2. Locke

I scowl. "No."

Maren swallows, like she's second-guessing whether she should have spoken.

"Fuck no," I add for emphasis before she can say please again like that. I thought she was going to ask me to teach her how to play golf—which might be an even less ridiculous idea than that, and that's saying something.

She taps her tiny foot an inch off the ground. "Why not?"

"That's… mildly cute," I say, eyeing her long legs. "Answer's still no."

She scrunches her face in offense. Her button nose is sexily speckled with freckles, but I doubt she'd be thrilled if I said that either.

"Please don't call me mildly cute."

I'm not unaware of the effect it has on people, so flashing her a rare smile is all it takes to make her soften. "What do you want to be called?"

Nope, back to mad.

Her body stiffens. "I'm not doing that so you can get inside Russ' head," Maren says.

"Do what?"

"Whatever you're trying to do; psychological warfare so you can win. Pissing contest. Arm wrestle. One-upmanship. Dick measuring. Whatever. I really don't want to be a part of whatever was going on between you two. I'm not going to play your weird alpha-male game."

"Weird alpha-male game," I repeat slowly. "Has anyone ever told you that you talk a lot? What are you even saying?"

She waves her hand at my face like I should know exactly whatever the hell she's talking about. "Like hook up with you or be your fake girlfriend or something to give a giant middle finger to Russ."

"Fake girlfriend?" I laugh. That sounds like a lot of fucking work with zero reward. "Pass. You went there rather fast. And that is the furthest thing from what I was trying to do."

A blush creeps over her cheeks. Her patience is growing thin, even though she's trying to hide it, and she asks me rather nicely, "Then what were you doing up there?"

"Like you said, I wasn't giving a shit. You should try it some time," I say, lifting an eyebrow.

She sighs and tucks a strand of her long brown waves behind her ear. "You're… infuriating."

I laugh internally. Even insulting me, she sounds like she's elated. Poor girl has zero chance.

"You don't need someone to teach you. It's easy. I don't tell people my business, Maren. Let them think whatever they want to think. I'm not going to change anyone's mind."

"Do you watch Triple Bogey ?" she asks.

I roll my eyes. The name alone is enough to make my brain shrivel from severe stupidity. "What do you think?"

"Do you know what it's like for people to think they know you when they don't at all? Like half of America hates me and half loves me. And all they really know is what the show chooses to show them. They don't really know me at all."

"Nope," I deadpan. "No idea what that could possibly be like. Besides, all of America is not watching your little show." My own annoyance is bubbling to the surface, so I slip a hand in my pocket and thumb the tee I have in there at all times. "Is this conversation over? "

I expect her to fight me harder, longer, but she just sighs and accepts defeat. The competitive asshole in me almost feels disappointed.

"Sure," she concedes.

I glance over my shoulder and motion for Casie to roll down the window. "I don't feel like hanging out anymore," I tell her. "Going to go practice."

Casie whines out a "Loccckkkeee," that sounds nothing close to nice, rolls her eyes, and practically peels out of the parking lot.

"I'm sorry," Maren mutters apologetically to my back as I walk off, "for ruining your mood and messing up your plans."

I stop short and turn slowly. Her face starts to lift, grow brighter, thinking I've somehow changed my mind. I slip my hat from my back pocket and put it back on my head. My voice comes out harsh. "Here's one for free—don't say sorry."

I just catch her start to smile as I backpedal around the corner. That's the only piece of life advice she'll get from me, so she should wipe that look off her face quickly.

The driving range is surprisingly quiet this morning. Conrad, all alone, has parked himself at the very far left bay.

I saunter up quietly, eyeing his nearly perfect backswing, and joke loudly, "Why did I hire you to be my caddie again?" He flinches, and the ball shanks hard right. "God, you suck."

"Asshole," he laughs. "Speaking of…" He takes his time putting another golf ball on the tee. "What was that up there?"

"It was nothing," I say. "Just Russ being Russ."

Conrad holds his eye contact like he knows I'm lying. Which he does.

Sometimes I wish he didn't know me so well, but he's the only real person in my life—technically my brother and definitely my cousin.

We have the same dirty blond hair, but Conrad got the blue approachable eyes to go along with it.

"I'm not in the mood to talk," I add.

He nods. "Got your ass chewed out by that girl you love to hate? "

"No," I counter. "She wouldn't be capable of chewing out anyone. And I don't hate her. I hate how her camera is always pointed at me."

"That's literally her job ."

I shrug. That has zero relevance to the fact that I hear the click of her camera shutter all day on seventy-five percent of the days in a year, and the sound grates me down my spine.

"You're impossible," Conrad says.

"Let's not talk about me. What's new with my favorite girl?"

He pauses then happily relents because like every new parent, he'll take any excuse to talk about his daughter, Emmie. "As of this week, she's holding her head up now. You should see how cute she looks in her little seat, looking around at the world all happy that she can see it. And then, of course, she's a terror at night because she's hit a four-month sleep regression."

I nod in understanding. Four months ago, I had no fucking clue that a one-day-old baby couldn't hold their head up or what a sleep regression was or that babies can't drink water. Now, I babysit.

Conrad is in the middle of a story about how she shat in various shades of green and yellow all over his lap after a bath when my phone starts ringing.

I slide it out of my pocket and step away to let him go back to his practice swings.

"Word travels that fast?" I say.

"Pleasure, as always," Graham replies, "and as your agent, I'm expected to know these things before they happen."

"Nothing is happening."

He ignores me. "Rooting around in rivals' ex-girlfriends? Bold move. One that I can't control the narrative of when you don't talk to me."

"There is nothing to control," I try again. "That fucking reality show was trying to make good TV. I hardly know the girl. "

"Well, shit," he sighs. "I thought I stumbled on something. Would it kill you to date someone? Show the world you can be a cute boyfriend in a serious relationship?"

"You think I'm cute?" I joke.

Again, Graham ignores me. "You know what would be a PR dream? Showing the world how much of a better boyfriend you are than Russell Ashe. Doesn't even need to be real. Do you think this Maren woman would agree to that? It might make you appear more… human."

"As opposed to?" I question.

"Robotic?" he says with a question mark.

"My AI is showing?"

He scoffs. "Actually, this may be my best idea yet. What about Casie?"

"Over," I say, playing with a tuft of grass under the toe of my shoe and deciding in the moment.

"Locke."

I shrug like he can see me. "I'm bored."

Which I know is a byproduct of not letting someone in, but I don't care. It's not worth it, and I have no interest in it. Surface level is all I want, until, well, until I get tired of it and move on to the next temporary surface level thing that satisfies me for a couple of months. Nothing about me screams that I'd want to enter into a fake relationship to better my image, especially when I don't care about that image.

"Think about it," Graham insists.

"Thought about it—no."

"How's Florida?" he asks, changing the subject.

"Sunny."

"So is San Diego. I've got a few commitments lined up. And before you complain, you have to do at least some of this. It's required, per your contract, and it won't kill you. This is part of your job. Press conferences, interviews, dinner and drinks with sponsors, among other things. I'll email you the schedule tonight. Look it over."

Among other things sounds suspicious.

"I told you this year was the year of less," I say. "Less tournaments, less obligations. I want more time with my family, especially my niece, and Conrad deserves it. He's been traveling with me for a decade. If you're not going to do what I want, what do I pay you twenty percent of my marketing dollars for?"

Graham doesn't miss a beat. "To show people you are actually a human with a soul, no matter how much you hide it. And trust me, Locke, it's not an easy job."

"I'd tell you to fuck off, but I know you won't."

"Get back to doing what you do best; playing golf," he laughs.

After he hangs up, I settle in the bay next to Conrad. With him, I never have to pretend. He just lets me be.

I pull my driver out of my golf bag that Conrad hauled over here. That feeling when the golf ball hits the sweet spot is the closest thing I have to pure love.