Page 57

The sight in front of me stops me in my tracks. The bedroom is trashed. There’s a broken lamp in the corner of the room, clothes strewn all over the floor, an open suitcase in the middle of the floor. There’s a broken golf club—a driver—by the foot of the bed. And on the floor, in the middle of it all, is a crying Ezra.

My hands shake as I set both smoothies on top of the dresser to my right. Slowly, I step over the piles of debris and crouch in front of Ezra. His head hangs between his legs, arms covering his face, but the shake of his shoulders and the sniffles tell me he’s clearly not okay.

“Hey,” I say, reaching out a tentative hand and placing it on his shoulder.

He startles, head whipping up in my direction. His bright blue eyes are bloodshot and damp. He exhales shakily and his face crumples.

I pull him into a hug, and he cries on my shoulder. “What happened?”

He shakes his head, refusing to tell me for now. I give him the time he needs and eventually he pulls back, wiping the tears from his eyes. “I didn’t qualify for the U.S. Open.”

I frown and pull back, sitting next to him. “What do you mean? You’re exempt, like me, you didn’t have to play through any qualifiers.”

Ezra shakes his head and cracks his knuckles. “My exemption relied on being ranked in the top sixty. I’m now sixty-five.”

“How?” I ask, baffled.

“I played like shit in Augusta, for one,” he sniffs, digging his palm into his eye socket. “Even this week, my handicap has been shit. I’ve lost it, man.”

“There’s still time, we have a few more weeks, maybe you can still qualify,” I trail off. Even as I say it, I know there’s no way he can improve that much in such a short amount of time.

“I appreciate your help, but I’d need a miracle to make that happen.”

“Okay, so you won’t play the U.S. Open. It’s not the end of the world, you’ll make the next one. What did your team say?”

He scoffs, shaking his head in defeat. “My swing coach and short game coach both quit on the spot. Even they think I’m useless.”

“Don’t say that. You’re not useless. It’s just a rough patch and you’ll bounce back. We all go through it, you know it’s as much a mental game as it is physical.”

“Easy for you to say, you’ve never failed,” he bites out. His eyes are cold as they meet mine, but they quickly drop and his face crumples in sadness. “Sorry, I’m being a dick.”

“You are. But I forgive you,” I say, placing my hand on the back of his neck. “Have you been talking to anyone?”

“Like a shrink?”

“A therapist of some kind, yes. Maybe one that works with athletes?”

“No,” he says. “I’ll consider it.”

“I’m sure Dolores would be open to it if you want me to refer you.”

He sniffs again and straightens. “Yeah. That might be good.”

“Do you want a smoothie?” I ask, nodding my head at the glasses sweating on the dresser.

He wrinkles his nose in response. “I’m good.”

“Do you still want to practice today?” I ask, standing up and offering him a hand.

Ezra takes it and looks at me with a sad smile. “I think I need a break from golf. Until I figure out what’s wrong with me.”

“There’s nothing wrong with you, but I think a break is a good idea. You could be burnt out.”

He nods and looks sheepishly around the room. “Sorry I trashed your room. I’ll clean up and pack.”

“Don’t leave, man.”

“I’ve crashed here long enough. And you need to focus on the game,” he says with a wobbly smile, poking me in the chest. “You need to win for the both of us now.”