Fangirl down, p.1
Fangirl Down, page 1
Dedication
For Mac
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Announcement
About the Author
Also by Tessa Bailey
Copyright
About the Publisher
Chapter One
I am the number one Wells Whitaker fangirl.
Sure, golf’s resident bad boy has seen better days, but that’s the thing about being a fangirl.
Be in it for life or keep walking, pal.
There are three qualities one must possess to make an impact as a fangirl.
Number one: Enthusiasm. Let them know you’re there, baby. Otherwise blend into the polo shirts and khakis like everyone else.
Number two: Persistence. Skipping tour stops in one’s home state isn’t an option. Fangirls show up and show out.
Number three: Bring snacks. Food at a golf course is expensive and no one is cheerful after shelling out fourteen dollars for a hot dog.
To be fair, it hurt to drop five bucks on lunch these days, but Josephine Doyle wasn’t thinking about that now, because Wells Whitaker himself was making his way to the tee box of the ninth hole. And oh, he was in rare form today. Surly as a snake, unshaven, ignoring the outstretched hands of spectators hoping for a high five from the once-promising golfer. He raked a hand down his handsome face, shook out a tattooed forearm, and yanked the driver out of his bag with all the ceremony of a lint flick.
Utterly majestic.
Josephine popped in one of her AirPods and tapped on the tournament livestream, her ear flooded by the jocular tones of the commentators, Skip and Connie.
Skip: Well, it’s a beautiful day here in Palm Beach Gardens, Florida. Unless, of course, you’re Wells Whitaker. In which case the sunlight is probably irritating your hangover.
Connie: This year’s tour has presented quite a challenge to the golfer, who has already seen better days at twenty-nine. He swung into the tour on a wrecking ball five years ago, won three majors. Now? Most weeks, he’s lucky to make it past the opening round.
Skip: Today . . . well, let’s put it bluntly, there isn’t a chance on God’s green earth Wells makes it through to tomorrow. And frankly, Connie, I don’t think he cares.
Connie: Not if his nocturnal activities are any indication, Skip. Take to the internet for proof that golf is the furthest thing from Whitaker’s mind. A mere six hours ago, he was questioned by police after a bar brawl in Miami—
Josephine plucked out her AirPod and shoved it into the pocket of her official Wells Whitaker brand pants. It wasn’t so long ago that Skip and Connie worshipped Wells. In the fangirl business, they were called Fair Weather Fans. They showed up for a player only on his best day. When the window into success wasn’t even a smidgen grimy.
That’s fine. Josephine would more than compensate for those Judases.
And today?
Today she would finally get the chance to tell Wells she hadn’t counted him out. Down? Sure. But never out. She’d look right into those bloodshot eyes and remind him that his greatness wasn’t something that could go away. It had simply gotten hidden beneath self-doubt, alcohol, and a frown that could scare the feathers off a duck.
Josephine still couldn’t believe she’d won the contest.
Even if she had entered it sixty-one times.
Lunch and Lessons with Wells Whitaker. One lucky fan would share a meal with the once-great and soon-to-be-great-again Wells, followed by a putting lesson. Technically, Josephine didn’t need the lesson, as she’d grown up on a golf course, worked in a pro shop, and spent her days teaching proper techniques to customers.
Golf was her life. She was more stoked for her chance to shake some sense into the defeated athlete. No one else seemed inclined to take on the task. Especially his caddie, who appeared to be watching Vanderpump Rules on his phone.
Really, the sparse crowd that had followed Wells to this hole seemed inclined to knock off early or find a more popular player to watch, a couple of them breaking from the pack and wandering toward the clubhouse before Wells even took his shot. A bunch of Fair Weathers if Josephine had ever seen them.
Unfortunately, Wells looked like he was considering dropping out of the tournament altogether, too. On one hand, that would mean Josephine would get lunch sooner. Her waning blood sugar could use the boost.
On the other, she’d rather see him finish the day on a high note.
Time to make an impact.
Josephine reached down deep for her fangirl wail and set it loose, startling many a khaki-pants-wearing man in the process. “Let’s go, Wells. Put it in the hole!”
The golfer gave her a stone-faced look over his generously muscled shoulder, affording her a view of his light brown eyes and square jaw. “Oh, look. It’s you. Again.”
Josephine gave him a winning smile and held up her sign, which read wells’s belle. “You’re welcome.”
A line popped in his stubbly cheek.
“You got this,” she mouthed at him. Then couldn’t resist adding, “I’m excited about our lunch today. You remember that I won the contest, right?”
His sigh could have knocked over a small child. “I tried to forget, but you tagged me in your Instagram story. Eight times.”
Had it been eight times? She could have sworn she’d limited herself to six. “You know how the important things get swallowed up on that app.”
“Well. It didn’t.” He prodded at a lip that looked suspiciously split. “Do you mind if I concentrate on this shot now? Or do you want to go over the specials menu?”
“I’m good. Great, actually.” Josephine pressed her lips together to stop the smile from bursting straight off her face and held up her sign with renewed purpose. Everyone in the crowd was gaping at her—something that used to be a lot easier when she had her partner in crime. Her best friend, Tallulah, used to accompany Josephine on these fangirl outings for moral support, but she was currently on a research trip out of the country, leaving Josephine to hold down the sidelines alone. But Josephine was okay with that. She was thrilled her friend had gotten the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Didn’t mean she didn’t miss her terribly.
Swallowing the goose egg in her throat, Josephine ignored the man furiously brandishing a paddle at her that read quiet please and shouted, “Keep it in the short grass, Wells, you absolute legend!”
“Ma’am,” the paddle man snapped.
Josephine winked at him. “I’m done.”
“Good.”
“For now.”
Wells watched the exchange while shaking his head, then turned back around, shifted down into his stance, and . . . look, there was simply no ignoring the gas in the man’s tank. Glute strength gave a golfer driving power and Wells’s posterior was the one part of his career that remained a champion. Bounce a quarter off that thing? Nah, try two silver dollars. They would rebound off his well-rounded booty and knock a fangirl out cold. And she’d go down smiling.
“Once upon a time, Whitaker would have birdied this hole in his sleep,” a man standing behind Josephine whispered to his son. “Shame he let it all go down the drain. They should take his tour card before he embarrasses himself more than he already has.”
Josephine glanced back over her shoulder, giving the spectator the most disdainful look she could muster. “He’s right on the verge of a comeback. Too bad you can’t see it.”
The man and his son issued an identical scoff. “I’d need a microscope, honey.”
“To those with an untrained eye, maybe.” She sniffed. “I bet you guys spend fourteen dollars on hot dogs.”
“Ma’am,” begged the paddle guy. “Please.”
“Sorry.”
Wells flexed his grip around the club, squinted out at the fairway, and hauled back, his once-famous drive missing its former finesse.
The ball sailed straight into the trees.
Disappointment rippled all the way down to Josephine’s toes. Not for herself, because she hadn’t gotten the privilege of witnessing something great, but for Wells. She watched the way his shoulders tensed, his head dropping forward. The hushed murmurings of the crowd might as well have been cymbals crashing. The last remaining spectators wandered away, off to find pastures that didn’t need so much watering.
But Josephine stayed. It was the fangirl way.
How did that saying go?
You’re the hardest on the ones who love you the most?
Apparently, it was true. Because Wells had one fan left—one single, overzealous, and annoyingly cute fan—and his first instinct was to blame his botched shot on her. That wasn’t fair; he’d botched plenty of shots lately without her standing on the sidelines. Maybe he’d finally reached his capacity for self-disgust. Or maybe he was simply the shithead so many friends and admirers had written him off as over his two-year decline.
Whatever the reason, the fact that she remained there even now, steadfast and smiling encouragingly after he’d shot straight into the fucking trees? Wells couldn’t bear it. She needed to go, like the rest of them. Get lost. This auburn-haired sideline warrior wearing his merch was the only thing that had gotten him out of bed this morning—because she was always at his Florida tour stops. Always. Without fail. Didn’t she know they’d discontinued his clothing line last year? He’d been dropped by Nike, too. At this stage, he would be lucky to get a sponsorship from a dandruff shampoo brand.
His mentor, the legendary Buck Lee, wouldn’t even return his texts.
The world had counted him out long ago.
Yet, there she stood, holding the sign.
Wells’s Belle.
Jesus Christ. He needed to put this girl out of her misery.
The only way to do that was to put himself out of it first. Otherwise, she would show up next week, next month, next year. Fresh and unfailing and staunchly supportive, no matter how low he finished on the leaderboard at the end of the day. She kept coming back.
Therefore, Wells kept coming back, not wanting to disappoint her.
His last remaining fan. His last remaining . . . anything.
Josephine.
But he didn’t want to do it anymore. Didn’t want to show up and try uselessly to recapture the glory days. He’d lost his magic and would never find it again. It was somewhere out in the trees with his ball. She needed to go, so he could pull the plug. So he could stop waking up every morning trying to locate his missing optimism. He could finally drink himself to death in peace and never see another golf green for the rest of his life.
None of which would be happening if he followed through on this ridiculous contest.
“Go.” Turning on a heel, he ripped off his glove and waved it in the general direction of the fans streaming toward the clubhouse. Looking her in the eye was hard, which was ridiculous because he didn’t even know her. Not personally. And he never would. They’d had many brief exchanges on the course, but all their conversations were golf-related. Quick, if somehow . . . meaningful. More important than the average interaction with a spectator. He couldn’t dwell on that, though. It was over. “Go. I’m dropping out.” Finally, he found the balls to lean across the rope and meet her widening green eyes. “It’s over, belle. Go home.”
“No.”
Laughing without humor, he chucked his glove down the fairway. If only he could play a ball that straight. “Well, you’re going to be cheering for a ghost, because I’m done.”
Slowly, she lowered her sign.
The sight made his chest lurch, but he didn’t let himself flinch outwardly.
“You’re down but you’re not out, Wells Whitaker.”
“Listen to me. I’m out. I’m quitting the tour. There is no reason for you to come here anymore, Josephine.”
All at once, her smile brightened and, God help him, she went from cute to stunning—an observation that could mean absolutely nothing, since they were cutting ties right here and now. “You called me by my first name. You never have before.”
He knew that fact well, didn’t he? He’d refrained from calling her anything but her self-selected nickname, because anything else felt too personal. And there was nothing personal here. They were athlete and number one fan—and they needed to be done. Over. He had to sever this remaining tie to golf or he’d never be able to get on with the rest of his miserable has-been existence. At twenty-nine.
Goddamn this sport.
And goddamn her for making him want to show up and try.
Utterly ridiculous, considering this was the first time Wells had even said her name, despite the fact that she’d been cheering him on from behind the rope for the five years he’d been on the tour.
“What about the contest?” she said, folding up her sign and holding it to her chest. “Lunch and Lessons with Wells Whitaker. I won.”
He gestured to the trees. “Obviously I’m in no position to give you a lesson.”
She stared off down the fairway for a moment. Then said, “I’m a coach, myself. Maybe I could give you one.”
Wells did a double take. “Excuse me?”
“I said, maybe I could give you one.” She winced, as if she’d finally run that presumptuous suggestion through a filter. “My family owns a little pro shop nearby and I know everything there is to know about golf. My first pair of baby shoes had spikes on the bottom.” She took off her visor and now . . . her eyes looked even bigger. More compelling. And he didn’t know why, but letting this loyal girl down wasn’t sitting well. “You don’t love the sport anymore. Maybe I can help you love it again. That’s what I meant by giving you a lesson—”
“Josephine, listen to me. I don’t want to love it anymore. I’ve lost my soul to this game and it has given me nothing in return.”
She gasped. “Nothing except three majors titles.”
“You don’t understand. The titles start to mean nothing when you’re incapable of doing it again.” He closed his eyes and let the truth of those words sink in. First time he’d said them out loud. “The best thing you can do for me is leave. Pick some other golfer to harass, okay?”
His only remaining fan tried to keep her features stoic, but he’d inflicted some hurt with that suggestion. Keep going. Get it over with. Even if the idea of her cheering for another player made him want to impale himself on his wedge.
Wells bit down hard on his tongue so he wouldn’t take it back.
“It’s a bad day. Shake it off and get back out here tomorrow.” Her laugh was incredulous. “You can’t just quit golf.”
He laughed as he turned and strode for his bag, his caddie nowhere in sight. “Golf quit me. Go home, belle.” There was a note stuck between his clubs. Frowning, he plucked it up between two fingers to find a resignation letter from his caddie. If one could call a scrawled note on a bar napkin a resignation letter. Instead of being angry, Wells felt nothing but relief.
Excellent timing.
That saved him having to fire the son of a bitch.
“Wells, wait.”
His back muscles tightened at the sight of Josephine ducking under the rope and jogging in his direction, her deep, reddish-brown ponytail swinging side to side. Such a move was wildly against the rules, but there was no one left to care. He’d leave the club and no one would even notice, would they? Except her.
“There are people who still believe in you,” she said.
“Really? Where?” He hefted the bag onto his shoulder. “All I see is you.”
Again, hurt trickled into her gaze and he ignored the impulse to throw down his bag, tell her everything. How his mentor had abandoned him after one bad season and he’d realized his support system was all smoke and mirrors. At the end of the day, he was alone, like he’d been since age twelve. All anyone cared about now was how well he hit this little white ball and God, he resented that. Resented the game and everything about it.
“I’ll stay right here until everyone comes back,” she said.
Frustration raked down his insides like a pair of fingernails. He just wanted to throw in the towel and she was the only one preventing him from doing it.
Wells steeled himself against the urge to set down his bag and select a club one more time, for this person who unwisely continued to believe in him. He reached for her sign instead, calling himself ten times a bastard as he tore it straight down the middle. He threw the two sides onto the grass, forcing himself to look her in the eye, because he couldn’t be a bastard and a coward. “For the last time, I don’t want you here.”
Then it finally happened.
She stopped looking at him as if he were a hero.
And it was a million times worse than hitting into the trees.
“Sorry about lunch,” he said thickly, wheeling around her. “Sorry about everything.”
