Secret Garden

“I will when I’m ready.”

“It’s an easy chip shot. You do those in your sleep.”

“Now you’re really making me worry. What’s on your damn phone?” Playfully, Colin reached for it, but Mack swatted his hand away.

“Okay, fine.” Mack sighed, taking off his cap and wiping his brow. “I was going to tell you after you finished the hole, but if you’ve got to know now and ruin your game, great— It was Leonard, letting you know he’s here for a noon meeting.”

Leonard was Colin’s accountant and business manager. “What’s so bad about that?” Colin asked. Leonard’s management company ran Colin’s website, made his travel arrangements, took care of all the stuff that Colin didn’t enjoy doing. Leonard had even snagged Colin a few endorsements—nothing big, one with a sportswear company that was little more than a struggling start-up, and another with a ball company that, admittedly, spread money around to pretty much every tour pro, just to flood the tour as much as possible with their brand of golf balls. But every dollar counted.

“It’s nothing,” Mack said. “It’s just business.”

Colin hoped their business was still okay. He’d become used to the lifestyle—a far better living than they’d had on the minors tour. That first year in the pro tour, Colin had made close to a million dollars, and he’d bought Daisie Lee a house and a new car. He’d spread the wealth to Mack, too. Stepped up their accommodations on tour.

The thought of losing that made his guts ache.

He just...needed to keep this gig going. Keep the wolf from the door. Do what made everybody happy.

Colin gripped his nine iron and headed toward the ball.

Truth was, his game had been slipping lately. There had been magic in Colin’s game once. Time was he’d pulled off amazing feats, with seemingly little effort. Every so often he still had glimmers of that, and if he just focused hard enough, maybe he could find it again in time for the next tournament. Make the final cut, and thus earn a slice of the purse money, which would automatically boost his ranking again.

Mack crossed his arms and watched silently.

Don’t think. Colin gave the ball his usual address, whistled under his breath, swung...

And completely undershot it.

He stood there, staring at the dead ball for a while. He honestly didn’t know how to begin to fix this.

He turned to Mack. All the greats had caddies who helped them with this sort of thing. Made coaching comments, or had swing coaches on call. “Any tips?”

“Seriously?” Mack laughed. “You hate tips.”

Yeah, well, that was true, too. Colin typically avoided overanalyzing things. He’d always thought that was the secret to his success, and his college golf coach had been fine with it. Mostly, Colin was allergic to critical people who weren’t helpful. “Anything constructive?”

Mack ran a hand through his hair. “How about I videotape you, and then you take a look at it yourself?”

Colin paused. He hadn’t done much of that lately. When he was young, he’d been videotaped a lot. “Sure. Let’s do it.”

“Tomorrow,” Mack said.

“Right.”

Colin took his putter from Mack and prepared to finish up the hole. Two putts later, he sank the ball in the cup, for a bogie on the eighteenth and final hole. Overall, he was three shots under par, which was great for an amateur golfer, but not so impressive for a tour pro.

Pensive, Mack took out his pencil and filled out Colin’s scorecard.

“I’ve got two more weeks to prepare for the New York Cup,” Colin said. “I’ll be fine.”

“Yep,” Mack agreed. But he didn’t meet Colin’s eye. He was lying, and Colin knew it.

Not feeling like himself, Colin headed toward the Nineteenth Hole, Winwood’s combination pro shop and bar-and-grill. Mack followed with the golf bag slung over his shoulder. But a few yards from the gravel path that led from the golf cart rental stand, a foursome of ladies Colin knew from the club—Doris was the blonde ringleader—stopped their cart and hurried over to hug Colin.

He didn’t show the ladies a hint of his worried mood. Instead, he gave them each a smile, a kiss on the cheek, a few “shooting-the-breeze” good words. Because at the end of the day, Doris and her friends were Colin’s people, and he appreciated their support. He was supposed to be here on the golf course at Winwood. He never had a doubt about that in his mind.

Sometimes, though, his motto failed him, and he had a fear that he had some kind of defect. That he would waste whatever gift or talent he’d been given.

“Yo, Walker!”

On the steps to the clubhouse stood Doc Masters, one of the stars of the pro tour, ranked number five. The muscular bald guy had skin on his neck so burned by the sun that it was textured like an alligator’s. As always, he was surrounded by his entourage.

Cocking a hand on his hip, he said to Colin, “I saw you on the roster for the New York Cup.”

Colin turned slowly, the grin still on his face. Sensing trouble because they knew Doc, Doris led her friends to their tee time.

“Yes,” Colin said to Doc. It seemed as if everybody was waiting to see if Colin could pull it off again. Including him. “I’ll be there.”

“Good,” Doc said. “My wife’s sister is coming in to town, and she’s a fan of yours. She wants to hang with Colin’s Crew.”

Colin’s Crew. The merry band of fun-loving, young-at-heart supporters who followed Colin along the fairways in his tournaments as he played each successive hole. Golf being mostly a staid sport, spectators tended to stay put at a hole, watching all the golfers as they played through. But not Colin’s Crew. Colin had never encouraged it; it had just sort of happened back in the early days.

Colin made it a point to sign everybody’s autographs. Shake everybody’s hands. High-five the little kids, especially. He wanted to make everybody feel good about the game of golf. Maybe it tripped up his focus a bit, but that wasn’t so bad. All told, he was pretty damn lucky in his life, and he knew it.

Colin shrugged. Spending time with Doc and his sister-in-law wouldn’t be a hardship. “Sure. We’ll meet up for drinks afterward.”

“You can hang out with her on Sunday.”

Colin stared at Doc. Outwardly, there was no malice in his statement. It hadn’t even occurred to Doc that in assuming Colin wouldn’t make the final cut—that he would be eliminated before the final day of the tournament—he was insulting Colin.

Doc walked off. Usually, Colin would have laughed it off. But some old spark of commitment, of competitive spirit seemed to rebel. “Sure,” he called after Doc. “When the network guys interview me with the trophy, I’ll be sure to bring her up to the press box with me.”

Doc paused. Then he turned and let out a guffaw. “That’s a good one.” He rubbed his chin. “Hey, do you need a ride on my private jet? Anytime, just give me a call.”

“We will,” Mack interjected. Colin didn’t blame him. Traveling by private jet was better than flying commercial.

“Call me,” Doc said to Colin. “We’ll keep in touch.”

Colin leaned back and gave him the good ol’ boy smile he’d learned after they first moved to this part of Texas when he was a kid. Acting as if nothing riled him. As if he was just an easygoing guy. No drama, no pain.

“That guy is an ass,” Mack said, once Doc was well out of earshot. “But he’s an ass with a private plane.”

“Yep,” Colin agreed. He headed into the clubhouse and then directly toward the conference room where he habitually met with Leonard. “But I’m not going to waste my time worrying about him.”

Mack grabbed Colin’s arm, stopping him. “Actually, Colin, now that we’re finished with the round, I, uh, need to tell you something.”

“Is this what the texting was all about?”

“Well...yeah.”