The Long Shot Read online

  Table Of Contents

  Other Books by A.L. Brooks

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  About A.L. Brooks

  Other Books from Ylva Publishing

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  www.ylva-publishing.com

  Other Books by A.L. Brooks

  Write Your Own Script

  One Way or Another

  Up on the Roof

  Miles Apart

  Dark Horse

  The Club

  Acknowledgments

  I want to start by thanking my wonderful partner, Tanja, for her incredible support through the writing of this one. This book was written while I was in the middle of the planning and subsequent realization of my move from the UK to Germany, and I honestly couldn’t have done either of those rather big things without her. My love, you always boost me when I’m low, shout from the rooftops at my successes, and, best of all, buy me chocolate and/or wine when all else fails. Top girlfriend points awarded to you!

  As always, thanks to Ylva Publishing for all that you do to bring my books to the world. Thanks to Miranda and Amanda for a lovely editing experience and to Sandra for teaching me things about grammar I never knew existed. I promise to keep my dangly participles hidden from view in the future…

  To my wonderful beta readers Erin and Katja. I love how you two never let me get away with anything and really push me to delve deep into my characters’ motivations and desires. And thank you to Kym for the sensitivity read and advice.

  Finally, a massive shout-out to Judy Comella, stalwart member of the Golden Crown Literary Society, for the excellent feedback and assistance on the behind-the-scenes life of the women’s golf tour. Any mistakes remaining in that regard are purely down to me. And thank you to the GCLS for offering a database of experts who can be called on for things such as this—what a fantastic resource.

  Chapter 1

  The bead of sweat tracked its way down Morgan’s neck. She exhaled slowly and tried to relax her tight shoulders.

  Ten feet. That’s all this putt was. Ten feet between her and a playoff for a chance to win the first major of her career.

  But you’ve been this close before, a nasty little voice whispered in her head. Twice. And each time you blew it.

  Strange how that voice only ever made an appearance at the pressure moments. Never on the practice rounds or in the gym or out on a run. Only when it was the crunch shot on the final green of the final round.

  A tickle of warm breeze lifted a few loose strands of hair underneath her ponytail. Somewhere behind her someone coughed, and to her right the creek in front of the green gurgled as it trundled over the bedrock.

  She shouldn’t be aware of any of this. She should be focused only on the small, white ball in front of her, the weight of the putter in her hand. Come on, concentrate!

  If Harry could read her mind, he’d be tutting. Knowing her caddy stood behind her, probably with his hands in his pockets and probably wondering what the hell she was up to, Morgan slowly inhaled before stepping forward to the ball.

  The putter settled in her hands, the rubberized grip warm against her palms and fingertips. She glanced to her left, even though she knew exactly where the hole was. Licking her lips, she settled her feet into place. She adjusted her position in minute increments until she hit that spot, that perfect blend of balance and poise and calm, her head over the ball.

  “It’ll swing left but not as much as you might think,” Harry had said when they’d lined up the shot only a minute or so before. It seemed like a lifetime ago. “Don’t overcompensate. You’ll twitch ’cause you’re nervous, and that will probably be enough to send it on its way.”

  She’d rolled her eyes at him but appreciated what he’d tried to do—relax her, make it seem like any other putt on any other day.

  Ten feet, that’s all.

  Breathe in, take the putter back, then breathe out and swing it back in to make contact.

  As soon as the ball moved, the crowd noise erupted. Shouts of “Get in the hole!” came from all angles, but Morgan didn’t react, didn’t move, simply kept her head turned toward the hole, watching the ball roll, bobble a little, start to swing left, and…

  The groans and gasps that surrounded her were loud, a rolling wave that threatened to drown her.

  The ball swung by the hole, its trajectory too far to the left.

  She closed her eyes and gripped the putter so tightly she wondered if it would snap.

  Harry’s hand on the small of her back brought her back into the reality, the reality she really didn’t want to face. But she was a professional, and courtesy dictated she walk forward, tap her ball in from where it had come to a stop a mere three inches from the hole, and then step out of the way after acknowledging the muted applause from the crowd.

  Kim Lee, her Korean opponent, stepped up and calmly slotted in her two-foot putt to confirm the win. As the crowd went wild, she raised her arms aloft, a huge smile splitting her face.

  Morgan gave her a moment. After handing the putter to Harry, she shook his hand, then strolled across the green to congratulate Lee, who had now won the Women’s US Open. Kim Lee was all smiles but patted Morgan on the shoulder as they grasped hands.

  “Bad luck.” Lee’s words seemed heartfelt.

  Morgan mustered a smile. “You played well. You deserve the win.”

  Hundreds of camera flashes pinged off around them. The ESPN and Golf Channel TV cameramen circled around them. Keeping her smile fixed in place, Morgan shook Lee’s hand.

  “Thank you!” Lee gushed before letting go and facing the applauding crowd, whose cheers rose in volume. Sure, most of the crowd would have rather seen a home winner, but they were golf fans above all else, and the best player had won.

  Morgan, her face aching from maintaining the smile, walked over to where Harry tucked her putter back into the bag, his towel rammed into one of his pockets. His face was expressionless; he was the consummate pro, and she loved him for it. The last thing she needed to see right now was any sort of disappointment on the face of the man who’d caddied for her the whole of her professional career.

  “I’m thinking pulled-pork burger and fries,” he said when she reached him.

  “What?” Even for Harry, that comment was way out of left field.

  “Tonight. For dinner. I’m buying.” He gave her a slow smile. “Might even shout you a beer too. Light, of course.”

  Morgan sighed. “Harry, you know I can’t.”

  “Oh, all right, a soda, then.”

  She bumped his shoulder with hers. It was a constant source of annoyance to him that she was an inch taller than his five ten, and the shoulder bump always emphasized it. Which was why she regularly performed it.

  “You know what I mean,” she said, her voice not much more than a whisper.

  Harry sighed, pulled the towel from his pocket, and wiped his hands on it before stuffi
ng it into the side pocket of the bag that held all of Morgan’s clubs and equipment. When he stood to face her again, his eyes were full of kindness and understanding.

  A lump formed in her throat.

  “I’d never tell you what to do, you know that,” he said.

  She placed a gentle hand on his bicep to stop him. “I know. But it’d hurt Mom if I didn’t go.”

  Harry exhaled noisily and ran a tanned hand over his even more tanned face. His brown eyes held hers. “Jack won, by the way. Just so you know.”

  Morgan closed her eyes. “Shit.” She shook her head. “Good for him.”

  “Burger with me instead?”

  She opened her eyes and gazed fondly at him. “Thanks, but no. I’m a big girl. I can take care of myself.”

  “I know you can. I’ve never doubted that.” His eyes crinkled as he grinned. “I’ll see you after the circus?”

  “Yeah. Let’s have one drink at the bar before you head off, okay?”

  “You got yourself a deal, little lady.”

  Morgan groaned. She hated it when he called her that. Which was why he did it. She stuck her tongue out at him; Harry roared with laughter. They hugged, his strong arms encircling her completely and making her feel safe and protected for just a moment.

  Morgan sucked in a deep breath, stepped out of his embrace, and turned back to the melee of people who now crowded the eighteenth green.

  ESPN still interviewed Kim Lee, but Cindy Thomson from the Golf Channel hovered only a few yards away, her hawklike amber eyes on Morgan and Harry.

  “Looks like I’m up,” Morgan muttered.

  “You got this.”

  Handing her cap to him, Morgan swept a hand over her hair. She plastered her fake smile back on, then stepped over to Cindy.

  “Bad luck.” Cindy shook her hand limply, her look of sympathy as fake as Morgan’s smile.

  Cindy was one of those never-quite-made-it players who’d rapidly realized they’d do better in front of the camera talking about golf rather than playing it. She was now the lead roving reporter for the Golf Channel’s coverage of the women’s game and, therefore, someone Morgan had to make nice with on a regular basis, even though she loathed her. Cindy was all fake blonde hair—and, rumor had it, fake breasts too—with layered-on makeup and expensive shoes. An airhead, Morgan’s father had called her once, and Morgan unfortunately couldn’t help but agree.

  With a snap of her hand, Cindy directed the cameraman behind her to get into position, and Morgan saw the light illuminate on the camera that told her she was live.

  “I’ve got the runner-up with me here, Morgan Spencer.” Cindy’s gaze bored into Morgan’s. “Morgan, can you tell us how you’re feeling right now? Third major in a row you’ve been right up there and couldn’t quite get over the line. That’s got to hurt, yes?”

  Gee, thanks, Cindy.

  “Well, it’s not easy, no,” Morgan said with a wry grin.

  If there was one thing her manager had always told her, it was to never rise to the bait from these kinds of reporters. Her own self-discipline, honed from years of being in the limelight, meant Morgan could switch into her autopilot mode of interviewing at will. No one looking on would ever know how angry or upset she was. No one got to see that side of her, not ever. Even Harry was spared it. A punchbag in a gym was the only witness, and she knew come tomorrow morning she’d really need that kind of workout.

  Cindy was right: three majors in a row, and Morgan had blown it on the final hole in each and every one. In last year’s British Open, it had been a poor drive. In the ANA International two months ago, it had been the approach that had ended up in the bunker. And here today, a missed putt. She knew exactly what the headlines would say and wouldn’t bother buying any of the papers or checking online later.

  And God knew tonight she’d hear all about it anyway.

  Maybe Harry was right—maybe she should skip it and go for a burger with him instead. But then her mom would have to deal with the other family stuff on her own, and that wasn’t fair.

  Mentally gritting her teeth, she braced herself for Cindy’s additional questions.

  “It seems the nerves might get to you on those big moments. What are you going to do to try to resolve that?”

  The sickening gleam in Cindy’s eyes turned Morgan’s stomach. She really was enjoying this.

  Morgan kept her smile fixed on her lips. “Well, I’m not sure it is nerves. We’ll take a look at the tapes later and see if there’s anything we need to work on.”

  Her jaw ached from keeping her tone even when all she wanted to do was yell at Cindy.

  “You’re thirty-one now, and you’ve been a pro for about six years, I believe. Do you think a major is still in your future?”

  It was like death by a thousand cuts. Every question was designed to inflict yet more damage.

  “I think every pro wants to win a major, and I really believe I’ve got that in me. I wasn’t lucky enough today, but there’s another one not too far away.”

  “Will you speak to your dad? See what advice he can give you?”

  And there it was, the one question trotted out every time she appeared in front of the cameras. The one that twisted her stomach in knots and had her clenching her fists.

  “I’ll be seeing my folks later tonight, so I’m sure we’ll talk about the match.”

  The lies came so easily, as they always had, and hurt just as badly. The irony wasn’t lost on her of how proud her father would be of her for handling herself so well in front of the press.

  Cindy pressed one finger to her earpiece. “Thanks for your time, Morgan, and good luck for the next one.”

  Before Morgan could respond, Cindy whirled around and marched off in Kim Lee’s direction.

  Morgan just had time to inhale one deep breath before the guy from ESPN stepped up. She forced her smile even wider and stared into the camera.

  Later, after finally escaping the post-match press conference, Morgan found Harry in the club’s bar, as expected. He had a cold beer, half drunk, in front of him at a table in the quietest corner of the room. What Morgan wouldn’t give for a long beer, just as cold, right now. But the way she felt, if she started with one, she wouldn’t want to stop, and a late supper with her parents was not something she could turn up drunk to.

  After ordering a Perrier with a twist, she slumped into the chair opposite Harry.

  He looked her up and down. “Sharks didn’t totally rip you to shreds?”

  She grinned wryly. “Not quite, but they got in some good hits, as usual.”

  “Bastards.” Harry rarely swore, but when he did, his target was usually the press. Either that or the divorce lawyers each of his three ex-wives had hired.

  Morgan waved a hand. “They’re only doing their job. And, hey, some of those questions are perfectly valid.”

  Like, why do I keep screwing it up in majors?

  Harry shrugged and took a long drink of his beer. “So you heading off straight away?”

  Stifling a yawn, Morgan nodded. “I may as well. It’ll be good to see Mom again.” She rubbed her chin. “How long’s it been now? Jeez, I can’t even remember.”

  Harry chuckled. “I think it’s maybe…two months? Before the ANA, I think.”

  “I think you’re right. Wow. I had no idea.”

  “Say hi to Bree for me.”

  Morgan smiled. Harry had always had a soft spot for her mom. Maybe even a little crush. “I will.”

  “How is she?”

  “Well, I haven’t seen her in two months or spoken to her in two weeks, so I can’t say. God, I’m a bad daughter.” She smiled ruefully. “But last time I did speak to her, she was pretty tired. You know she does all that charity stuff, and it takes up a lot of her time.”

  He nodded. Morgan wasn’t surprised he didn’t ask after
her father; the two men had never seen eye to eye.

  Morgan sighed. She was usually better at speaking to her mom more regularly, but now that she was a top-ten—usually top-five—finisher in every tournament she played, free time to head home and see her folks was rarer. She didn’t even like to guess when she’d last seen her brother, Jack. At that thought, her stomach twisted again, and she sighed. “How did you know Jack had won?”

  Harry didn’t look surprised at the question. “I set up an alert on the app on my phone. Just after your drive at the eighteenth, I snuck a look. I figured if you knew in advance…”

  “Thanks.” She tipped her glass in his direction.

  “Any time.”

  Morgan downed the last of her drink and inhaled deeply. “Okay, time for me to get going.”

  Harry stood with her, then walked around the small table to give her a hug. “Take it easy.”

  “I’ll try. Tuesday morning, eight?”

  He nodded. “If you’re late, I’ll make you run up every fairway.”

  She laughed. “I’m never late, and you know it.”

  Harry opened his mouth to say something, then shut it again.

  “What?” She tilted her head.

  “Not necessarily Tuesday, but sometime before Thursday we need to talk about what happened out there today. We need to fix it.”

  “I know. We will. Definitely.”

  He squeezed her forearm, then sat back down to his beer.

  Morgan left the now busy bar with only a handful of people stopping her to commiserate. She accepted their words with her practiced grace, ignoring the twinge in her heart each time those words made her think about missing that putt.

  It didn’t take long to retrieve her overnight bag and stow it in the trunk of the rental car. Normally, she’d stay on at the hotel for the night after a tournament before being whisked away in a sponsor’s car straight to the airport the next morning and then either home or on to the next tournament, but not tonight. Although the room was still booked for the night, for once she was mistress of her own time. Even though where she headed filled her with a certain amount of hesitancy, the freedom to hit the road on her own was wonderful.