Page 4

I scowl as he mentions the pro-am, and put all thoughts of the brown-haired, brown-eyed, curvy cart girl away. You have no business checking her out anyway.

“Rhodes,” I say, letting out a long-suffering sigh. I fidget with the aviator sunglasses on top of my head before catching myself. I pinch the bridge of my nose instead, feeling a headache coming on.

My uncle is many things—a savvy businessman, a decent golfer, and the general manager of one of the best hockey teams in the country—but he’s terrible at taking a hint.

“Don’t give me any of those well-crafted excuses, Levi. Your divorce sucked, I get that. Even though I’ve never been married, you know I’ve had my fair share of complicated relationships,” he says, taking a sip of his beer.

I swallow down the retort that comes to mind. He’s one of the few people who’s still in my corner, I shouldn’t be a dick to him. But why does he always need to nag me about moving on and being more sociable? I like my life the way it is.

“It’s just that I’ve seen you dig yourself into a hole the last two years. You used to have friends. Used to go out, you used to be involved in the community,” he continues as we both walk to the golf cart. He puts his 3-wood away and places his beer in a holder, taking the driver’s seat.

“I’m fine,” I grunt.

“Are you really?”

My eyes roll back and I slump into the empty seat next to him. The last two years haven’t exactly been gentle on me. After I found out my wife had not only cheated on me, but also taken her boy toy on vacation on my dime, I sort of, kind of…lost my shit?

It doesn’t take much to rile me up. I’ve always been a bit of a hothead. But finding her in bed with another man broke the last of my restraint. I wince just thinking about that night.

I regret punching the guy, even if he was knowingly with a married woman, and I’ve been working on my anger and resentment in therapy. That night and my reaction is the reason all my friends cut ties with me. Not because they thought I was in the wrong. In fact, many of them would have done the same thing. The problem was that Sabrina was filming the whole thing and ended up posting it on the Internet in retaliation after I filed for divorce.

Just like that, I woke up to messages from so-called friends telling me they needed to “put some distance” between us. Then there were the emails from sponsors, dropping me.

So when Rhodes asks me if I’m really fine, I almost tell him the truth.

Instead, I say, “I’m good. I’ve worked hard to bring my image up the last two years.” I huff out a sigh. “The pro-am would just invite a bunch of strangers and media into my life again. And that, I won’t do.”

Rhodes watches me from the corner of his eye and parks the golf cart a few feet away from the green. “I just worry about you, kid. Your dad⁠—”

“Let’s not go there. I’d hate to ruin this beautiful round of golf with mentions of the man who wants nothing to do with me,” I scoff and grab my putter, taking big steps away from the cart.

My uncle takes the hint, at last. He doesn’t bring up my dad, Sabrina, or the pro-am again, which I’m grateful for. But at the end of the round, I’m left with an ache in my chest.

Because what if he’s right?

What if I’ve become an unapproachable hermit of a man?

Is there anyone besides Rhodes who cares about me?

The dark thoughts sour my mood, and I play like shit the rest of the day. But at least I’m playing.

At least I have golf. They’d have to pry these clubs from my cold, dead hands for me to ever give it up.

I leave Rhodes in the guest house. The perk of him being in his late forties and single is that he can take his personal jet and visit me anytime he likes. Especially now that it’s the hockey off-season and his team didn’t make the playoffs.

In the days after finding Sabrina cheating on me and serving her the divorce papers, I packed an overnight bag and showed up at Rhodes’s place in Detroit. He took one look at me, clapped me on the shoulder, and let me crash at his bachelor pad.

Now that I’ve bought a new house and moved from Georgia to Connecticut, he tries to visit me every month. It’s become our own little ritual, something to look forward to.

My mother died when I was in college, and my relationship with my dad soured shortly after. Rhodes is the only family I have left.

I’m in my head, thinking about the past as I walk up the marble steps of the mansion and make my way to my bedroom’s ensuite for a shower. I make quick work of stripping my clothes off and turning the water to the hottest setting. I let it scald me until I can no longer stand it, washing the memories of the past away with each drop.

Maybe I do need to make some changes in my life. Start dating. But just the thought of it makes me break out in hives. I could call up the few friends I have left and let them take me on a camping trip, which is one of their favorite pastimes. That might work.

When I get out of the shower, I hold the towel around my waist with one hand and fish in the pocket of my discarded pants, looking for my phone. My elderly cat, Petunia, opens one eye to peek at me from her spot on the bed. I swear she’s judging me, with her wise green gaze. Her younger brother, Gus, is nowhere to be found, as usual.

I’ve never been much of a cat person, but when my therapist suggested I find an emotional support animal, Petunia was the only one I bonded with. Even though she’s twelve years old and too chunky for her petite frame, the little tabby has become my companion over the last year and a half. I take her most places and she’s very well behaved, even on a leash, although she prefers being carried around like a princess in her backpack, seeing the view from her clear dome.