Page 90 of Tee’d Up For Trouble

Friends had brought in trays of sandwiches and baked goods, and Ronan had made Liam’s favorite, shepherd’s pie and berry cake. Of course, there was whiskey and enough Guinness flowing to keep the entire village merry well into the night.

Jax watched the chaos with delight. “I love this,” he said. “I love the joy.”

I glanced at him, catching the soft look in his blue eyes. “It is joyous,” I agreed. “We grieve, sure, but we also celebrate. Liam wouldn’t want us sitting around crying all night. He’d want us laughing, telling stories, and drinking to his memory.”

Jax nodded slowly, his gaze sweeping over the room. “Yeah, he’d like this party and be annoyed he missed it.”

“He sure would.”

As the whiskey bottles were emptied, the mood shifted. The laughter softened, and the memories we shared of Liam became somber.

“He gave me money to buy a new oven when the old one broke down. He wouldn’t let me pay him back,” Cadhla said with a watery smile. “That was when I was young and scared and…alone, right after my divorce. He said I could pay him back by baking him apple tarts. So, I did, and the fecker told me it wasn’t half as good as his ma’s.”

The room chuckled, and someone called out, “He wasn’t wrong!”

Then, as was tradition, the room grew quiet, and someone began to sing. It was Paddy, his voice rough but full of feeling as he launched intoThe Parting Glass. The familiar melody filled the pub, wrapping around us like a warm embrace, and I once again felt the sting of tears in my eyes.

“Goodbye, Liam, be well. You’ll be missed.”

CHAPTER35

Jax

Not having a course close enough to train on was becoming a real problem. As a pro golfer, practicing my swing, short game, and course strategy was critical—and that couldn’t be done in a gym. It meant I was on the road constantly during the season, and I didn’t like it. Not one bit.

I liked being in Ballybeg despite the shite weather. I didn’t want to leave, but I couldn’t stay here with nothing to do. I played golf professionally, and that meant living the life of an athlete. We trained, worked on our fitness, and practiced relentlessly to keep every aspect of our game sharp.

But the truth was that I felt at home in Ballybeg like I never had in Charleston or anywhere else. When I told my friends, the ones who’d fallen in love told me,“She’s home, and she’s in that village, so that’s your home now. Enjoy the damp and gray!”

It wasn’t just her, though.

I’d spent years winning golf tournaments, signing endorsement deals, and living in the kind of luxury most people only dreamed of. But standing on the green in Ballybeg, surrounded by the people who’d fought tooth and nail to save their village, I felt like I’d finally won something that mattered.

And then it hit me. Maybe I could, as they said, have my cake and eat it too.

The idea came to me as I stood at the edge of Dee’s family farm, looking out over the rolling hills. The grass was damp with morning dew, the air crisp and cool, and I could see the faint outline of the cliffs in the distance. It was perfect.

Not for a resort. Not for some over-the-top luxury development.

But for golf. And not just recreational golf, either.

We could have a proper course—small, private, and focused on training and community. A place where people like me could practice without the distractions of the city, where aspiring golfers could come to hone their skills without breaking the bank. Practicing under different conditions—wind, rain, uneven terrain—was like altitude training for a runner. It pushed you to adapt, to refine your technique, to be ready for anything when it mattered most. Golf wasn’t just about sunny days and perfect greens. It was about control, precision, and mental endurance—even when the weather or the course wasn’t on your side.

The first person I pitched the idea to was Dee.

I found her in the kitchen of The Banshee’s Rest, peeling potatoes with the kind of intensity that made me think she was imagining they were Cillian’s head.

“Ronan late again?” I asked.

Ronan was dealing with animal issues at the farm, which meant Dee was doing things in the kitchen that weren’t to her liking, such as peeling potatoes.

“It’s Molly Moo. Her hip’s all messed up again, and Ronan thinks it might be arthritis. She’s limping something fierce, poor girl. We’re trying to keep her comfortable, but you know how stubborn she is—she won’t stay still for long.”

Molly Moo was a feisty old Friesian cow with a black patch over one eye that made her look like a pirate, though Ronan swore she had the heart of a saint. She was one of the last cows left on the Gallagher family farm, born during Dee’s childhood and raised by her sister Maggie, who had hand-fed her as a calf after her mother rejected her. Ronan had adopted Molly Moo when he started living in the farmhouse.

“Will we be having another wake for Molly Moo?” I asked.

Dee glared at me. “Don’t you be makin’ fun of the Gallagher family cow, now, Jax Caldwell. That’s just rude.” But there was amusement in her voice.

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