Until November

Chapter 2

Ben

Steady. Steady. Tap her gently. Deep breath. Exhale slowly. My hands align perfectly, the motion automatic. I made the birdie on the last hole and now I need to do it again. The end of my putter comes into contact with the ball. And... "Yes." I fist pump the air, my voice roaring loud. The ball rolls and drops into the 18th hole with applause breaking out from the fans. Cell phones are out, photos and videos are posting and reposting. Hell yes. A glance at the leaderboard, it's a blur of red scores, all under Par. All of my competitors who are keeping the game too close for my liking.

I'm a mental golf player. I try not to focus on what I need to do next but sweat creeps down my neck and my hands grip the club. The hole is all I see. It's all I ever see when it's me and the distance between the hole. Adjust the hips. Deep breath and make the stroke. Exhale and watch. Roll, baby, roll. All. The. Way. Clench my fist by my side. Another pump swipe in the air.

My scorecard is in the hands of another player in my group and his in mine. We'll confirm it all at the end when scores are officially checked, but if I'm correct, I have just won the Augusta National. First stop is to my caddy, Liam with a hearty handshake and shit-eating grin. Golf has winners and there's everyone else.

"Congratulations." He slaps me on the back and takes my putter, his grin as big as mine. It's been a grueling four days of competition with over 100 players. And here I am. Going to snag yet another title on the PGA tour. One more win to my long list of titles, but this win I was hungry for. It's never enough to win. It's everything to be the best golfer and I'm not No. 1 in this sport yet.

My longtime coach Marty is stalking across the fairway, chewing gum like he's going to break his jaw. Eyes, downcast.

The other competitors and I will congratulate each other over drinks later. Then, finally, I'll go back to California and take a few days off until the next tournament. Someone, a patron in the crowd, shouts my name. "No autographs right now," I tell Liam, my voice low, ignoring my name shouted by the media and fans. First stop will be the tent to make sure scores are accurate and rankings are assigned.

"Understood." Liam takes my golf bag. We walk towards the row of golf carts and hop in, ignoring the applause. My publicist, Eli Shay is filling my phone with congratulation texts and my postgame interview schedule and press conferences. That's about all the press I'm willing to tolerate.

Liam drives the golf cart fast as it will go, and I breathe relief when I'm away from it all. The media's obsession with my love life is disgusting. I don't give a shit what they think or what they write and I won't go out of my way to hand out favors. Right now? It's about me and the competitors, incredible athletes in their own right. All of us coming off the high of another game.

"Here we are." Liam slows the cart down and we get out at the same time Marty hops out of the golf cart he's followed us over in.

He's by my side at once. His stern eyes and gum-chewing is harder than ever. "Ben. I need to talk to you." He gives Liam a look that says get the hell out of here. Time is running out. In minutes this place will be swarming with fans and press. Marty doesn't seem concerned.

"I'll see you inside." Liam takes my golf bag and moves away.

"Something's happened," Marty says gruffly, checking to make sure we're alone.

"What's going on?"

He takes out his phone. He says nothing, though he's making a call and speaking quietly. "I have him here." Marty hands me his phone. "His name is Rich Robertson."

That name.

Rich Robertson, my parents' lawyer. He had handled their affairs after my father died from cancer and my mother soon after of a broken heart. It's been years, over a decade. My knee-jerk reaction is that he wants an autograph for his grandchildren, assuming he has them by now, but Marty's clammed up, he doesn't look me in the eye, and he's holding his breath.