The Long Shot

by A. L. Brooks

  “Because I’m not winning majors,” she snapped bitterly. “Is that it?”

  He sighed and blinked a couple of times before responding. “I will admit, that is not helping my cause, no.”

  “And just what is your cause, huh?” Her fists clenched against her thighs.

  Hilton gazed at her for a moment. “To get you the best exposure, the best publicity, and most of all, the best sponsorship deals.” He sipped from his glass. “And by you doing this film, I’ll be able to get the likes of S Pro interested at last.”

  S Pro was one of the largest manufacturers of sports goods in the world, right up there with Nike and Adidas. Having them as a sponsor would certainly be a coup.

  “No, you won’t.” Morgan’s voice was tight. “Only me winning a major will make that happen.”

  He blinked as he looked at her. “You know I met with S Pro two months ago, yes?”

  “You said you were going to, but you never really said how it went. I assumed badly precisely because of that silence.”

  “Morgan, it is not your lack of major wins that worries S Pro.” He leaned forward again. “I haven’t bothered telling you this before because I’ve been trying to work out the best way to resolve it.” His expression gentled. “The problem they have is how…cold you are.”

  Morgan flinched. “Cold?” She hated the catch in her voice.

  “Their word, not mine. Your nickname has stuck. Ice. And, rightly or wrongly, no one wants to put money behind a woman who doesn’t want to talk to anyone. Sunday was a case in point—that press conference you gave?” He shook his head. “You gave everyone in that room and watching on TV the impression that you didn’t give a shit about what had just happened. You’d just lost the US Open, but there was no emotion. No fire.” He held up a hand when she made to interrupt. “I know that isn’t you. So does Harry. But that’s the trouble, no one else does.” He pressed a hand into the pristine white tablecloth to emphasize the point.

  Morgan slumped back in her chair, closing her eyes against the irritation that every one of his words stirred.

  “The resolution to that,” he continued, his tone so gentle it caused her to open her eyes and stare at him, “is to do something like this film. Open up. Let other people see what a wonderful person you are.” He paused. “And finally step out of your father’s shadow and be you.”

  Chapter 4

  “Okay,” Harry said, his voice low, as he stepped up beside her. “This is a complete waste of both our time. Whatever Hilton said to you at lunch has clearly screwed you over for the rest of the day.” He took hold of the sand wedge and tugged until Morgan gave it up. Ramming it into the bag, he shook his head. “Go back to your hotel, find your usual punchbag, and work it out.”

  She stared at him. “H-how did you know about the punchbag?”

  He shuffled. “Stumbled across you doing that one morning last year. After the British Open. Realized that was your stress reliever.”

  Morgan nodded. “Okay.” She sighed. “And yes, I’m sorry. Hilton’s news has put my mind somewhere else.” And to the point where she wasn’t even ready to talk to Harry about it. She motioned to the bunker they’d been practicing in since lunch. “I know I’m screwing this up now. You’re right.”

  He patted her on the shoulder. “You’re not a robot. Stuff’s allowed to affect you. But you have to be able to work past it to make this”—he gestured with a big sweep of his arm at the whole golf world around them—“still work. Go on. Go beat the crap out of something. I’ll see if I can find a fishing spot somewhere nearby.” He grinned. “I’ll see you tomorrow. I’ll even let you sleep in. We’ll start at nine. Don’t be late.”

  Her throat tightened. Moisture pricked at her eyes. “What did I do to deserve you?”

  “Guess you were just born lucky,” he said and winked. He hoisted her bag up and marched off. She knew she’d embarrassed him when he didn’t look back.

  After making an effort to say hello to the other women practicing their short game this afternoon, Morgan quickly departed the practice area and made her way to the front desk. A few minutes after she’d requested it, a car pulled up out front to drive her back to her hotel.

  The meeting with Hilton really had thrown her for a loop. She realized part of the problem was entirely self-inflicted. Because she avoided the media reports of her tournaments like the plague, she hadn’t known quite how bad her reputation was out there in the real world. She focused so hard on her game, on perfecting her play, she never remembered that there was more to being a professional than that.

  Now she found herself wondering if that’s why the autograph hunters always approached her with a certain apprehension. Did they think she would refuse, or worse, bite their heads off for asking? Not for the first time, she found herself wishing she could ask her father for advice—how had he managed it all, the fame and the media? Mind you, back when he was playing, the media wasn’t the shark-infested frenzy it was these days, so would his advice actually hold water?

  She was in a daze as she walked back into the hotel and up to her room, and when her phone rang the minute she’d pushed the door closed behind her, she was tempted to ignore it. Then she saw the name “Mom” in the caller display and hit the answer icon.

  “Hey, Mom, everything okay?”

  “Of course, darling. I didn’t actually expect you to answer. I was just going to leave you a voice mail.”

  “Oh! Well, okay, you got me. How are things?”

  “What are you doing answering in the middle of the day? Shouldn’t you be out practicing?”

  Her mother always had been the sharp one.

  “Um, yeah. Kind of taking the afternoon off.” A thought popped into her head—her father might not be approachable, but her mom had lived through all of it by his side, so maybe… “Hey, Mom, can I talk to you about something? Do you have time?”

  “For you, darling, of course! Wait, let me get comfy out here on the veranda.”

  Morgan heard a chair being pulled into position and then a gentle sigh as her mom sat down.

  “Okay, that’s much better. What’s on your mind?”

  Haltingly, not quite sure of her words but managing to make mostly coherent sentences, Morgan told her all about the proposal from Hilton, the backdrop to it, the sponsor issues, the works. Her mom listened patiently, only occasionally interrupting with questions.

  “Well, I can certainly see why this has you bothered,” her mom said eventually. “And I’m sorry to hear you are upset. But which part disturbs you most—being the focus of the documentary or the fact that you didn’t know that was how you were perceived?”

  Morgan rubbed her thumb across her chin as she paced the room. “I guess both, but maybe that second one more than the first. I mean, it’s not like I haven’t been called cold before by someone else, but…”

  “Ah, yes. The delightful”—the way she said the word made it sound anything but—“Naomi. Is she still around?”

  Chuckling at her mom’s obvious distaste for Morgan’s ex, she said, “No. I mean, she’s still playing, but a shoulder injury is keeping her away from the tour at the moment.” Thank God.

  “Good.” Her mom huffed. “Morgan, what she said to you, those were the bitter words of someone who didn’t want you leaving her, you do know that, yes?”

  Morgan sighed. “I know, but I have to be honest. She was right in some ways. I do struggle with, you know, the whole warm and cuddly thing. I always have. But only because I’ve just been so driven to be the best golfer I can. I just thought she was different, that she’d get it, given she’s on the tour too. I thought she’d be more patient with me.”

  “And then she betrayed all that. I know.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Do you want my honest opinion, darling?”

  “Of course!”

  “Do it. Do the fi
lm. It will challenge you, and you might struggle, but I think Hilton’s right. I think other people need to see how wonderful you are. Your father and I, and Jack, we know, but the rest of the world needs to know.”

  Morgan almost snorted at the inclusion of her father in that endorsement but let it slide. “Did Dad ever have to do anything like this? How did he handle the media?”

  “Well,” her mom said, her tone turning a little flat. “Obviously the media back then wasn’t the circus it is nowadays.” She paused. “He tried to hit a balance between giving them something but not all of it. Perhaps that’s what you need to think of. You’ve kept back more than you’ve given. Maybe it’s time to even that up a little.”

  “Adrienne, I’ve got Hilton Stewart on line two.” Jenny’s voice always sounded like a ghost of herself on the intercom.

  “Thanks, Jenny.”

  Adrienne’s stomach flipped, and she sucked in a breath before picking up the call. “Adrienne Wyatt.”

  “Hi, Adrienne, it’s Hilton Stewart.”

  “Hi, Hilton, how are you?” Please have good news for me! She crossed her fingers in front of her on the desk.

  “I’m very well. And I call with good tidings.”

  Yes!

  “She’ll do it?”

  Hilton chuckled. “She will. Only one condition—no interviews in her home. That really is her private space, and she’d like to keep it that way.”

  That was a small disappointment, but Adrienne wouldn’t push it. Maybe once Morgan Spencer had gotten used to working with her that could be readdressed.

  “I have no problem working with that.”

  “Excellent!”

  “Hilton, thank you. I’ll have someone get contracts over to you today, tomorrow at the latest.”

  “I look forward to receiving them. Thank you. I appreciate you reaching out on this.”

  They said their good-byes and hung up, and in the next moment, Adrienne leaped out of her chair and jigged a few steps on the worn rug beneath her feet.

  “You okay, boss?”

  Face burning, she stopped moving and grinned sheepishly at Jenny, who stood in the doorway, her eyes comically wide.

  “I am. I am more than okay, actually.” She beamed at Jenny, her heart racing. “We just got Morgan Spencer!”

  “Oh. My. God.” Jenny pressed a hand to her chest. “Seriously?”

  Adrienne nodded and exhaled slowly, willing her pulse to settle. “So we’ve got a lot more work to do.”

  “Bring it.” Jenny nodded slowly. “So worth it.”

  “Yes, I really think it will be.”

  Jenny trotted off, and Adrienne sat back in her chair. The only thing that ruined the moment was the condition that Spencer had put on the deal. Viewers loved an insight into a player’s private life, and seeing Morgan in her home would have been a perfect scene to film.

  I hope she’s not a diva. I didn’t peg as her one, but you never know.

  In spite of that last thought, she couldn’t help the smile that spread across her face. It finally felt like something good was coming Adrienne’s way after the year from hell.

  Sure, her work had kept her steady and helped her get out of bed every day when all she’d wanted to do was crawl in a hole and weep, but she hadn’t worked on anything this tempting in a while. Being able to bring Morgan Spencer in at such short notice would need some quick thinking and handling, but she was up for the challenge. If nothing else, it might help dispel the remaining fragments of the aftermath with Paula and that woman. As long as Spencer played ball—she rolled her eyes at her own unintended pun—this project could be fantastic.

  “Morgan!” James Morrison, the reporter for the National News Network she’d grown to loathe over the last couple of years, thrust his hand into the air and was so vigorous about it she had no choice but to take his question.

  We’re only ten minutes in, and already I want a pencil to stick in my eye. Anything but face their damn questions.

  “James,” she acknowledged coolly.

  “Clearly you had no trouble winning today, so how can you explain that in comparison to last weekend?”

  Well, that had to be a record. Normally, he took at least three questions before he aimed for her jugular. Channeling Hilton, knowing that if he were here, he’d be counselling her to tread lightly, she bit back her gut retort and instead smiled as sweetly as she could manage. Cameras flashed.

  “Well, James, every tournament is different, as you know.” As if he did—the guy had never lifted a club in his life, she’d bet. “Every one of them presents different challenges to overcome.” She grinned. “Guess I got that right today.”

  The win had been sweet. Three ahead going into today’s final round in Anaheim, and everything had run as smooth as silk. Even Harry had been happy with her. She’d hit every fairway and nearly every green—only fourteen and fifteen, as she’d anticipated earlier in the week, proving tricky.

  Charlie had given her a good run for her money but had had to settle for second, five shots behind in the end. Still, that was Charlie’s best result of the year, so Morgan would be sure to share a beer with her later to celebrate. And tonight she could have beer, as she had the next week off. Her mouth watered at the prospect.

  “Well, yeah, I guess. But how do you explain not being able to get it right last week when you were in pole position?”

  He was like a dog with a bone, and even a couple of other reporters winced at his snide tone. She wasn’t even sure what it was about her he didn’t like, but it was obvious it was something.

  “Like I said,” she replied through gritted teeth, “every time we go out there it’s different. Yes, you hope you can get everything right on every day, that your swing won’t let you down, that your putting will be true.” She shrugged. “But sometimes the universe has other ideas.”

  Praying for someone else to raise their hand, she nearly groaned aloud when James pounced again.

  “Wait, so you’re now blaming some higher being, is that it?” His tone was beyond sarcastic, plunging well into the zone of scathing.

  There was a shocked silence in the room for a moment, but in Morgan’s head there was no such quiet. White noise filled her ears. Who the hell did he think he was, coming after her like that? She opened her mouth before reason could set in, but as she made to speak the words that had leaped to the forefront of her brain—one of which was asshole—a disturbance to her right had her swiveling in her seat.

  “Hi, everyone! Sorry I’m late. What did I miss?”

  Charlie lightly ran up the three steps that led to the small stage and dropped quickly into the chair alongside Morgan. She didn’t look at Morgan, but her hand quickly found Morgan’s leg under the table and gave it a light squeeze, which told Morgan she had heard every part of that exchange with James. Had she run in to rescue Morgan? If so, that was a whole new level to their friendship, and Morgan swallowed rapidly against the emotion that engendered.

  The assembled mass of reporters chuckled, breaking the tension in the room, and Patty from CBS shouted her first question at Charlie, effectively cutting James Morrison out.

  “Your best result this year, Charlie. How does that feel?”

  Charlie whooped, loud and long, and the laughter in the room was genuinely warm. “Does that answer your question?” she asked with a grin.

  Later, when they’d escaped the room, and each had given their prearranged, one-on-one interviews with ESPN, they found each other again in the hotel’s bar. Not the Calypso this time but the quieter, more formal Browns, where they threw themselves into a burgundy leather sofa and ordered ice-cold beers from the frowning waiter.

  “Do you think we’ve just broken a rule?” Charlie asked, one eyebrow quirked. “Are women allowed to drink beer in a bar like this?”

  Morgan laughed. “He didn’t kick us out
, so I think we’re good.”

  “Ugh, I can’t believe we have to go to this dinner thing this evening. I just want to hang out with you and drink beer.”

  “I hear you.” Morgan raised her glass and waited for Charlie to follow suit. “My friend, congratulations on your highest finish this year. You played really well, and I’m so proud of you.”

  Charlie dipped her head. “Hey, you’re the one who won. We should be toasting you!”

  “Come on, don’t be so modest. This was an awesome result for you. I’ll tell you, when you got within two shots at the ninth, I got a little worried.”

  “Yeah?” Charlie beamed. “Cool.”

  They clinked glasses and drank.

  “Oh, yeah, that’s what I needed.” Charlie’s eyes closed in rapture.

  “Hell yeah.” Morgan took another long drink, then set her glass down. “And there’s one other thing I want to thank you for.”

  Charlie looked at her, eyes twinkling.

  “Your timing at that press conference was immaculate. And I don’t think I’m wrong in assuming it was deliberate?”

  Charlie’s laugh was bubbly and infectious. “Oh my God, no, you’re not wrong! Your face when he started in on you? I expected him to turn into a frozen popsicle right there on the spot.” She narrowed her eyes. “You were about to really let him have it, weren’t you?”

  Morgan sighed. “I was. I can’t deny it. I’d been channeling Hilton through the whole thing, remembering what he told me about being more approachable and, you know, nice. And then Morrison gets in my face, and I was ready to rip him a new one.”

  Her response to Morrison had shocked her. Normally, she was an expert at keeping her emotions in check, but somehow, this past week or so, lots of things she’d normally repress were bubbling way too close to the surface to be comfortable.