Around hole eight I get my answer. It’s been a few holes since we passed any cameras and the caddies work with enough big names to respect our distance.
“I want to apologize for this past weekend.” Viktor sports a ridiculous golf costume. The sort of thing you’d expect from someone who’d never actually played, but maybe watched one movie about golf set in the 1920s. He even has a fuzzy ball on his hat. It takes a special kind of man to pull off pastel pink and lime green. And yet here he is.
“Nothing to apologize for.” I hit the ball a little too hard, slicing to the left. It rolls into the rough. “Dammit.”
I’m much better than this at golf. I’m naturally good at most things but I learned early on that it’s not the best way to make friends and influence people. At least not on the first round. I make myself good enough to protect my fragile man ego but still give Viktor an inflated sense of pride. This sounds arrogant, I know. That’s why I keep it to myself.
“Ah, bad luck.” He tugs at his high collar. “But I was referring to getting drunk.”
“It happens,” I say casually.
Some extreme need to prove his masculinity, super uncomfortable being teased, and a drinking problem—the man is hiding something. But it isn’t my place to reveal his skeletons.
“Well, it’s good of you to say that but I was out of line.” He laughs. “You know how it gets.” With the club tucked in his elbow he mimics pressure building around his head.
“It gets to us all.” This is sincere.
“Really? You seem totally unaffected.”
“Trust me, it does.”
He studies me for a minute and then shakes his head, like remembering to stay on track.
“I think I might have acted like I wasn’t grateful. But I am. With my career, with my friends, all that. I was tired and drank too much.”
“Okay.” But I’m still not sure where this is coming from. “You didn’t do anything.”
“No? Okay good. Thought maybe I gave a negative impression of Marty and the guys. They’re all great. I don’t know what I said but I want you to know they’ve all done so much for me. I wouldn’t be where I am without them.”
“That’s awesome.”
“These guys, they could rule the world. Sometimes I think they do. Or at least LA.” He laughs, but it’s strained.
“Is there anywhere else?”
“You stick with these guys and you’re set for life,” he says. He shifts to look up at me through blond hair like he’s saying something else with his eyes. But I can’t read minds. Far as I know. “Your family too,” he adds. “Anybody you care about. They’ll be taken care of.”
My insides go cold. What does he know? What does that imply? I want to shake the answers out of him but that’s not how this works. Subtlety is required. We walk again, and he lines up another shot. I wait until he’s done with his turn.
“I feel you, man,” I say.
“There’s not a lot of us up here to see how crowded it is.” He’s not focused at me anymore. He’s looking toward the final hole, toward the club house’s massive expanse. “There isn’t a lot of room. When you’re here you have to fight to stay relevant.”
I swallow. My heart thumps because I know exactly what he’s talking about. Sometimes being this high on the celebrity echelon feels like standing on a plateau, and every hot new actor that pushes his way into the crowd sends somebody else over the edge, back into the abyss of obscurity. Or worse, reality TV. Every day in this town I dig my heels into the earth and fight for my spot. Every day I fight for this life, for my family. All good things will come to an end eventually, but I’ll stay up here as long as I can to protect those I love.
Maybe I didn’t keep emotion off my face this time, because he laughs. It feels a little too strained.
“They’re great guys.” He holds my gaze. “I wouldn’t want to be any other place.”
“I get it, man. Me neither.” I smile big. Maybe he thinks I’m trying to usurp him as The Actor in the crew, or maybe he thinks I’ll spread rumors. Likely, he fights to stay where he is every day, too. “I’m not one to get into anybody else’s shit. I like my privacy. I live that way for others too.”
“Cool. Cool.” He waves down the beer girl who’s driving past. “Wanna beer, my man?”
“No thanks.” I go with his obvious change of subject.
And just like that we’re back in the game.
* * *
