Tee It Up: A Wilder Brothers Romance

by Megan Hetherington

  I rest my fork onto my plate and lean back to give my stomach time to adjust to the huge amount of food I’ve subjected it to.

  Mom comes to sit opposite me, leaning in with her elbows on the table. “So, have you found your mojo again yet, son?”

  “Mojo?” A word I’ve not heard Mom use before and it sounds strange coming from her.

  “You know what I mean - have you got your head back into the game. You seemed to have a tough time before you and Cherie… you know… hung around together.”

  I place a hand behind my head and stretch out my neck so a couple of vertebrae pop satisfyingly.

  It’s not like Mom and I ever have chats about girls I hang out with, and I’ve only introduced a few over the years. So, she’s not aware of the arrangement I had with Cherie.

  Relationships are not my strong point as I can’t seem to find the right balance between golf and love, which usually ends in the girl getting pissed with me. And there’s only ever one winner when that happens. Golf.

  Even that one time in my life when everything was going well: top flight golf, seemingly understanding girlfriend, money rolling in and a move to Florida on the cards. Until the said girlfriend realized that without her family and friends and the lure of year-long golf weather for me, Florida would be a lonely place for her. I would like to say I chose golf over her, but that wasn’t how it panned out. She left me. Our new house. And the ring on her finger. So yeah, I avoid relationships now.

  “How can I put this Mom? Cherie and I were never an item.”

  She sips her coffee. “You need to give relationships more time to blossom, Johnson. Love doesn’t happen overnight; you have to cherish and nurture it.”

  I shake my head. “That was never on the cards for Cherie and I. We were hanging out together… as friends. She was kinda helping me with my game.”

  I can’t explain it truthfully to Mom, she need not know I’m a party animal with a supposed sex addiction who doesn’t know when to keep my dick zipped away. Or that Cherie was a paid Rottweiler to keep me from the girls and the girls from me.

  “Oh, that’s a shame, Johnson. Seems she was good for you.”

  I cock my head on a side. Her line of questioning has got me wondering if Mom has heard about my latest escapade.

  “Yes, she was, I suppose.”

  “What are you going to do now?”

  “About…?”

  “Your game, of course. I’ve given up nagging you to find a nice girl to settle down with.”

  Okay, this conversation is becoming a little contrived, but I suppose she is my mom and I don’t want her to worry about me. I will have to reveal some of what’s going on.

  “It’s all under control. I’m seeing one of those sports psychologists. They’re supposed to be geniuses at getting sportsmen to focus on their game.”

  She reaches out for my hand across the table.

  “That sounds reassuring. You make sure you tell him everything.” She squeezes my hand and fixes a stare on me.

  “What do you mean everything?” Wondering if there is a startling revelation from my childhood I’ve blanked out over the years.

  “Your father leaving us like that when you were at a vulnerable age.”

  I huff, which is my way of saying, ‘I don’t want to talk about it’.

  “I know you hurt when he left; that’s why you threw yourself into golf. It was good for you at first… but when it became an obsession, I didn’t have the skills to do anything about it. You were headstrong as a teenager. Still are. And I worried it would all come to a head at some point. I thought that would happen when Kirsty left you.”

  I hate that she says that. The fact I couldn’t keep either a father or fiancé is something I can’t come to terms with and don’t want to talk to Mom about. She can be that way with my younger brothers, but not me. I’m supposed to be the strong one. The head of this family.

  My jaw ticks.

  “I was so proud of you when you pulled yourself together and was winning all of those competitions. When you bought yourself a nice house and car and all those fancy toys you surround yourself with. But with no-one to share them with? I worry you’re lonely. And I can’t bear that.”

  “I’m not lonely Mom,” I lie.

  “Promise you’ll tell this psychologist guy everything?”

  I let out a nervous laugh. “Promise Mom. Oh, and it’s a woman. A female psychologist.”

  “Oh, is she nice?” Her eyes hopeful.

  “Nice? She’s a doctor Mom.”

  She pulls her eyebrows together. “Make sure you leave no stone unturned, Johnson. This is your chance to stop your past getting in the way of your own happiness. Tell her everything.” She taps her palms on the pine.

  “Yeah, will do.” I’m half listening because I’ve opened my emails to check out this Wilder Foundation event and I’ve spotted an e-mail from Charlena. I’ve not seen her in a mighty long time and from the signature picture she’s sent I’m rather intrigued to catch up as she suggests. I check my watch and decide there’s enough time to meet up with her tonight, so I fire off a proposition.

  Chapter Six

  Meredith

  I’m sure there’s an appointment in today’s schedule I’ve not prepared for. Over the weekend, I was pre-occupied with the move to my new apartment on Upper Eastside and ran out of time to check my calendar this morning. And now I’m late to the office as I’d forgotten where I parked my car and under-estimated my new route. It would have been easier to have moved somewhere closer to work, but I resisted in favor of having a nice neighborhood to live in. Hector moved our office after I started with them on my internship three years ago into a purpose-built office block. It has great parking facilities but isn’t on any convenient public transport routes.

  My SUV glides into the row that holds my reserved space in the parking lot.

  I flick on my indicator and steer the wheel in my spot, only to stop at the bumper of a Porsche.

  Of course it is!

  I glare at the vanity plate, signifying it as Johnson Wilder’s car. Asshole.

  Hector is at the prenatal clinic with his wife today, so I maneuver my car into his spot, leaving no room for Johnson to open his door. I’m still cussing under my breath when I enter our office building and rush passed the security guard to catch the elevator that has opened its doors.

  My anger hasn’t subsided by the time I reach the eleventh floor, and I push forcibly on the outer door, stride passed the lounging Johnson and smoothly unlock my private office door.

  I didn’t expect he would turn up for his appointment today and hadn’t prepared for him. That was the niggling memory that was trying to surface on the journey in this morning.

  It takes a few minutes of pacing my office before I’m calm enough to determine my strategy. I sit at my desk and unlock the drawer that holds my notebook.

  There’s a light rap on the door. I wait several seconds, expecting Johnson to enter without invitation, like he did last time he was here. Only this time he knocks again.

  “Enter,” I call out.

  Johnson pokes his head around the door and his honeyed mouth breaks into a dazzling smile. Dimples forming at each end.

  “Am I okay to come in?” he asks.

  “Eh… sure.”

  I’m slightly flummoxed by such a well-mannered entrance and uneasy with my physical reaction to him. I was up for a fight, caused by him parking in my spot and the train wreck of a consultation the last time he was here. Instead, I have fluttering’s low in my stomach and my guard has dropped to the floor. So, I promptly winch my metaphorical guard back up - to half way for now and rest my hand on the lever for immediate action if needed.

  He walks across to the chair. “May I?”

  My head pivots a few degrees, so I can view him from the corner of my eye. This angle gives a more critical assessment and cannot be blinded by hot smiles and dimples. After a few seconds I determine his demeanor appears genuine.
/>   “Of course.”

  I remain standing and wait until he sits before taking my place opposite him. Luckily I have a trouser suit on today, so, despite my rushed entrance, I’m relieved for that at least.

  I open my leather-bound notebook to the back, where I’ve pasted in a list of generic questions. Occasionally, I refer to them when my mind goes blank or the line of discussion is not progressing well but this is the first instance I’ve had to use them at the beginning of a consultation.

  I start with a pleasant exchange.

  “How are you today Mr. Wilder?”

  “I’m ready for whatever you’ve got to throw at me Dr. Fairchild.” He removes his foot from his knee onto the floor.

  Now that body language backs up his words, which is interesting.

  “That’s good to hear, I wouldn’t want anyone to be wasting their time with these sessions.” I mentally will my hand that has drifted up to play with a curl in my hair, back down to my lap where it belongs.

  “I completely agree.” He leaves his lips slightly parted at the end of the sentence, like he has something else to say, or to let them lull me into a fantasy of passionate kisses and lustful licks.

  I open my eyelids wider than is normal before blinking out the vision and settling back into a normal gaze.

  He simply smiles. Although I cannot assume there is anything simple about his smile. Until I can establish the hidden meaning, I winch up my guard a little more.

  “How about you tell me what you want to get out of these sessions?” I run my finger across the line as I read aloud, to ensure that I don’t switch out any of the words with, ‘What is your game?’ or ‘Why the hell did you park in my space?’.

  “I’m hoping that you can help prioritize my life. I seem to have a knack for putting items of little importance in front of others that should hold more significance.”

  I wait a few moments before answering him. I’m keen to have this session play-out calmly with the appropriate pace and considerate pauses even though I know what I will pick out from his answer straight away. Especially as he has parroted back what I told him in the last session. Without referring to sex as the culprit, of course.

  “When you refer to ‘items’ and ‘others’ in that sentence, what exactly do you mean?” Perhaps I am being cruel in asking him to say the words.

  He leans forward, and the smile melts from his face. I’m not concerned by this more dominant positioning as I know what he is about to say.

  I begin to nod as he speaks, a subconscious play-out of the words I hear in my head. Then the actual words filter through from my ears.

  “I suppose by items I mean any material possession you care to name. Fast car, fancy house, first class air tickets, limited edition watches, whatever money can buy. Even…” He rubs his palm across his chin. “Yeah, whatever money can buy and, by others, I mean significant people in my life. Family I suppose.”

  I clear my throat in an attempt to jostle my senses back into gear. He was supposed to say sex before golf. Nothing more meaningful. I’ve chalked Johnson Wilder down as a shallow, egotistical player with no regard for anything more poignant in life than his game. I’m good at this and I’m rarely wrong. Until now.

  “Okay, don’t you spend time with your family, Mr. Wilder?”

  “Yes, I just don’t put them first.”

  “Why do you consider that is?” I ask tentatively, focusing on his face so I can gauge his response.

  He leans back and knots his hands together on his lap.

  “Not entirely sure, but I think it may have something to do with being a loner.”

  “A loner?” I’m curious about this self-observation because as far as I knew he was never alone and always had a woman draped off his arm. “What defines you as a loner, Mr. Wilder?”

  “Living alone.”

  I place a metaphorical clamp onto my shoulders to stop them from shrugging with the response that I have of, ‘Well I live alone.’ Because actually if I‘m honest with myself, that’s what I am too. A loner.

  “And why are you a loner?” Ruminating on my own predicament as much as his.

  “Because I trust no-one.”

  “Who broke your trust?”

  “My father.”

  Wham! That was the fastest isolation of the cause of a person’s angst I’ve ever witnessed. But hang on… is he playing me? Why does being a loner or not trusting people make you not find time for your family and choose their needs over less important things in your life? And why does that affect your golf?

  Unless there’s no reward for winning anymore. When you have everything money can buy and no-one to share it with.

  I tap my pen on my notebook while I decide how to navigate this revelation.

  “Okay, let’s park that and go back to why you are materialistic.”

  “Possibly because we didn’t have a lot of spare cash growing up after my father left and now I’ve got more than I know what to do with. I dunno? Perhaps I like nice things.”

  I suspect he is trying. Or perhaps not. The conclusion I want to jump to is it's easier for him to achieve self-gratification from buying stuff than it is to acknowledge praise from his family. But I know nothing about his family, or at least I’m clueless about his standing within his family.

  “Tell me more about your family, Johnson.”

  Johnson, I like that name. It fits him perfectly. Sometimes a name doesn’t fit a person, like my name. Meredith. It sounds old-fashioned and prim and I know people are often surprised when they discover I’m not a spinster who wears frilly high-necked blouses and wrinkled pantyhose. Johnson however matches the authoritative tone he uses when he speaks. The words he uses are considered but straightforward. The way he holds himself.

  I listen to him explain how his father finally left the family when he was thirteen and his mother raised them. Then he describes each of his brothers and it’s easy to determine him as the eldest. I stop feasting my eyes on him to make an observational note. ‘I conclude he has a desire to have his brothers admire him and acknowledge him as a fitting substitute for his father. But he considers himself a fake.’

  I let my eyes wander up from my notepad and across to his hands, up the taut buttons of his slim-fit pale blue dress shirt. I skim over tanned skin pausing at the pulse point at the base of his neck, up his prominent Adams apple to a strong jaw which stops moving, requiring me to snap up to his eyes.

  “Everything okay?” A sparkle in those azure eyes makes me suspect he knew I was taking in the view.

  “Of course.” I say, with an annoyed edge to my voice. I’m irritated with myself not him. Well perhaps him, for being so annoyingly handsome and making me day dream about stuff I’ve got no business fantasizing about in the middle of a consultation. That makes him more of an ass in my mind.

  “So, you don’t need me to go over any of that again?”

  “No. I’m good. Please carry on.” I match his stare.

  Everything he says for the next ten minutes reinforces my view about him feeling obliged to be the head of the family when actually he needs to be part of it and stop putting too much pressure on himself. And that golf has no attraction when the material rewards are jaded and praise from loved ones is not valued. But I suspect there is more he’s not telling me, as there is a leap from that to the sex addict I had him chalked up as. He must have had a significant woman other than his mother in his life.

  “You don’t have a significant other you share your life with?” I ask.

  He shrugs his shoulders. “No, never found one I could trust.” His hand belies his words when he tugs at the leather bracelet on his wrist.

  I curl my lip.

  As far as I know not trusting your father rarely leads you to not trust a woman. Not when you hold your mother with the reverence he has described. I need to revisit the research on that one.

  The timer on my watch vibrates, alerting me that the session is now over.

  “We made good progress t
oday, Mr. Wilder.”

  “Oh… do you think so? I thought I talked shit for forty-five minutes.”

  I laugh politely. “Rest assured, everything you said today had meaning.”

  “So, you gonna sort me out at the next session?”

  “We’ll see. I suggest you ponder on the issues you raised today and consider them seriously. Next time we can delve a little deeper but it will take a few more consultations to get to the crux of it all.”

  He presses his lips to a flat line. “Sure.”

  I walk towards the door and open it for him hoping he will leave even though I know there is more he wants to say. I’m sure it is better for him to gather his thoughts first.

  Chapter Seven

  Johnson

  I walk from her office, through the ante-room and across the hall to the elevator.

  On the way down to the first floor I chew on my predicament and it’s growing concern. For me this was initially about getting the Golf Association off my back, but Mom’s advice got to me, especially as it’s my father that haunts my sleepless nights.

  It wasn’t necessary to bang on about my ex, or any woman; I mean why is that even relevant to how I play golf? And there was no way I would divulge to the doctor about that new low in my life because I haven’t got my head around that new chapter in the Johnson book of failures and flaws. Not getting aroused with a naked woman is a first and even when Charlena’s skilled mouth came into play I was still as limp as a boned fish.

  But I tried to tell Dr. Fairchild that I suspect my father might be at the crux of my problems. Over the course of the last year, I’ve woken up too many times in a cold sweat with a lasting image of my father stood over me while I take a tee shot to realize there is something amiss.

  But all that aside, this is taking too long and I’ve got LA to contend with. I can’t wait for this to unfold in the slow manner it seems to take. Her admission that even at the next session I’m not likely to be cured is making me anxious.

  The elevator spits me out at the first floor, like a nasty taste in its mouth and as I walk on towards the exit, my pace slows. I don’t have the strength to push open the door. My fingers tap on the glass and I turn around, the heels of my shoes clicking on the polished stone floor as I make my way back across the foyer. The elevator is waiting for me and as the doors seal me in, I gaze up to the ceiling and go over my opening line.