The Long Shot Page 4

  “I know, I know.”

  “So where are you now?”

  “L.A. Got a smaller tournament in Anaheim starting Thursday.”

  She heard sounds of many people in the background and Jack’s muffled, “Yeah, just a sec!” He came back on the line. “Well, look, good luck, okay? I gotta run.”

  “Yeah, okay. Speak soon,” she said, but the line was already dead.

  She threw the phone onto the bed and lay back, gazing up at the nondescript ceiling. As calls went with her brother, that was about as good as it got, so she couldn’t complain. But the tense knot in her stomach told her otherwise, and she sighed.

  Jack wasn’t a bad guy, not really. But he’d allowed himself to get sucked into their father’s view of the world, and whether he’d ever admit it or not, he also treated Morgan’s sport and her achievements as somehow less than. Jack was a pretty good tennis player, she knew that. But she was an exceptional golfer whose gender negated everything she’d accomplished in the eyes of her father and, to a lesser extent, her brother.

  The joke of it was, after naming his son, his firstborn, after one of, if not the best golfers of all time, Jack Nicklaus, her brother had shown zero interest in following in their father’s footsteps. Morgan had, loving the game from the minute she could hold one of Jack’s discarded small plastic clubs, but that had never been good enough for Gordy Spencer. Jack was aware, she knew that, but she wished he would try a little harder. She also knew there probably wasn’t much point. Her father was old school, one of those misogynists who didn’t even know he was doing it, it was so ingrained. And the fact that he did it to his daughter didn’t register at all.

  She forced herself up to a sitting position and glanced at the time on her phone: 6:30 p.m. Food, that was what she needed now. And then a very early night to make up for the one before.

  Her phone buzzed in her hand.

  Hey! You here yet? Need dinner? I’m in the Calypso bar (dumb name), and they have fried shrimp!!!

  She smiled. Charlie McKinnon. Yeah, dinner with Charlie was just what she needed. Morgan jumped up and quickly pulled off the clothes she’d been in all day. A short shower freshened her up, then she tied back her hair, dressed in some casual attire, and left her room.

  “Shit, you look tired!” were Charlie’s first words when Morgan sidled up to her at the bar.

  “Gee, thanks, honey.”

  Charlie laughed and pulled her into a tight hug. “You know I’ll never lie to you.”

  “True.” Morgan sat on the stool next to Charlie’s and pointed at the plate of fried shrimp in front of her. “Any good?”

  Charlie shrugged, her mouth quirking up at one corner. “It isn’t bad, but I’ve definitely had better.”

  “Then I’ll pass. Besides, I’m not sure I could handle fried food today.”

  Charlie wiped her hands on a napkin, took a quick sip of her soda, then looked at Morgan with a serious expression. “What’s up?”

  Charlie was the one person Morgan had confided some of her family secrets to—not all of them but enough hints that Charlie would know what Morgan meant when she said, “Spent the evening with the folks last night. It was the usual.”

  “Ah.” Charlie frowned. “Sorry.”

  Morgan shrugged, then placed her order with the bartender for a Cobb salad and a Perrier before turning back to her friend. “I knew going in it was likely. Jack won yesterday.”

  “Yeah, I saw.” Charlie patted Morgan’s arm.

  “Hey, what’s this I hear about you getting snippy with some reporter yesterday?”

  Charlie rolled her eyes. “Idiot. Asked me if I was aware that people were calling me the female Tiger Woods.”

  “Seriously? That again?”

  “I know!” Charlie laughed. “I may have been a little sharp when I told him that actually, I am the golfing equivalent of Serena Williams, thank you very much.”

  Morgan laughed and gave her friend a mini fist bump. She knew Charlie, being one of the few black women playing golf, was sick of being compared to Tiger Woods, so she could well imagine how her response to the reporter would have been delivered.

  Charlie finished her fried shrimp. “Want to talk about that putt?”

  Morgan groaned and dropped her head into her hands. “You were watching.”

  “Of course I was! Just because I couldn’t play didn’t mean I wasn’t there in spirit.”

  “How is the knee?”

  “Don’t deflect!” Charlie scowled at her. “And it’s fine, actually. It was the right move to not play last week. But I’m itching to get out there this week, so watch your ass. I’m coming for you!”

  Morgan laughed and squeezed Charlie’s arm affectionately. “I’ll be so far ahead of you, you won’t see me.”

  Charlie huffed. “Probably true.” She laughed. “Anyway, you’re still deflecting. That putt?”

  “Yeah, I know,” Morgan said soberly. “It was there and then…and then it wasn’t.”

  “Did you twitch? I bet Harry said you’d twitch.”

  “He did. But I don’t think I did twitch. I think I just read it wrong. Or I didn’t listen to his read on it.” She shook her head. “I don’t think I twitched.”

  Morgan’s “twitch” was something the press had started talking about after she’d failed to win the previous two majors, and it bugged her. They all thought she couldn’t take the pressure of winning the big ones, of finally getting a major on the board, so they thought she’d developed a nervous twitch that was the reason she’d missed those key shots.

  “So who’s our toughest competition this week, huh?”

  Grateful for the slide away from the previous topic, Morgan dived wholeheartedly into a conversation about their rivals on the tour. When her food arrived, she stabbed eagerly at it with her fork, alternating mouthfuls of food with her thoughts on which women were there to be beaten this weekend. Before she knew it, she and Charlie had blown two hours at the bar, and with satisfaction, Morgan realized she’d shaken off everything she’d brought with her from the trip back east. Being with Charlie could usually do that for her, and once again, she was so grateful for their friendship.

  “Okay, next subject,” Charlie said with a wicked grin. She swirled her drink. “Any hot chickies out there for you at the moment?”

  “‘Hot chickies?’” Morgan asked incredulously. “What are you, fifteen?”

  Charlie snorted into her drink. “Okay, so what do you prefer—hot babes? Hot mamas?”

  “Women, Charlie, they’re just women. Just like you and me.”

  “Hey, speak for yourself!” Charlie poked a finger into her own chest. “I, for one, am definitely a hot babe.”

  Morgan laughed and wrapped an arm around Charlie’s shoulders. “Yes, Charlie, yes, you are.” She rolled her eyes. “But no, there are no women out there for me at the moment.” Her voice fell. “And you know I can’t. Not yet. Not after…”

  Charlie kissed Morgan on the cheek. “I know. I just…” She sighed. “Sorry, I just want you to meet that one, you know? That one who gets how wonderful you are and totally worships you as the goddess that you are.”

  “Goddess?” Morgan quirked an eyebrow. “Are you sure that’s just soda you’re drinking?”

  Chuckling, Charlie pushed a fist into Morgan’s bicep. “You know what I mean.”

  Morgan shook her head. “What about you? Any hot hunks on your horizon?”

  Charlie’s eyes went wide. “You did not just say ‘hot hunks’ to me.”

  Morgan laughed so hard her sides ached.

  “You’re late,” Harry said, looking stern, his hands on his hips, Morgan’s bag at his feet.

  Morgan glanced at her watch. “It’s 7:59 a.m. I’m early.”

  Harry rolled his eyes, then broke into laughter a moment later. “So how you doing? You se
em pretty perky.”

  “I don’t do perky,” she replied with a growl, then grinned as he tutted. “I’m good. Ran into Charlie last night.”

  “Hey, how is Mac?”

  “The same.” Morgan smirked. “She said to tell you that you read that last putt wrong and I should fire you.”

  Harry glared at her. “She did not!”

  Morgan shrugged. “What can I say? She’s a smart cookie.”

  “Whatever,” he muttered, turning away from her and picking up the bag. “Come on, we’ve got stuff to do.”

  She sighed. Yeah, he was right. The tournament this week wasn’t as significant as the Open last week, but she knew all eyes would still be on her, wondering if she’d lost it, if she would crumple even further under the pressure everyone thought she was experiencing. It was funny—she’d chosen to play this one because she thought it would be a relaxing change straight off the back of a major. Now she wasn’t so sure.

  “Let’s start on the green,” Harry called over his shoulder, and she sighed again.

  I knew he was gonna say that.

  She followed him onto the area where various practice putting greens were set up. There were three other golfers already there, and she cast a quick glance around to see who. Laurie Schweitzer, of course. Currently world number two and still one of the most ambitious—i.e., hard, callous, Morgan thought with a wry smile—women on the tour, even after being near the top for twelve years. So Park, who was quiet, serious, and had the best drive on the women’s tour right now. And Lotte Karlsson, one of the older players on the tour but still able to hit the top ten on a regular basis. Only Laurie failed to acknowledge Morgan’s presence, but that was no real loss.

  “Bitch,” Harry muttered. He wiped the putter on a fresh towel before passing it to Morgan.

  “Now, now, play nice, Harry.” Morgan threw him a smile.

  “I will if she will.”

  Morgan chuckled. On the outside, Harry looked like a gruff old bear—tall, solidly built, and with a manner of speaking that most people would take as rude. But Morgan knew better; no one had ever had her back more than him, and the insult he’d directed at Laurie was purely in support of Morgan.

  Harry dropped a ball at her feet. “Are we going to talk about it?”

  Morgan looked up at him. There was no judgement or disappointment in his face. Quietly, making sure that Laurie especially didn’t hear, she said, “I didn’t twitch. I swear. I think I just read it wrong. There was more of a slope than I anticipated.”

  He nodded, but before he could speak, she rushed on.

  “But the problem wasn’t the putt. It was the second shot.”

  His smile was slow but warm. “Good girl. Yes, it was. By hitting that into the rough, you never gave yourself a chance of getting close to the pin.” He shrugged. “Sure, a ten-foot putt should be a piece of cake for someone as good as you, but you just added more pressure into an already high-pressure situation.” He stepped back. “I just wanted to be sure about the twitch. Now I know what we need to focus on. And it ain’t actually your putting.”

  She smiled in gratitude. Harry had been her caddy for years now, and she wouldn’t trade him for anyone because he was way more than a caddy. She deliberately paid him the extra to accompany her on training sessions and practice rounds because he was more coach than mere bag carrier.

  Exhaling slowly, she rolled her shoulders a few times, then pushed the ball around with the putter until it sat true on the cropped grass.

  “Don’t do that,” Harry griped. “Play it from wherever it lands.”

  “Yes, boss.” She grinned up at him, and he wagged a finger at her before stepping back.

  She practiced putting—short, medium, and long—for about half an hour. Even though they’d both agreed that her putting wasn’t really at fault for the loss of the Open, Harry knew it calmed her to start the day on the green rather than going straight into a round, and putting practice could never hurt.

  They trotted down the rough pathway that led to the first tee; her first practice round tee-off time was nine, and she arrived in plenty of time to see So Park hit an immaculate drive straight down the middle of the fairway.

  “Nice.”

  Morgan whistled, and Park flashed her a pleased grin before striding off down the fairway, her playing partner, another Korean whom Morgan didn’t recognize, walking alongside her, chatting animatedly. Morgan, as usual, would play her practice round alone. She knew some of the press highlighted that as yet more evidence of her icy persona, but she couldn’t care less about what the press thought. For her, practice was something she needed to concentrate on and always had, and she really didn’t need the presence of another player alongside her disrupting that concentration.

  Morgan retrieved first her cap, then her glove from the bag and pulled them both on. She watched the Koreans disappear down the fairway, but she wasn’t really seeing them. Instead, she assessed the breeze on her face, judging its direction and strength, and took in the lack of cloud, the already warm sun on her upturned face.

  When both the Koreans had played their second shots, Morgan finally turned back to face Harry.

  “All right, Spencer.” He handed her the driver. “Show ’em what you got.”

  She took the club and leaned on it to place her ball on the tee.

  “Remember, it dog legs to the left, but the wind today is from the right, so aim farther right than you’d think to draw it back in.”

  “Sure.” She swung the club a few times, loving how that always felt at the start of a day, and feeling, somewhere deep in her muscles and bones and sinews and tendons, that today was going to be a good day.

  She stepped up, addressed the ball, then, moments later, sent it arcing into the sky into a perfect landing roughly 270 yards down the fairway.

  “That’ll do.” Harry winked as he took back the driver. “That’ll do.”

  “Fourteen and fifteen were the toughest, I think,” Morgan said as she strolled up to where Harry finished packing the bag. She pulled off her cap and the tie around her ponytail and shook her hair out, running her fingers through it to ease out the tangles.

  “Yeah, but you nearly made a mess of six too. That big bunker’s right at your driving distance—you’ll need to be way more accurate with the tee shot.”

  “True.” She gulped from her water; the day was hot, the sun beating down relentlessly from the clear blue sky.

  “Lunch?” Harry asked, hauling the bag up onto his shoulder.

  “Love to.”

  She followed Harry down the path that led from the eighteenth green to the impressive clubhouse. The building had been recently redeveloped, the owners keen to get a top tournament on their books and willing to spend the money to make that happen. It was modern and airy and boasted four eating areas, one of which they headed toward once Harry had secured her bag in the trunk of his car.

  They’d barely made it to the door when a voice called, “Morgan!”

  Morgan spun around, and her mouth dropped open. “Hilton? What the—?”

  Hilton Stewart, her manager, stood in the lobby between two of the eating areas, looking as sharp as ever in one of his Armani suits, a wide smile on his ridiculously handsome face. It was such a shame he was very happily married to his wife of twenty years, or Morgan could see herself engineering a meeting between him and Charlie.

  “And it’s lovely to see you too,” he said as he walked over, his long legs making the distance in only three strides.

  “Well, sorry, but you being here is such a shock. Did I miss an e-mail or something?” She grinned sheepishly as she leaned in to kiss him on the cheek.

  “No,” he said, drawing out the word, which made it sound even more comical with his naturally nasal tone. Anyone else hearing that sound would mistake it for him whining, but she knew better. “Can’t I just
drop in to see my favorite client? Perhaps treat her to lunch?” He waved a hand in the direction of the smartest restaurant area.

  “Oh.” Her eyes were wide as she turned toward Harry. “I was just about to—”

  “No problem.” Harry held up his hands. “You two talk business. I’ll amuse myself until you’re done.”

  “Sorry, Harry. And thank you.” Hilton shook his hand. “It is rather important.”

  Harry saluted and ambled off to the counter where they dispensed burgers, which made Morgan chuckle. Of course that’s where he would head. She was jealous—no doubt Hilton would now buy her a lunch that barely covered the plate it was presented on and she’d be craving something more substantial within two hours of eating it.

  “Shall we?” Hilton motioned toward the restaurant with his head.

  They took a quiet table near a large picture window that overlooked the ornamental gardens and both ordered water to drink.

  “So what gives?” she asked after a few sips.

  Hilton meshed his fingers together and leaned forward. “Well, I’ve had an interesting proposition that I want to run past you. And I’ll be honest, I’ll be really disappointed if you don’t agree to it.”

  Wow, that wasn’t like Hilton. Normally he was much more conciliatory and open. She tried hard not to bristle at the way he’d spoken, but her shoulders tensed. “Okay, what is it?”

  “You might have heard about the documentary ESPN commissioned about the women’s game?”

  She nodded.

  “I got a call yesterday from the producer. She wants to up the ante on how they’re going to approach their story of the majors.” He leaned in closer and lowered his voice. “She wants to make you the feature player. Follow you for the final three this season, have exclusive access to your training and practice, and a couple of sit-down interviews somewhere away from golf. Perhaps at your home.”

  Before he’d even finished speaking, Morgan’s shoulders were so tight it was a wonder bones weren’t popping out of their sockets.

  “No. Absolutely no!”

  He held up a hand. “Wait just a second, please. Think about it. This puts you front and center in the first major documentary about your sport in years. It’ll be broadcast in every country where ESPN has a presence. It will put your name out there in a way that just isn’t happening at the moment.”