Tee It Up: A Wilder Brothers Romance

by Megan Hetherington

  Meredith is stood at her desk when I burst in to her office, dictating on to her phone.

  “Johnson!” She turns around with a shocked expression to her face.

  “I’m sorry Dr. Fairchild.” I close the door behind me and pinch my temples between my thumb and forefinger. “I can’t leave it like this. I need this shit sorting already.”

  Her face twitches and she opens her mouth, but no words come out. She places her cell down on the desk and holds out her hand to the consulting chair still indented from me being sat in it less than five minutes ago.

  I shake my head at her request. This isn’t another pour out of my heart, I simply need her to agree to my request. It’s the only way.

  I need help.

  Shit. Did I just admit that to myself?

  I’ve spent the whole of my life assuming I’m the best, now it’s all falling apart, and there’s nothing I can do about it.

  “I’m… I’m sorry Johnson but it doesn’t work like that. It’s not possible to resolve issues that have manifested over many years in a single consultation.”

  “Oh, don’t worry, I get that. It’s not a simple consultation I want. I need you to come to the next tournament with me.”

  Her jaw drops and eyes widen. “You can’t be serious?”

  “Deadly.” I maintain my stare.

  “I don’t do consultations outside of the office. It’s a rule.”

  “What like a company rule or your rule.”

  “Doesn’t matter, it’s a rule. Anyway, where even is this tournament?” She seems frustrated, but I’m sure this is the only way I will get through this.

  “LA,” I state in a matter-of-fact way.

  “Los Angeles! That’s not even local.” Her voice cracks at the end of the sentence. “How long is it?”

  “The rest of this week. I fly out this afternoon.”

  “Nope. I couldn’t.” She shakes her head and crosses her arms underneath her chest.

  “Why?”

  “I’ve got patients.”

  With no hesitation I tell her, “Schedule them out.”

  “I’ve got commitments.” she protests.

  “What a cat?” Even I’m getting frustrated now.

  She pauses, pushing her face slightly toward mine. “And how do you know I’ve got a cat?”

  “You don’t believe I will reveal my innermost secrets to someone I’ve not had research carried out on, do you?”

  She huffs. “You’ve researched me?”

  “Damn right. And I know you can do this.” I scratch my palm across my jaw before proclaiming my last-ditch attempt at making her agree to my proposal. “I need you Meredith.”

  I watch her blow out a breath before she replies. “Absolutely not Johnson, this goes completely against my professional practices.”

  “Is that your last word on it?”

  “Yes.”

  My shoulders droop and I heave out a breath. I’m not winning this request, in fact it seems like I win nothing anymore.

  With a flick of my hand, I turn and traipse out of her office.

  When I reach my car, some asshole has blocked me in. The reserved place label in front of the car, reads, ‘Dr. Hector Miller Jr’.

  What a dick.

  I fling open the passenger door and with all the skills of a contortionist in a circus tent, I wriggle my way across to the driver’s seat.

  ✽✽✽

  The next morning, I rise early to wander around the LA course, while the mist still carpets the greens. Mentally, I take each shot with experienced precision, and not an image of my father in sight, resulting the three holes under par. Not bad at all.

  When I return to my hotel room, I am pleased my sponsors have filled my room with their new range of clothing, accessories, and clubs. Although it’s nothing like the range they would have gifted me a year ago. Even their patience is wearing thin at my losing form and negative press.

  AJ is due here any minute to go through it all with me although I know from the off that I can’t afford to be switching clubs out at this late stage. I’m nervous enough as it is without any last-minute adjustments.

  I’m not a complacent golfer and I’ve always taken these tours seriously.

  Scratch that, recently I have become the epitome of complacency and often take tours on the fly, with the belief that my talent and the practice hours I put in on the course and at the range will see me through.

  And complacency is a foolish card to rely on with all the young wannabes snapping at my heels. Rising stars, like McKenzie, who have never had even a twinge in their back, now have me in their sights, and like a wolf pack stalking its prey they are closing in fast.

  The usual musical rap on the door signifies AJ’s arrival, so I go let him in.

  “How’s it going man?” His enthusiasm a standard part of his character.

  “Great, come and get a load of this.” I show him through to all the bounty.

  He holds up a pair of trousers. “Wow, I’m sure these are getting tighter every year?” Shaking his head, he throws them back on the pile and picks up a rather garish v-neck sweater. The purple and pink diamond pattern clashing with his brassy-blond hair.

  I screw up my face. “Yeah, you can have that if you like, dude.”

  After an hour of banter, warm-up exercises and pep talks. We walk out to the waiting golf cart to take us to the first hole.

  We’re drawn in the first round and I’ll be glad to get out there and hit some balls. Worrying about what might be will not do me any good.

  The crowds are already out and the usual whoops and cat calls rain out from the rowdy bunch that follow me. I raise my white kid leather glove in appreciation and take a calming breath before assuming my position at the tee.

  My ability to block out any noise or movement is essential every time I take a shot, but I can’t seem to find the off switch. I straighten up, wiggle my arms and head to loosen up my shoulders and then move back in to hit the ball.

  I pull back the club letting my wrists guide the swing, just as my father whispers in my ear. “You thought you had it all sewn up. Didn’t you son?”

  Thwack! The drive is immense but off target, coming to land several seconds later in the trees to the left of the fairway.

  There’s a shiver down from my ear, across the back of my head and down my spine. I know it’s my mind playing tricks, that’s how it goes lately. I’m on a mission to ruin everything and will bring anyone in to this that I see fit. Including, it seems, my father.

  That first shot sets the tone for my whole game. Off target and severely lacking. Needless to say, I don’t make the first day cut and rather than hang around I catch an early flight to New York, leaving AJ to sort out my gear and spend the rest of the week enjoying the tournament. So much for me soaking up the sunshine.

  On the airplane back home, I nurse a glass of bourbon while watching the top of the clouds turn from white, to peach and finally black. The rest of the passengers seem pretty subdued too, probably the thought of leaving the sun behind and heading to the storm that is throwing itself at my home state.

  I throw the bourbon to the back of my throat but decline another offered by the stewardess. That first one was just so I could chill the fuck out and stop worrying about my lack of form, a second would set me on a path of no return. A direction I am determined not to go down again; not until my head is in a better place, anyway.

  The second the tires skit along the landing strip, I’m on my phone instructing Cherie to sort me a ride. I’ve no desire to hang around in the airport on the off chance I get snapped by the paps.

  “Where shall I ask the driver to drop you this time Johnson?” she asks.

  “Home, of course.”

  I cut her off before she has the chance to make another sarcastic remark. I’m seriously not in the mood for that.

  The passenger whose been sat next to me silently for the whole journey screws up her face, which knocks me a little. She doesn’t know m
e, or who I was having a conversation with just then. If she determines the need to pass judgment, then I don’t need it. I’m my own judge right now and the sentence I’m bestowing on myself ain’t lenient.

  As the airplane taxis to the stand, I rest my head back and literally feel my confidence melt away.

  And without confidence what’s left?

  Chapter Eight

  Meredith

  I’ve only forgotten about the charity event I’d promised Hector I would attend. I stumbled across the tickets in a desk drawer earlier today and it’s played on my mind since.

  The event is tomorrow and, although I haven’t any alternative stuff to set aside, there is the slight issue of having nothing to wear, and the major issue of no-one to accompany me.

  Window gazing has been my main activity today and although I couldn’t tell you what I’ve actually seen, there have been clear revelations about my life.

  The main one being - I haven’t actually got one.

  Other than the usual weekend treats every successful American woman aspires to, like reapplying nail polish, watching re-runs of Friends and cuddling the cat. I roll my eyes. I do nothing fun at weekends.

  It seems harsh, considering I’ve slogged through several years of college and med school to have a better life, one where I let friendships slide by and throw away any chance of a social life.

  I sigh. Letting the frustration of my boring life blow away along with the carbon dioxide.

  My phone is of no help; I pick it up and scroll through the list of contacts for a suitable plus one, while scanning the ticket for the details of the event.

  The number of redundant contacts it holds is a joke. Actually, it’s not funny, it’s kinda sad. At college I had a fantastic social circle, we’d go to parties, ball games and even vacation together.

  Vacation? What was one of those?

  Then it all got serious. Med school was tough. I had to put in hours of solitary study just to keep up and although I told myself it would all be worth it, I’m not entirely convinced it is.

  I knew I would love my job; I expected that all the way through school but I hadn’t quite appreciated how detrimental it would be to the rest of my life. I suppose now I’m licensed I should relax on that side a little and get my act together.

  Hector is always suggesting I go to professional functions and networking events, often leaving copies of the Psychology Monthly open at an obvious page for my consideration.

  And now here I am desperately searching for someone, or anyone, to come with me to this… to this… “Wilder Foundation fundraiser,” I shriek, gripping the ticket with both hands.

  No, this can’t be.

  Wilder?

  I fire up my laptop and punch in the web address for the Wilder Foundation. Yep, there it is. Blane Wilder and his twin Miles. Exactly as I imagined them from Johnson’s description. Lincoln and, obviously, Johnson.

  I sink into my high-backed leather desk chair and contemplate whether this is a problem.

  The venue, I recognize, and imagine it will be a grand affair with a thousand or so guests. I anticipate Johnson will be engaged in host activities, mostly on stage with his brothers, and at the top table. That’s if he’s even there. I remember he said he would be in LA this week.

  Well, I hope he won’t be there, because he might have something to say about the parking prank I pulled on Monday. I bite my lip when I remember how I had watched with glee as he had to lie across his seats with his long legs dangling out of the passenger seat to lever himself across. And the guilt when the security guard told me he had requested Johnson park in my space when a delivery truck obstructed the visitor car park.

  Anyway, I can’t go. I’ve not got anyone to go with.

  I heave a breath into my chest, huff it out and examine my cell contacts once more. Nope. I can’t go.

  I dial through on my desk phone. “Hector. About this function tomorrow night, I can’t go. I kinda forgot about it and haven’t arranged a plus one. Can someone else go instead?”

  “No.”

  A wave of resignation washes over me.

  Then he adds, “But I can come with you. Nancy will be fine on her own. She’ll probably appreciate an evening in with the TV remote.”

  “Great.”

  I pace my office for a while, wasting time I haven’t got, pondering over what to wear, how to get to the event and whether there are any lines I need to practice before I show up.

  Unless my wrist watch is lying, there’s ten minutes before the next client which is not enough time to do any prep for the weekend and neither is it enough time to review my notes for this client.

  Crap.

  I’m losing the composure I’ve worked hard to adopt for a psychologist of my novice experience.

  Panic stricken, I bring up his patient notes and speed read through the whole file, with only seconds to spare before there’s a knock at my office door. This guy’s issues seem complex and I should afford him more prep.

  “Come in Mr. Simmons, please take a seat.”

  I reach for my notebook, casually opening it to the questions at the back and secretly chastising myself for having to use them again so soon.

  The session is very interesting and I surmise it will be one of my primary case studies. I pull on every resource available within my clouded mind to ensure the patient has a positive experience. I sign off his insurance papers and we agree to meet at least once a week to progress the issues he is facing.

  With a spring of relief to my step, I run down the stairs instead of taking the lift to pump energy into my being. I’ve got stuff to do tonight and won’t be indulging in my usual Friday night routine of grabbing pizza on my way home and a bottle of my favorite Cab Franc before chilling on the sofa with a good film. Tonight, I’ve got to pick out an outfit and check I’ve got matching underwear.

  I laugh to myself as I slide through reception toward the exterior doors and throw a hand up in the air. “Matching underwear! Why on earth should I be worried about that?” The security guard furrows his brow at my apparent borderline personality disorder.

  I will get that bottle of wine on the way home after all.

  The liquor store is on the next street from the office and I pull in to the parking area at the front. Shaking my head again as I ponder my stupidity and jump down from my car to walk toward the store.

  As I stoop to the lower shelves that stock my usual brand of wine, I suddenly get the urge to be a little more adventurous. Drawing back my finger from the neck of the bottle I raise my gaze to a higher shelf. I’m bringing in over ninety thousand a year now, I need to elevate my choice in wine along with a lot of the moderated lifestyle choices I make. The move to the new apartment was the first, decent wine shouldn’t be the second most important aspect of adjustment in my life, but it will do for now.

  Back home, I pour a glass of wine and sift through the clothes in my closet. It’s exactly how I thought it would be - I’ve got nothing remotely suitable for such a prestigious event. Especially one that may have Johnson Wilder at.

  I don’t even know why I brought all this crap with me when I moved, I should have taken it to charity or throw it in the dumpster.

  My usual evening attire is far too casual and aimed at the odd evening bowling or a party on campus. Yes, it is that out of date. The desire to find a suitable outfit is abandoned in favor of laying amongst it all on my bed and scrolling through Facebook at all the lives my alumni are enjoying. A few of them are overseas. A lot are married and some even have children. All having a life colored with enough variety and interest to tell everyone else about it.

  Essentially, they all have a life.

  Me? I’ve got a career.

  It’s three in the morning, when I wake still fully clothed and laid on the contents of my closet. I peel back the duvet and shake the clothes onto the floor, slip out of my work clothes and snuggle into the mattress. The comfort is short-lived though and I spend the next two hours tossing
and turning, watching shadows on my ceiling cast by passing cars.

  When finally, the light filters in from around the window blind, I get out of bed. I glance over to the bedside table and wince at how much of the bottle of wine I’d drunk. For a day that commands more energy than I desire to expend, I’ve got an inkling it will be a long one.

  My attention turns to a sudden splatting of rain against the window and I pad toward it to investigate how bad it is out there. The storm we’ve endured for the last couple of days is reported to get worse as the day progresses and by the size of the puddles that have filled the drains the weather reporters weren’t exaggerating. I stare aimlessly, lulled by the ravines, only snapping out of it when I shiver.

  Coffee. I need coffee.

  After making a strong pot, I flop back onto my bed, open the notes app on my phone and dictate a list of stuff to achieve today.

  The first and most important is food, or more specifically bagels, followed by clothes shopping and finally to hit the beauty salon.

  I book an online appointment with the snazzy looking salon down the street and crack on with the rest of the list.

  It seems such a long time ago since I was even remotely interested in fashion. At college we all slouched around in our boyfriend’s hoodies. Then when I started working, any budget I might have had for nice clothes was taken up with suits and shoes befitting my profession. Now I’ve got spare income and I’m determined to spend it.

  I don’t have time to go into the city so have found a decent size boutique a few blocks away. When I venture outside the storm is whipping up and I pull the collar on my inadequate jacket up around my ears and hold it in place. Sidestepping and leaping over puddles on the way is a bind, but I know that driving would have been a waste of time as parking on a Saturday any closer than where my car is now would be impossible.