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I sip my latte—it is good—and try to ignore the unease that’s been the dominant feeling in my stomach for weeks.
Annie picks up her phone, types away on it, then hits a button with a flourish. “There. I’m one of your bazillion followers.” She grins. “Tyler and I are having a party this weekend. You should come. It’s less exercise than barre class, but I can promise stellar beverages. Some of them a little harder than what’s in here.” She taps the wall of her mug.
My chest expands with hope. It feels like I haven’t found a rhythm since the championship. Since we moved here, really. The prospect of new friends is energizing.
“Thanks for the invitation. I’ll talk to Clay.”
“If he doesn’t want to come”—Annie flips her hair—“you should come anyway.”
* * *
CLAY
“I’m going to destroy you,” I inform the guy standing next to me.
“Impossible. You can’t beat that.”
I line up my shot, eyeing my target. Shift my weight. Pull back. And swing.
Crack.
The golf ball launches toward the horizon.
My three companions watch the arc of the ball. It lands in the center of the fairway.
“You need a backup job, this is it.” Tony, a software entrepreneur, claps a hand on my bicep.
We shift into our golf cart, me in the driver’s seat, the other two guys getting in theirs. Our caddies look after our bags as we take off toward the fairway.
We finish putting and talk about summer vacation. Everyone seems to have spent theirs in Greece or at their lake houses.
“What about you?” one of the others asks me.
“You kidding? He’s on every billboard in town,” Tony declares.
Since we won the championship, I’ve been booking more endorsement deals than ever.
Ironic seeing as how I didn’t contribute a single point in the postseason.
But people’s perception matters more than the truth.
“Can we get a pic?” Tony asks as we finish up our eighteen holes.
After I agree and get in the shot, he takes off his ball cap, turns the phone camera toward us, and clicks.
“I’ll text it to you,” he promises.
My phone buzzes for the tenth time.
“You need to get that?” Tony prompts.
“Nah.”
Except when I glance at the phone, it’s Nova.
Nova: Dee texted me about your contract.
Fuck. Dee’s persistent like that.
