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“Mike, what’s wrong?” I ask in lieu of a greeting.
“Good morning to you too, sunshine,” he chuckles.
In the decade I’ve worked with Mike, I’ve learned that the man is always in a good mood. Always. It drives me crazy.
“Why do I have twelve missed calls from you?” I groan, stretching my neck to the side, trying to relieve some of the tension. I’ve been sleeping like shit lately.
“Ah, that. I’m sorry to wake you. There’s a bit of a situation,” he says, pausing. “It’s just—Sabrina and the sponsors. I’ve been fighting fires since last night.”
I sigh and close my eyes tight. Will this nightmare ever fucking end? “What are the sponsors saying? I’ve done nothing but keep my head in the sand the past two fucking years.” I’ve all but secluded myself from the outside world. Case in point, I can count on one hand the number of friends I have left.
“I think that might be the problem,” Mike says.
My stomach drops, as do my chances of continuing to go on with my life as I have been. It’s not that I like being this recluse, it’s just what I had to become to keep people from prying into my life and trying to stay out of the headlines.
“What do you mean?” I ask when the silence stretches too long.
“Well, you did the right thing by apologizing when you did and going through therapy and anger management. But hiding from the media makes you seem—” Mike blows out a long breath.
I grit my teeth and finish his sentence. “Makes me seem guilty still.”
“Right. We need some positive media. Is there anything you’d be willing to do? A charity ball, a mentorship, some photoshoots in public, a pro-am?” Mike starts listing all the activities he can think of.
My brain snags on one and I groan, banging my forehead against the bathroom door.
“What? What did I say?”
“The last one. There’s a pro-am coming up. My uncle has been pestering me to join.”
“Which one?”
“Palm Beach. It’s sponsored by—”
“Athlala. Your sponsor.”
“Right.”
Fuck. That damn video has taken a life of its own. Maybe Mike is right and I need to reclaim my image. Make some positive headlines. I just wish I could do it on my own terms.
“Listen, I think this pro-am is a great idea. I’ll make it happen.”
“I have one condition,” I say. When Mike doesn’t say anything, I push on. “I want to pick the amateur I’m bringing.”
“I don’t think that’s how it works—”
“I don’t care. I’ve seen you schmooze a room full of people, Mike. You’re great at your job. So make. It. Happen,” I say, punctuating each word. “There’s no limit on what I will spend to make this go my way.”
I may be a stubborn asshole, but I’m done being defined by what strangers on the internet think of me. It’s time to reclaim my image.
Rhodes schedules his flight out the same day Ezra lands. Now that everything has gone according to his plan and I’ve agreed to do the damn pro-am, he’s on the first plane out.
“Bastard. You really did just come here to check on me,” I say, slapping his back as I hug him.
“Just a little,” he says, grinning at me. “I also appreciated the company while I sulked about my team’s loss.”
“You’re welcome here anytime, you know that.”
“I know, kid. But you’re young and have your own life to figure out. You don’t need this old man in your way.” He chuckles.
