt and they could go home winners, at least in her book.
But Wells was . . . frozen.
They’d conferred on yardage, angle, wind speed. And he’d just . . . stopped.
“What’s wrong?”
He rubbed the center of his forehead and blinked at the ball. “What happens if I miss this?”
“You can’t think like that.”
“What is the difference in the payout if I miss?” He closed his eyes. “God, I don’t want to fuck this up for us, belle.”
“You won’t.” She handed him the putter. “Visualize the shot.”
“That’s the thing—I can’t.”
“Okay. Let’s say you could visualize the shot. What would it look like?”
His head turned slowly. “Where in God’s name do you come up with this shit?”
She grinned. “It’s good, isn’t it?”
He made a grudging sound. “Better than good.”
Laughter went up from the crowd. She could hear the electric whir of the camera, the dropped voices of the commentators. How much was being overheard? She had no idea, but it didn’t matter right now. There was only her and Wells.
“What does it look like?” she prompted again.
She watched the life rekindle in his eyes, cogs turning in his head.
Then he got into position. Took a breath. And sank the putt.
You’d have thought they’d just won the Masters, based on the crowd’s reaction. The resulting roar was so loud, the ground shook beneath Josephine’s feet. Everyone moved at once, reporters rushing onto the green, security holding back fans, beer sloshing onto khaki.
Wells dropped his putter, walked straight past a reporter asking him a question, and scooped Josephine off the ground into a bear hug. She laughed freely into his neck, hot pressure building against the backs of her eyelids. So many emotions hit her at once. Joy. Relief. Pride—and not only in Wells, but in herself.
Maybe for the first time ever, the dream she’d been nursing for years took a more distinct shape. She could bring this firsthand experience of working with a professional golfer—no, the best professional golfer—and pour that familiarity into the Golden Tee. She could take what she’d learned and drag her family’s business into the twenty-first century . . . with the knowledge and confidence to back it up now.
A little fissure formed under her skin at the reminder that she’d eventually have to leave Wells and the tour, but . . . that had always been the plan, right?
She was thoroughly distracted from thoughts of the future, of leaving, when Wells pressed his mouth to her ear, bathing it in a hot exhale. “Josephine.”
“Yes?”
“Let’s get out of here.” His fist tightened in the back of her shirt, his chest beginning to heave. “Don’t make me go another minute without you.”
She looked around in a daze. “Every sports reporter in Texas wants to talk to you.”
“Fuck ’em.” He wrapped an arm around Josephine’s shoulders and used his body to shield her as they moved through the raucous crowd. “It’s just you and me.”
Chapter Twenty-Two