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“Nah, I give him plenty of reasons of my own.” She wraps me in another hug. “Things will get better, I know it.”

“Manifesting again?”

“Manifestation and Etsy witches.” She grins and shoos me away.

Back to work I go.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Levi

Brody. What a douchebag.

I try to keep a straight face as I leave the pro shop. The door slams behind me a little harder than intended and I wince.

Of course she has a boyfriend. Why wouldn’t she? She’s young, attractive, and talented. “Jesus,” I mutter under my breath, walking to my car. Why the hell am I bothered by this? It’s not like I was there to ask her out on a date. I was going to ask her to join the pro-am.

Shit. I sigh and rest my forehead against the side of the car. I didn’t even get to ask her, I was too distracted by reining in my anger. Not only was that guy disrespecting golf, but he was disrespecting her. For some reason, that made me angrier than anything else.

My phone rings and I groan when I see my agent’s name pop up. Again. “Yes?” I ask in greeting.

“Did you know that talking to you is the best part of my day?” Mike teases.

I roll my eyes and get in my car, letting my head fall back against the headrest. “Is that so?”

“You humble me so much, Levi. Truly.”

I snort a laugh. I can picture his grin as he says, “Any updates on the pro-am?”

“It’s been less than twenty-four hours,” I grumble.

“I know, I know. It’s just that the clock is ticking and I’m worried they might change their minds. I’m honestly shocked they even agreed to make this exception.”

“Didn’t I pay millions for this exception?” I point out. The money will be going to charity, but still. Millions are millions.

“Yes, but if word got out, others would want to do it too and—well, let’s not get into it. You’ve got six days.”

“I’m working on it.” I blow out a breath and hang up. I need to go back and talk to Hazel. Preferably when her boyfriend is not there. The smug indifference on his face made me want to punch him, and that is a sign I need to stay away until I’m sure he won’t be there anymore, considering some of my past actions.

Shit. Maybe I need to call my therapist.

I stretch my shoulders and neck and decide to do it now, before I change my mind. I call Dolores and start driving so I can clear my head.

“Levi,” my therapist answers, voice laced with warmth.

“Hey, doc. Do you have time for a chat?”

“Lucky you, I’m in between appointments. I haven’t heard from you in a while. What’s on your mind?”

Two years ago, the thought of going to therapy made my blood boil. I had gone through three other therapists, none of whom helped, and I was ready to give up until I found myself on a couch in front of Dolores. She had seen right through my bullshit and my unwillingness to open up. Instead of prodding me with questions, she was patient. She asked me about golf, about my passions, we talked about other sports we both followed. And slowly, the conversation moved from sports to my own past and my relationships—with Sabrina, with my dad, with my uncle.

“I’ve been good, for the most part. It’s just, lately—” I swallow hard, thinking about the recent news and the video re-surfacing. This happens every time. I’ll hear something about Sabrina or she’ll bring up the divorce and the incident in the media, and I’m right back in this dark hole. I feel like it’s sucking the life out of me.

Dolores is patient on the other end, but when all she hears is the sound of traffic as I drive, she gently says, “Did something happen beyond what’s been in the news?”

I swear under my breath. “So you’ve seen it too?”

“I make it a point to keep tabs on my favorite patients,” she jokes.