Page 18 of Putting Out
“Two Royal Blues to none.”
The Royal Blue jacket. Silly, just a coat, but it was the symbolic victory trophy more recognizable than any other in golf. On par with the Super Bowl ring.
He watched her face change and he could see their teasing was over.
“You came to tell me I should do it.”
“Hell no!”
“You’re here to tell me I shouldn’t?” she asked clearly surprised.
“Hell no,” he repeated. “I’m not here to help you make any decision. I’m here because… I needed a little taste of home.”
“Your home is in Burbank, California.”
“That’s true. I’m here for… some pie. I’m serious,” he assured her. “Okay, maybe I’m here for more than pie, but I’m not going to tell you what to do, Slice. This is your call. All the way.”
She nodded and shoved her iron back into her bag.
“Thanks.”
“Don’t thank me. In a few days you’ll be begging for someone to tell you what to do. I think I might be here to make sure you don’t get away with that. You can’t do this for any reason other than you want to. If I think otherwise I’m going to tackle you and lock you away until it’s over. This tournament is bigger than you. Bigger than me, bigger than Nicklaus, bigger than Tiger. It’s the American and you don’t get to treat it lightly.”
“So what you’re saying is I shouldn’t do it for the money.”
He reached out and pinched her nose like he used to do when she was a kid and he was an oh- so-mature college man.
She swatted his hand away. “Stah…hup.”
Which of course made him reach for her nose again.
With two hands she slapped his reaching hands away until he finally gave up, but they were both laughing like twenty years hadn’t passed.
“It’s Sunday,” Reilly announced. “Shouldn’t you be in a booth somewhere?”
“The tour isn’t televising on my network this week.”
She nodded, but he could see she was waiting for more.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Luke read concern, sympathy and if he wasn’t mistaken a galling dose of pity in her eyes.
“Don’t,” he warned. “Don’t look at me like some kind of damn loser. I decided I wasn’t going to be that guy. The washed-up aging quarterback who says he going to play one more season and everyone groans and wishes he would let go. I let go. I called it. Game over. I’m the Jerry Seinfeld of golf. I went out on top and on my terms.”
Reilly looked away from him, not because his tone upset her, he knew. Holly-Two would have been in tears by now. Reason number eighteen why he divorced her.
When she turned back she was smiling, even if it was a little sad.
“You did sound slick doing the commentary. You sure did look good in a suit, too. I guess I thought between the two of us, you would be the aging quarterback. The guy who couldn’t let go. I thought you would hang on to the bitter end and someday I would have to pry your fingers off a club just to bury you.”
Luke stood motionless against her words. Like a man trying to maintain his feet in the ocean against an incoming wave. There had been waves before Reilly. He imagined there would be waves – smaller ones – after Reilly. But this wave was the one he’d wanted to avoid. This wave he knew might shake his resolve that he’d done the right thing.
Reilly reached out and wrapped her hand around his arm.
“Hey, I’m not trying to beat you up. It took me by surprise, that’s all. I tuned in to watch you play only to listen to you talking about other people playing. It was… jarring.”
He had told Kenny. He had told his wife, although he wasn’t sure why he bothered. It’s not like she had cared. He told his friends, his colleagues, his agent, and his fiercest competitors.
