Page 132 of Fangirl Down

Earlier today, he’d rallied. Birdied nine holes, climbed to number one on the leaderboard. But he’d bogeyed the last hole, gone into the water two holes prior, and slipped to number two. Nakamura was lining up his shot now, twenty yards from where Wells stood. The veteran golfer was poised to win the Masters and he deserved it. He’d played four solid rounds.

And the guy probably wanted it so bad.

Look at that. His wife was waiting on the sidelines with the rest of the gigantic crowd, holding on to an older woman’s hand. Probably her mother-in-law. They were bursting with pride,waiting for Nakamura to sink this final putt and take the green jacket home.

Good. He was welcome to it.

You’re burning it all down, Josephine said in his ear.Why?

At the sound of her imaginary voice, Wells drifted back to a conversation they’d had in the dark one night in California.

“Which win do you remember most?” Josephine had asked.

“My second major.”

“Really? Why?”

“I don’t know... I guess, because I wasn’t an imposter on the tour after that.”

Josephine was quiet for a few moments, her index finger drawing circles in the middle of his chest. “So you remember it mostly because of how... other people would see you differently afterward?”

He’d been a little taken aback by that interpretation, but he couldn’t completely deny it. “I guess.”

“But what made it feel good for you?”

Another minute passed while he peeled back layers he didn’t even know existed. That’s what Josephine did. “The game... I was honored to become a part of the game. It’s old and loved by people who’ve come and gone... and there’s this beautiful ritual to it. I’d never had anything beautiful in my life before that and I guess I was just stunned when it loved me back.”

Her appreciative exhale had roamed slowly over his body. “Remember that, Wells.”

“I will, belle.”

Recalling what it felt like to lie with Josephine in his arms and talk about their mutual love for the game had left his windpipe the size of a straw.

It shrank even more when Nakamura missed the putt.

The crowd let out an explosion of shock and disappointment.

A rush of fire blew over his nerve endings.

Holy shit.

That shot should have been a gimme.

But the guy had missed. Which brought them even at fifteen under par.

In other words, if Wells sank the next putt, he would win the fucking Masters.

And he couldn’t even see the shot. His brain wasn’t working. Lack of sleep, lack of her, too much of everything else.

Josephine, where are you?

Jesus.

He could recall her asking him, “If you could visualize the shot, what would it look like?” He strode to the quarter he’d left to hold his place, setting his ball in the same spot and pocketing the change. He turned his hat around, hunkering down and exhaling.

The crowd wasn’t breathing.

The air had stopped moving. Not a hint of wind to dry the sweat beading on his forehead. His temples throbbed, along with the insides of his wrists.

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