Fangirl Down (Big Shots, #1)

Briefly, his gaze flickered down to the water. “Yes, I remember.”

“Then I don’t think it should come as a surprise that I’m kicking you out.” How symbolic that her attention should be drawn to a framed poster of Wells on the other side of the shop. His image was water damaged to the point of distortion. “I’m not your fan anymore.”





Chapter Five




Wells stared down at the green-eyed girl who was—very inconveniently—even prettier than he remembered, a corkscrew winding into his chest cavity. He kept his jaw tight, gaze unconcerned, but let’s face it, he was starting to get pretty damn concerned.

Unusual for him. To say the least.

Wells Whitaker didn’t need anybody. After his parents got jobs on a cruise ship and started sailing nine months out of the year, he’d been raised by his NASCAR promoter uncle, who didn’t take much of an interest in his nephew beyond allowing him to sleep on the pullout couch in his one-bedroom apartment in Daytona Beach. Wells had engaged in a lot more than the typical childhood mischief growing up, shoplifting and fighting his way to two school expulsions, and his behavior only escalated when his parents decided he wasn’t worth the constant aggravation.

After getting caught with a stolen bike he’d intended to pawn in order to buy a new pair of sneakers, he’d ended up in juvenile court and the judge had given him one more chance to turn his act around. Since he was sixteen, that included getting a job. Looking back, that judge could have come down a lot harder on Wells, and he appreciated what the man had been trying to do. Getting that job shagging balls at the local course had led to his career, his mentor-apprentice relationship with Buck Lee, and eventually his spot on the PGA tour.

And he’d let himself begin to need that friendship. That bond.

He’d allowed himself to need the roar of the crowd after sinking a putt.

But their attention had been quickly diverted to the newest hotshots on the tour.

At the end of the day, though, Wells was pissed only at himself. For believing that people were capable of anything unconditional. There were always contracts or understandings that allowed your colleagues and “friends” to wiggle out, if you turned up lacking one day. He’d fallen victim to the classic has-been plight and that, more than anything, pissed him off.

This fierce girl, who’d gone from holding back tears to looking like she wanted to grind a golf cleat into his guts, couldn’t be any different than anyone else. She’d dropped him, too.

Something inside Wells refused to let him put her into the same category as the ones who’d come and gone, though. Josephine was in a class by herself and goddammit, she wouldn’t seem to budge from it. Not an inch.

I’m not your fan anymore.

“Yes, you are. You’re just having a bad day.”

She started to blink very rapidly. He shuddered to think what she might have said to him if a series of beeps hadn’t filled the room in that moment. She sighed, reached into her pocket, and pulled out a small plastic tube, emptying two quarter-size tablets into her mouth.

“What’s beeping? What are those?”

Absently, she lifted her arm until her elbow was pointing up at the ceiling. For the first time since he’d “known” Josephine, he noticed a small, gray, oval-shaped button on the back of her arm. “The beeps are letting me know my blood sugar is low.” She dropped her arm. “I’m a diabetic. Type one.”

“Oh.” He should have known that. Why didn’t he know that? Wells searched his mind for any knowledge whatsoever that might be lurking about diabetes and came up empty. They weren’t supposed to eat anything with sugar, right? “Are those things . . . all you need right now?” he asked, tipping his head toward the tube as she stowed it back into her pocket.

“Yes. Right now.” Under her breath, she added, “Better to have low blood sugar than high.”

“Why is that?”

She pushed a hand through her hair, turning away from him slightly to survey a damaged display rack. “High blood sugar requires me to give myself insulin to come down and I need to spread my supply out.” A slight flush appeared on her cheeks. “My health insurance isn’t up to date at the moment.”

“Oh.”

The knowledge that this person was so much more than his most loyal fan came crashing down on Wells’s head like a ton of bricks. Josephine had problems to contend with. Serious ones. Her family’s shop was underwater and she had to worry about blood sugar going up and down. And he’d ripped her fucking sign in half? What kind of a monster am I?

Wells cleared his throat hard. “Health insurance seems like it might be pretty vital when you’re a diabetic.”

“Trust me, it is. But . . .” Her throat worked. She paused, coughed, and kept her voice even. Brave? Or was she just trying to avoid getting emotional in front of him because he’d demanded it? Both? “Everything just snowballed so fast, you know. Ironic in Florida.” Why did that joke make him want to splash through the water and . . . hug her? Jesus, he was not a hugger. He wasn’t even a shoulder patter. “I fell behind on rent payments for the shop. At first, it came down to paying for rent or the commercial insurance . . . like, flood insurance? I paid the rent.”

A weight sank in his stomach. The shop wasn’t covered.

“Shit, Josephine.”

“Mega shit.” She closed her eyes, shook her head a little. “Last year, I put my health insurance on pause so the payments wouldn’t be a burden on the shop. Started taking on more golf lessons, so I could just buy my medical supplies out of pocket. But like I said, everything just seemed to snowball and . . .” She trailed off. Took a breath, lifted her chin, and pasted on a determined smile. “I’m going to figure it out, though. I always figure it out.”

He hadn’t deserved to have this girl in his corner for the last five years.

That fact was growing more obvious by the moment.

Someone should have been cheering for her, instead.

“I can give you the money,” Wells said, easing the worst of the pressure in his chest. Okay. Yes. He had the solution. She wouldn’t have to spread out her insulin or be forced to take any other measures to remain healthy. He might not be the number one golfer in the world anymore, but he had tens of millions banked from those earlier, successful days. Might as well give the cash to someone who needed it, before he spent it all on scotch. “I’ll write you a check. Enough to repair the shop and cover your health insurance for a year. Just until you’re back on your feet.”

She stared at him like he’d suggested they take a vacation on Mars. “Are you serious?”

“I don’t say things I don’t mean.”

Silence passed. “Neither do I. So believe me when I say, there isn’t a single chance I’m taking your money. I’m not a charity case. I can take care of myself. And my family.”

“What is this? A pride thing? You’re too stubborn to accept?”

“Are we really pointing out each other’s flaws, because I don’t think you have that kind of time on your hands.”

“I have nothing but time on my hands.”

“Fine! Then your backswing is timid.”

“My—” His neck locked up like a prison cell. “What did you say?”

“I said . . .” She stomped through the water and got right in his face—and damn. It had been a very long time since he’d wanted to take a woman to bed this badly. In fact, maybe he’d never wanted that outcome more in his life. At this exact point in time, it would have been the angry kind of sex that ended with nail marks down his back and her in a stupor, because yeah, she’d just taken a shot at his technique. And she wasn’t done. “You used to swing like you had nothing to lose. It was glorious to watch. Now, you handle the driver like you’re worried the ball might yell at you for hitting it too hard.” She stabbed him in the chest with her index finger. “You swing like you’re scared.”