Fangirl Down: A Novel (Big Shots Book 1)

Wells knew something was wrong as soon as Josephine answered the door the following morning. Her ponytail was crooked and she sort of mumbled good morning. None of her chipper, insightful encouragement or words of wisdom. More like a muffled g’mornhey. Once again, she was wearing her white hotel bathrobe and her lack of actual clothing was going to make them late for their designated practice period. Intuition told him not to mention that.

Not this time.

This was not the Josephine he’d left blushing at her door last night.

“Everything okay?” Wells asked cautiously, entering and closing the door behind him.

“I’ll be ready soon,” she called from the bathroom.

Then she said something under her breath to the effect of some of us don’t get to just put on a fucking hat.

Wow. Tough but fair.

There was a lot of truth to that complaint.

Despite the risk of having a hairbrush leveled at his head, he rested his shoulder on the inside of the bathroom doorframe, watching in the mirror as Josephine fashioned another ponytail and ripped it back out, her arms falling back to her sides like they weighed a hundred pounds each. “Yes, but is everything okay, Josephine?”

“It’s stupid. I should know better.” She spoke very concisely. “I ordered room service last night and I didn’t give myself enough insulin for the burger bun. I always underestimate the carbs in burger buns. Always. And I woke up with my blood sugar in the three hundreds.”

It took a serious effort, but he didn’t let his alarm show. “Is that dangerous?”

“I mean, it can be if sustained for a long period of time. But really, it’s just life with diabetes. The three hundreds happen a lot more than I want them to, because I’ll never be able to perfectly mimic a pancreas. It’s impossible.” She closed her eyes, breathing in through her nose and out through her mouth. “High blood sugar makes me feel on edge and . . . glitchy, sort of. My head aches. Concentrating is hard.”

If Wells could have taken over the condition from her in that moment, he wouldn’t have hesitated. Not for a single second. In fact, fuck his working pancreas. It had a lot of nerve. To have to worry about a burger bun? Not to mention, every single meal. Honestly, he wasn’t sure how anyone could do this every day of the year and not be in a constant state of frustration. “That’s how you’re feeling right now? Your head aches and you’re glitchy.”

“Yes.”

“How do we fix it?”

“We don’t do anything. I do.”

“Okay, that’s fair.”

Silence landed hard.

A combination of things were happening with her—that he could see, anyway. Regret for snapping at him, anger with herself, overall aggravation, physical distress. So many emotions crossing her face at once, like watercolor paints running together—and it was probably a private moment, but Wells couldn’t seem to make himself leave.

“Can you handle this alone . . . without being alone?”

Her eyes slowly climbed to his in the mirror. “Sure,” she answered, guarded.

Relieved, Wells nodded.

“I know I’m making us late,” she said.

“That’s not important right now.”

She let out a breath, picked up the hairbrush, and put it back down. “I’ve given myself a correction, so I’m just waiting for my number to come back down. It will, but sometimes it’s slow. I can still function, though, so let me just get ready.”

“Let’s say we didn’t have to worry about making our practice time, because I’m a fucking golf god and practicing is for mortals. What else could you do to feel better?”

There.

A hint of a smile.

His pulse beat easier.

“I mean . . .” She shrugged. “Drinking water helps. And it’ll come down really fast if I run.”

He raised an eyebrow. Tipped his head subtly toward the main door.

“If you’re implying that you’d like to go for a run with me, no you don’t.”

“Why?”

“If you think I’m irritated now, watch me perform the activity that should be an option only if someone is chasing you with a hunting knife. Do you know your lungs release a little bit of blood when you run? They know it isn’t right.”

“I won’t say a word. We’ll just run.” He turned away from the bathroom and started to stretch, pulling his right heel up to his ass. “I’d really like you to feel better, belle,” he said casually, when he actually wanted to shout, Please feel better immediately. “You think I’m scared of a little irritation? There is a picture of me in the dictionary next to the word ‘irritation.’ And I’ve never once tried to save anyone from it, so why should you do me any favors?”

“That is a pretty good point.” She turned and leaned back against the bathroom sink, hesitating. “There is probably already a crowd outside. They’ll be watching us, wondering why we’re going for a random jog before tee off.”

Wells didn’t give a flying fuck what anyone thought, but . . . Josephine did. When it came to some things. Like her capabilities. Her strength. Needing a run for the sake of her health fell under both of those headings. She was strong because of her struggle, not in spite of it, but that was his belief. It didn’t necessarily match how she felt in a vulnerable moment. “Let’s run in the hallway. You don’t even have to change.”

She huffed a laugh. “Run in the hallway in a robe?”

“If it makes you feel better, I’ll go shirtless.”

A shoulder shrug from Josephine. “It wouldn’t hurt,” she mumbled.

“Stop trying to seduce me with flattery,” he said dryly, tossing his hat on the bathroom sink and stripping off his polo. “Come on.”

“My lungs are bleeding from excitement.”

Despite her irritable state, he didn’t miss the way she cataloged his chest and stomach. He might have even flexed a little, in the name of making her feel better. Whatever it took to get her out of the room and toward a fix—and he was not taking it for granted that she was allowing him to be part of the solution.

They positioned the brass hook to hold her door open, then stood side by side in the carpeted hallway, Josephine barefoot, Wells in the leather sneakers he usually wore until it came time to put on his spikes. “You ready?”

“No,” she said, starting to jog.

Hiding his smile, he caught up and kept pace with her. Down to the end of the hallway, where they touched the wall, turned and started back in the direction they’d come.

“Depeche Mode.”

“No,” she answered without missing a beat.

“Bad Bunny.”

“You’re casting a very wide net.”

“Give me the decade, at least,” he complained.

“Only because you’re shirtless.” She glanced over, lips pursed. “The sixties.”

He growled. “That would have been helpful in the beginning.”

She hip checked him, briefly interrupting his stride. “I help you more than enough.”

Truthfully? He kind of loved Josephine in a bad mood. “That’s true. You do.”

They tapped the hallway wall, turned, and continued, jogging in companionable silence for a few minutes. Until, “It’s the Beatles, isn’t it?”

“Nope.”

Wells groaned.

“You’re getting closer.”

“There’s that.”

“There’s also this.” She knocked on a random hotel room door and then sprinted ahead at three times the speed they’d been jogging. Leaving him in her dust. Making it look like he was the one who’d knocked. Wells boomed a laugh, but it cut off abruptly when the door Josephine had knocked on opened a few yards behind him.

“Uh . . . yes?” called an older man into the hallway.

Without turning around, Wells picked up speed.

Josephine had disappeared back into her room.

No. She wouldn’t. She would not close the door on him, leaving him out in the hallway shirtless, caught red-handed as a doorbell ditcher.

Spoiler: yes, she would.

Wells skidded to a halt outside her door and grabbed the handle, rattling it violently. Locked. “Oh. You are so wrong for this, belle.”

Her gasping laugh reached him through the door.

“Open it.”

“Son, did you knock on my door?” called the man on the other end of the hall.

“Sorry about that.” Wells gave a stilted wave. “Wrong room.”

Dude wouldn’t leave it at that. “Aren’t you that Whitaker fellow?”

Josephine was all but dying on the other side of the goddamn door. “You’ve had your fun,” he ground out, though he was also . . . smiling? “Let me in.”

The door clicked open and Wells stormed inside, letting it shut behind him while he watched Josephine huddle against the far wall of the room, face buried in her hands, shoulders shaking with mirth.

“Looks like you’re feeling better,” he remarked, wishing he could taste that laugh, feel it against his mouth.

“Much.” She scooped her phone off the bed, tapped the screen, and held it out, so Wells could see the dots sloping downward, her number beginning to come down: 267. Still high, but going in the right direction. “It’ll keep going down now that I’ve given it a kickstart.”

“I’m glad, baby.”

All right. That just . . . slipped right out.

They stared at each other for a few heavy moments, before heading for the bathroom at the same time, pausing in the doorway to search each other for objections, then going in together. Slowly. Wells pulled his shirt back on and replaced his hat while Josephine began another attempt at a ponytail.

“You know, it looks the exact same every time you do it.”

She hummed. “To the untrained male eye, maybe.”

“Give me a go.”

She paused in the act of gathering her hair, revealing that very edible neck. “You want to do my ponytail?”

“I want to do a lot of things to your ponytail.”

“What? Gross.”

Smooth, guy. “That didn’t come out the way I meant it to.” He moved to stand behind her, shaking out his hands. “I’m nervous about my first hair gig.”

“Seriously. I’ve seen you less nervous about a twenty-yard putt.”

Wells took the brush in his right hand and started pulling it through her auburn strands. At some point, he knew he needed to begin forming the tail, but holy shit, this was soothing. “How do women get anything done? I’m not exaggerating when I say I could do this for hours.”

“Throw in that ponytail comment and I think we’re working with a fetish here, Whitaker.”

Considering how it started, this morning was turning into the most fun he’d had in a really long time. Maybe even his entire life. Just being around her was . . . eighty experiences rolled into one. Relaxing, arousing, comfortable, arousing. Fun and interesting and right. And arousing. Was it a weird time to mention that he’d like to take a bite out of her neck? In fact, he was dying to untie her robe and look at her naked in the bathroom mirror, but now wasn’t the right moment. Not when she’d woken up feeling shitty.

“All right, here goes.”

Biting down on his bottom lip enough to draw blood, he used the brush to sort of urge sections of hair into his fist. When he was satisfied he’d gotten them all, he panicked, because he had no way to keep them in this perfect formation—

She held a black rubber band above her shoulder. “Here.”

“Thank Christ.” He blew out a breath. “This part is stressful.”

“I know!”

“There are bumps no matter what I do,” he growled, wrapping the band, twisting, wrapping again, feeling like he was using someone else’s hands.

“Yup. They look like shark fins.”

A laugh bounded out of him. “Oh my God, Josephine, that’s exactly what they look like.”

Their gazes locked in the mirror and his heart whipped around like a car doing donuts. “You feel better, belle?”

“Yeah.” She turned her head slightly and kissed the inside of his wrist. “Thanks, Wells.”

No. He should be the one thanking her, right? She’d already started transforming him into a better golfer, but allowing him to help this morning? With something so personal and important to her? Fuck. That made him feel like a human. A human worth his salt.

Her faith sat welcome and heavy on his chest. And he wanted more of it.

Not knowing what to say, Wells leaned down and kissed the side of her neck, breathing through the need to do more. Touch her everywhere. His eyes closed on a rough exhale when she pushed her butt back into his lap. He gripped her hips and—

His phone rang in his pocket.

No. Noooooooo.

In tandem, they slumped, Josephine’s sweet ass ending its temptation campaign as she smirked at him in the mirror, moving slightly out of his reach.

Grating a curse, he pulled out his phone. Nate was calling. Again.

There could only be one reason.

Comeback.

Wells could already hear the word curling in his ear. Did he want to hear it?

For Josephine’s sake, yes. He did.

But for him? All that attention and accolades were fleeting. He knew that all too well now.

What had Josephine said to him a few days ago? It’s not always about the next thing you do. Sometimes it’s about what you already did. He’d been thinking about that a lot. And maybe . . . she was right. Maybe he could learn to let go of the pressure that came from comparing his rank to everyone else. Being critical of his swing. Stressing about the next tournament before he even finished the one he was playing. Maybe he could be in the moment, enjoying the game for what it had once been for him.

An escape.

“It’s my manager,” he explained.

“Take it.”

Wells flipped his phone over in his hand a few times, then called Nate back. Finally.

“It’s about time, champ!” greeted the bastard.

“Okay, that greeting was transparent, even for you. What do you want?”

“Is that how you talk to an old friend?”

“Last time we spoke,” Wells drawled, his eyes locked on the pulse of Josephine’s neck, “you called me a royal prick.”

“Ah, ah, ah. I said you behaved like one.”

Wells implored the ceiling for patience. “My practice round is starting. Why are you blowing up my phone?”

“You want to get down to brass tacks. Sure.” Keys clicked in the background. “I bring you a wealth of opportunities this morning, young man. And just to get the ugly fine print out of the way up front, I’ll be collecting fifteen percent on all of these sexy opportunities.”

“Wow.” He ran a hand down Josephine’s ponytail, smirking when she mouthed the word “fetish.” “Too bad you don’t work for me anymore.”

“We can change that quite easily, comeback kid.”

Wells sighed.

“Have you turned on the Golf Channel lately? Hell, even ESPN is putting coverage on you, man. The big turnaround story. You’re hitting the ball like Wells of yore—and you’ve got a beautiful caddie, to boot? The media is lapping it up like hungry little kittens.”

“They . . .” His pulse spiked like he’d just fibbed on a lie detector test and his arm wrapped around Josephine’s waist of its own volition, pulling her back against his chest. “What are they saying about Josephine?”

“Nothing bad, obviously. There’s nothing bad to say!”

Josephine turned in his arms and tipped her head toward the bedroom. “Going to get ready,” she whispered. “Finish your call.”

He kissed her forehead, nodded.

Like a husband sending his wife off to work.

After the morning they’d shared, it just felt oddly . . . natural.

He waited until Josephine was out of earshot and he’d shut the bathroom door to continue the conversation. Because he knew Nate well and he’d recognized the man’s tone of voice. “What are they really saying about her?”

“Ah. Well, you know, times being what they are, writers and commentators can’t technically call her hot, but there’s a lot of winking and nudging going on. ‘If she was my caddie, I’d be practicing a lot, too.’ Ha ha ha. Stuff like that. On the innocent end of the spectrum, they’re calling her your good luck charm.”

“Oh.” Humiliating that he should get choked up over that. “Hmm.”

A few moments passed in silence.

“Is there? Something going on there?” Nate asked.

“That’s nobody’s business but ours,” Wells growled. “Got that?”

“Loud and clear, champ.”

“I don’t like them talking about her. She’s . . .” Mine. He paced the bathroom. “She’s all heart. She’s authentic and perceptive and loyal. There is no way they could do her justice with a sound bite.”

Nate didn’t respond right away. Then he said, “Sorry, there’s nothing I can do about them talking about her. Especially if you keep winning.”

“I know, dammit. I just don’t like it.”

“Then I suggest you keep your television turned off.”

Wells walked in a circle rubbing the back of his neck. “All right, let’s get this over with. What are these opportunities?”

“The most magical of all opportunities, Wells.” The manager dropped his voice to a reverent whisper. “Sponsorships. Two of them.”

“Whatever.”

“How does Mercedes sound?”

“Pass. Next.”

Nate fake cried on the other end. “I knew you were going to say that. Figured we’d cross it off the list early.” He paused, for dramatic effect no doubt. “Ever heard of a little brand called Under Armour? And get this, they want to sponsor you and the caddie.”

That brought Wells’s head up. He stopped pacing. “How much?”

“Five figures each. For now. They’re being smart, picking you off cheap before your return to the tour can officially be called a comeback. That being said, they’re only asking for two appearances in their gear, so they can be sure you’re not going to self-destruct and leave them with egg on their face. They will have first right of refusal on your next sponsorship deal. Fine by us, right? It’ll leave us a ton of wiggle room to negotiate terms if you continue on this trajectory. Which you will, my boy. Sound good?”

Five figures. A few years ago, the offer would have been in the tens of millions.

God, he wanted that so bad for Josephine. She’d be able to rebuild the shop, afford better health insurance, take care of her parents. Five figures would mean a lot to her, though, too. A hell of a lot. “Done.”

“I thought you might say that. They’ve already sent over a selection of shirts and hats for both of you to choose from. I’ve taken the liberty of having them arranged in a conference room downstairs.”

“You’re a smug motherfucker, Nate.”

“We’re back, baby!”

Wells hung up.

Left the bathroom—

And stopped short, watching with mounting hunger as Josephine tugged on a sports bra, covering her perfectly perfect tits. A T-shirt next. Too many layers.

“Hey,” she said. “Almost ready.”

He was well past the point of ready. But Christ. Where was this going? His feelings for Josephine were expanding at an alarming rate, but he had no idea what would or could come from the painful attraction. Sex might mess up their entire dynamic and yet, at this point, he’d probably die if he didn’t fuck her brains out.

And soon.

What happened after that? Did she become his girlfriend?

How long could that last with them working together—especially taking into account that he could be a class A dickhead on the course? She could get run over by a golf cart again.

Or worse.

Wells cleared his throat hard. “Look. We’ve got a sponsor. Congratulations, belle, you’re five figures richer. We’re going downstairs to pick out your outfit—and it better not be anything pink.”

She turned so fast, she almost fell down. “I . . . me? I’m . . . five figures? Me?”

Not for the first time this morning, a lump built in his throat. “Yeah.”

“B-but . . . ,” she sputtered. “Why?”

“Because you’re . . . you, Josephine. And for the record, you’re worth a hell of a lot more. I just have to prove myself before that’s possible—and I will. For you. For . . . us.” Even from across the room, he swore he heard her breath quicken. “Okay?”

“Okay.” Not a hint of doubt in her voice. What had he done to deserve her?

“Good, let’s—”

She gasped. “Are we going to try to match outfits?”

“Hell no, Josephine. Absolutely not.”