“It’s good to rub elbows with the tour members, son,” he warns, instantly annoying me. Still, if I go home, all I’ll do is jerk off to the memory of CC and God knows I’ve been doing that enough since she’s been gone. I haven’t had her in two fucking weeks. I’ve never missed a woman before CC. I absolutely ache for her. Memories of her laugh and smile haunt me. Thoughts of being inside of her keeps me from sleeping. Hell, I think part of the reason I’ve been doing so good on the course is that I’ve been working on pure frustration.
I’ve been talking to CC every night and the only thing that manages to make me feel even a little bit better is the fact that she seems to be missing me, too. So much so, she’s talking about coming to Georgia to the big tournament to, in her words, mop the floor with those other ball whackers.
I love that woman. Just thinking about our conversations makes me smile. Now, if I just knew the right way to tell her I love her and need her in my life. When I told her I was keeping her, she didn’t react exactly how I wanted her to. I figure if I even try to bring up the word “love”, she’ll run hard and fast.
It’s crazy, actually. Before CC, women were lining up for me. If they thought they could hook me anywhere close to the way CC has me right now, they would have been jumping for joy. CC would be running for the hills. I don’t doubt that at all.
“I can stay for a couple hands. Just a couple, though. I have a phone conference with CC later tonight.”
“A man in your place who’s on the verge of hitting his hard earned dreams? You shouldn’t be tying yourself down to a woman who won’t be able to further your career or appreciate your achievements.”
“CC is all I need,” I correct him, and turn the subject back to safer ground. I’m not discussing CC with Riverton. I hope I’m not making a mistake.
As the night goes on, that’s one line that keeps repeating—I hope I’m not making a mistake—and when I leave late that night and Cammie shows up to pick her father up and comes running up to hug me, it just repeats louder.
The only saving grace is that I took Riverton’s money in cards, but as I endure Cammie’s hug goodbye, I don’t think even that makes it worth it.
“I can’t believe this is what we’ve been reduced to,” Jackson growls, but he plops down on the half-broken sofa in the break room, pops open a beer, and stares at the TV screen, despite his complaining.
“No one is twisting your arm to make you watch golf.” I shrug, taking a bite out of the pizza. The gooey cheese and garlic spiced crust burst on my mouth and I can’t stop from moaning. I’m starved. We’ve worked straight through all day so we could close early for one reason and one reason only: to watch Gray on television. This is his second-to-last match before the big one, the one all the money is riding on. He doesn’t need to win to have a good standing, but he wants to, and I can understand it. He wants to beat everyone that crosses his path. When they say he’s the best in the sport, he wants there to be no question.
“Hey, if watching this shit makes you quit moping around here with that hound dog look on your face, I’m willing. You’re starting to scare off some of the regulars,” Jackson mumbles.
I push a bag of chips and a can of bean dip into his hand. I’m not the dishes-and-fancy-crab-dip kind of girl. Besides, it’s a fucking garage. Then, I plop down beside him with a can of my own French onion dip.
“Have they shown Gray yet?” I ask.
“Nah. For some weird reason, there seems to be other players out there. Strange, right?”
“Sarcasm can be an ugly thing, Jackson.”
“So can anxious, love-sick girls.”
I ignore the flutter in my chest as he mentions love and, instead, choose to stick my tongue out. Jackson just ignores me and takes a drink of his beer. My attention returns to the television. I’ve never been one to watch golf. It all seemed rather boring and all too quiet. Sports are supposed to be full of screaming fans, marching bands, fly balls, touchdowns, or even a dunk. Somehow, hitting a little white ball into a hole seemed stupid, or like something I do on vacation from time to time, but the hole is usually the mouth of a clown, or a windmill—anything to make it interesting, because otherwise I’d be bored as hell and, hence, not watching. But here, the attraction is not a clown, an elephant, windmill, or anything else. It’s all Gray. I think my breath lodges in my chest when the camera zooms in on him. He looks so good, though different. He’s wearing relaxed slacks, not his usual jeans. His t-shirt has been replaced with a polo shirt. He’s got a hat covering his beautiful hair. It’s not that he looks bad, but he doesn’t look like my Gray. Even when I was on the road with him, he didn’t seem this different. I shrug it off. It’s just been awhile since I’ve seen him. That’s all it is.