6. Locke

I never should've touched her.

For some reason, I can't get the feel of her skin off my hands. It just lingers there, and adrenaline is coursing through my veins now at the slight thought that she's within reach.

As she walks toward me, Maren tucks her little purse that's only big enough to hold a phone under her arm and drops her eyes to the floor like she's terrified to keep looking at me.

Her black dress has two lines of tiny crocheted holes around her waist, and it's hugging her hips just enough to draw my gaze to them, which immediately goes down slowly to her gold heels.

"I didn't know what to wear," she says quickly when she reaches me. "Is this too much?"

"Is that what you think?" I ask. "That you're too much?"

Her wide eyes meet mine like I've stolen all the oxygen from the room. "Sometimes."

"Take it from someone who actually is, you are not too much."

"Well, all the other times I feel like I'm not enough," she jokes with truth laced into the words. "So… there's that."

I feel it rise in my chest—the urge to prove her wrong, to stamp out whoever made her doubt herself. Russell, I'm sure .

"You look perfect," I say genuinely, ignoring that I'm half-hard. I'd tell her she looks fucking sexy, but I don't think she'd appreciate it, and I'm trying to remind myself every other second that I don't want to have sex with someone who's always around.

Her lips part, but she doesn't respond.

Do not touch her , I tell myself. Instead, I turn and assume she'll follow. When I hear the click-clack of her heels trying to keep up with my long strides, I slow to walk beside her.

"Are you staying in this hotel?" she asks.

"No," I chuckle. "I'm renting a house. I don't like people."

She smiles like I'm joking. "How'd you know where I was?"

"Conrad, my caddie, knew where the PGA staff is staying," I say, holding the door open for her.

"Things come easily to you, don't they?" she muses.

"That takes work," I say, shrugging.

I lead her to my rental car sitting at the curb. She stays silent as I hold open the door for her, and she continues to stay silent when I get in and pull out into traffic.

Every time she crosses her legs in the opposite direction, I find myself wishing I knew what she was thinking, if she is nervous, until out of nowhere she says, "So, you like Conrad?"

I definitely don't appreciate the thought that this whole time she was thinking about my fucking caddie.

"I have to," I joke. "He's my cousin. And my brother."

Maren's mouth forms an oh . "I'm sorry. Unless that's an incest joke I'm not picking up on."

"Incest jokes are never funny," I say while I stifle a laugh. "And there's nothing to be sorry for because it's not sad. If my aunt and uncle hadn't raised me then I'd have gone into foster care."

She shifts toward me and lays a hand over mine before I can register what she's doing. It's like a long drag of nicotine that goes straight to my head before I quickly yank my hand back.

Her face drops. "I'm sorry," she says again, flustered .

"Stop apologizing. There's nothing to be sorry for," I tell her probably too harshly, but she doesn't seem to mind.

"I know, I know. But it's sad and beautiful."

"It was a long time ago," I say.

She smiles to herself. "I think I would've liked to see you as a child."

"I'm sure I have a picture."

"I meant know you. What you were like," she clarifies. "Wh—"

Before she can ask a follow-up question about me, I'm already cutting her off. "What about your sister?"

"How'd you know I have a sister?"

"You posted a photo of yourself with a girl who looks just like you. I mean it's a given, right?"

"She's my doppelg?nger," she says, straight-faced. "I randomly met her at the grocery store."

"So, your twin?"

"Actually, no," she laughs. "Camille is eleven months younger than me. Also, she's married with a baby on the way."

The way she adds the last part makes me think she has to tell men that a lot. "My next question wasn't going to be if she was single."

Maren gives me an appreciative look and tries not to smile. "It's okay if it was. I assure you we've been asked if we're into threesomes more than once. As much as we look alike, she has always been the funnier, prettier, more confident, slightly better version of me. I came to terms with it a long time ago. I just want everyone to like me, so I try to blend in. Give everyone what they want from me."

"You think it's easier to sacrifice yourself?" I ask.

"Sometimes, yeah. Don't you?"

"Not anymore. Someone will always hate you. It doesn't matter what you do or say. One person will think something amazing about you and another person will think the complete opposite. You tell the entire truth to someone's face and you will never be able to change their mind, so I don't try anymore."

"Anymore?" Maren questions me.

I start slowly, unsure how much of myself I want to give to her, but a chuckle slips out first before I can stop it. This is why I'm trying to help her, so I may as well.

"I'm not immune to the internet. Always having it at your fingertips is a curse. Half of us admit it, but don't do anything about it. Every article that was written about me, every video taken, even if I didn't find it myself—and trust me, I found enough myself through Google or social media to last me a lifetime—someone texted one to me. I'd spend hours reading comments or watching a video of me where I was supposedly rude or tired. Every single person would analyze my body language or try to read my lips.

"And then I'd obsess—what could I have done differently, how could I make people happy. Then I'd try to change, be overly nice, but then I would still get misinterpreted as fake or rude, and no matter how hard I tried to change, someone always had something negative to say about me. The best thing I ever did for my mental health was put my phone down. Because I can't control other people's feelings. I know myself and am happy with myself. I'm not living for others. That's all that matters. And for someone like me, it's easier to keep people at arm's length anyway."

"For someone like you?" she repeats.

"Someone who's…"

I try to choose my next words carefully, and I'm about to say a professional athlete until Maren turns toward me.

Her eye contact is surprisingly steady before she finishes my sentence like she read my thoughts. "Too much?"

Then Maren goes back to looking out the window.

When we walk into the restaurant, Graham's eyeline bounces between me and Maren before he stands to greet us .

He buttons his jacket and swipes a hand through his brown curls with his face full of hesitancy.

"He didn't know I was coming?" Maren whispers, confused.

I shrug as we approach. "He assumed when I said I was bringing someone that it was Conrad. He should learn to ask better questions."

"Maren!" Graham smiles brightly and holds his hand out for her. "It's so nice to officially meet you."

"I'm so sorry," she replies, shaking his hand. Her eyes flutter to mine, wondering how he knows her name. "Locke didn't tell me your name."

"Graham, his agent." He sits after I pull Maren's chair out for her and settle into the chair beside her. "He didn't tell me his…"

"Co-worker," I offer before I shoot him a stern look warning him not to mention any fake PR bullshit.

"—co-worker was joining us." Graham's eyebrows fall in disappointment before he places a hand on Josh's shoulder to his left. "This is Josh, VP of marketing at Rival, and his wife, Shelley."

They both smile a little too much, like they're trying to impress Maren. Josh's dark beard surrounds his bright white teeth, making them look impossibly whiter, and Shelley's deep red lips curl up like she's hoping to become her best friend. But Maren doesn't seem to notice.

Instead, she nods and tries to pull a face like she knows exactly what Rival is, though it's clear she has no clue. "Nice to meet both of you. Maren Murray."

For some reason, hearing her say her last name startles me. I'd never thought about it before, but now I'm wondering what her middle name is, how old she is, when her birthday is, what her favorite color is.

After Josh and Shelley greet us, I find myself leaning into the side of her face .

"You're an alliteration," I chuckle for her ears only and watch her shiver. "Rival is a sports drink, by the way." I straighten. "Josh and Graham have been with me since the beginning."

Maren's eyes light up as she looks between them both. "When was the beginning?"

"God," Josh says, thinking. "Almost a decade ago."

"How old are you?" she asks, craning her neck toward me.

"Thirty."

Her smile starts in her eyes first like she likes my answer, then she sticks her tongue between her front teeth and playfully bites it.

My eyes have a hard time pulling themselves from her mouth until she eventually turns back.

"So, what did you do? Force him to give up college?" Maren questions Graham.

"Trust me, I tried," he laughs. "Many times. I backed off. I'm a patient man. And then one day, suddenly, he was ready."

Another turn of her body into mine. "Where'd you go to college?"

I'm equal parts impressed and disappointed she didn't google me because I can tell she truly doesn't know the answer. Of course, the asshole never mentioned it to her. Which then leaves me dreading the moment she learns, "The University of Florida."

Her brows knit, and she chews on her lip as she no doubt does the math in her head.

"Oh," she says, wide-eyed, when she's figured out the answer. Her pupils look like pinpricks against the green shades of her irises. "So, you and Russell were teammates?"

"We were," I confirm, "for a year."

Maren blinks at me then erases all traces of confusion with a soft smile, almost as if she's apologizing. "I'm—he never mentioned that."

I scowl. "You're saying you're sorry in your head, aren't you?"

"No," she says, tipping her chin up in defiance, and changing the subject, thank god. "When did you start playing golf?"

"Don't remember," I say .

Graham knocks a knuckle on the table. "Twelve."

"I thought you had to pick up golf at the age of two to have any hope of turning pro," Maren jokes.

Shelley laughs with her and teases her husband, "Right, Josh? Isn't that why you weren't able to play professionally?"

"Josh isn't half bad," I defend him. I've had to play with him enough times in my life to appease people. "Trust me, if he wasn't, I would have never played with him again. Take Graham, for example, one and done."

"Oh?" Graham laughs in his good-natured tone. "Maren, I just happen to have a picture in my phone of twelve-year-old Locke at his first tournament."

I groan. Maren grins happily.

I know exactly which photo it is: the one Graham had my aunt dig up when he needed it for a commercial. I'm practically scowling into the camera with my first ever medal because I placed second.

"Baby Locke?" Maren breathes delightfully, extending her arm out and curling her manicured fingers toward his phone. "Let me see." Her eyes flash, her smile all teeth, when Graham hands over his phone. I wonder what she looks like when she actually does get mad and is comfortable enough to show someone. "Look at you! You're like the exact same, just a foot shorter. Same frown. Same haircut."

"I don't like change," I mutter. "And I was pissed off I lost."

"You got a medal though." Her foot grazes mine on accident when she crosses her legs underneath the table. I angle my legs farther away from her. "When did you know you were good? Better than normal?"

"I don't know," I say noncommittally before I pick up my beer and try to take a long enough sip that will force Maren to focus back on the group.

This isn't a get-to-know-you game. She's supposed to be talking to them so I can sit here in peace.

Thankfully, she seems to realize this. Her smile loosens a millimeter when she looks up at me and a silent conversation passes through us unintentionally.

She turns away quickly and hands the phone back to Graham. "I was just telling Locke on the way here that I would've liked to see him as a child. That didn't disappoint."

"Everyone knew he was special by at least fifteen," Graham fills in for me. "It's a good thing his aunt suggested golf to channel his emotions into."

"Emotions?" Maren's laugh channels how can Locke Hughes possibly have emotions energy. Then her laugh abruptly subsides as she misinterprets his words. She flicks her eyes to mine sadly and silently apologizes.

"Intensity?" Graham humorously corrects himself. "When Locke wants something, he will not stop until he's achieved it. Every piece of himself is focused on it. Similar to a lot of great athletes."

I'm chugging my beer at this point, even though I typically don't drink. I wish everyone would shut up. I don't want to sit here and discuss my personality traits or my life or my habits.

Somehow, Maren picks up on this.

"Shelley," she says, shifting the topic for me on purpose, "what's the world of sports drinks like?"

Josh and Graham fall into their own conversation. Maren and Shelley gush like they've become two best friends.

I'll sit here, thankful for Maren's talkative personality, and drink my beer in silence. This is what I was supposed to get out of this arrangement anyway.

I'm not doing it out of the goodness of my heart.