CHAPTER 1
Palmer
“It takes a lot of balls to golf the way I do.”
“You look like shit, Pal.”
From the 18th hole tee box, I turn my head away from the view of the turquoise water in Bermuda that stretches out as far as the eye can see and find my best friend standing next to my parked golf cart. I’ve been sitting here behind the wheel for the last few hours. I take in Bodhi Armbruster’s flip-flops, khaki cargo shorts, old faded baseball cap on backward over his shaggy, sandy blond hair he hasn’t cut in years, and a T-shirt that says Golf Sucks in big, bold letters across his chest. Which is just wonderful, seeing as we’re on the 18th hole of one of the most exclusive and prestigious golf courses in the world.
“You are literally the most unprofessional caddie ever,” I mutter, staring at his shirt.
Bodhi laughs and slides into the front seat of the cart with me, kicking his feet up on the dashboard and crossing them at the ankles right next to where I have my own feet resting.
“My unprofessional yet comfortable attire is not why I trekked all the way out here to find you. You couldn’t have sat around feeling sorry for yourself on the 2nd hole, could you? God, why do golf courses have to be so large? It’s bullshit. No one needs that much cardio.” Bodhi pauses, picking a piece of lint off the front of his shirt. “Besides, I had this shirt on under the pretentious polo I have to wear during tournaments. I still have to stand in solidarity with my people—my golf-hating people. They depend on me to keep the hate alive.”
ESPN voted me one of the top twenty golfers of my time. I’m one of only five players to place in the top three of The National Tour, the biggest golf tournament in the world, more than fifty times in my career. I honestly can’t even tell you the number of other tournaments I’ve won at this point, and I’m only thirty. I have golf shoe endorsements, golf club endorsements, golf bag endorsements, and I’m the poster boy for golfing attire for one of the biggest athletic chains in the country.
And I have a caddie and best friend who absolutely hates the sport of golf.
“I think it’s precious you’re calling me unprofessional. I see you’re still missing a golf shoe.” Bodhi chuckles, nodding toward my crossed feet.
One foot has a black-and-white golf shoe on it, and the other one just has a white sock now covered in grass stains. That “missing” shoe is still at the bottom of the water hazard about three hundred and sixty-five yards behind us. Along with my pitching wedge. And the water bottle Bodhi was holding in his hand that I snatched away from him and hurled in there for good measure.
My stomach churns, and I want to throw up at just how expertly I probably tanked my professional golfing career today. The career I’ve been training for and my father has been grooming me for since the first time he put a club in my hands at the age of three and entered me in my first tournament at six. I also want to laugh so hard my sides hurt at the absurdity of everything I did. My head is a confused mess right now, and no amount of sitting out here feeling sorry for myself, like Bodhi so nicely put it, has helped.
After I stormed off and wandered around on one fucking shoe until golfers, fans, celebrities, television networks, and officials cleared off the course, most people going home, and only the VIPs heading back to the clubhouse to celebrate, I found an abandoned golf cart one of the grounds crew must have left on the apron of the 10th tee box. I drove it back out here so I could be alone and punish myself by replaying every stupid thing I did here today.
“Is there any hope the television networks suddenly had camera trouble all at the same time right at that moment, and absolutely no one had a cell phone on them?”
I don’t even know why I bother asking Bodhi this question; I already know the answer. I turned my phone off an hour ago after seeing the first twenty emails my agent forwarded to me, all from my different endorsements telling me my contracts were on the verge of being terminated if today’s display of behavior was going to be the norm going forward. There were also a few emails sprinkled in uninviting me from upcoming tournaments I’ve been working my ass off to compete in.
There are plenty of professional golfers who have temper tantrums, but Palmer “Pal” Campbell isn’t one of them. I was taught at a very early age to respect the game and to respect the course you’re playing on. I’ve gotten all of my endorsements and the popularity I have, because I keep my mouth shut, my head down, and I play the game, period. I don’t shout, I don’t argue, I don’t fight with other players, and I never lose my temper if I shit the bed on a shot. Most people think I’m an asshole just because I’m not outwardly friendly and I don’t have a humorous bone in my body with people I don’t know and trust. Which makes the nickname I got of “Pal” when I first came on the pro golfing scene quite the oxymoron, but that’s fine with me. And it was fine with my endorsements and the tournament commissioners until I actually became an asshole in front of the entire world today.
When Bodhi finally finishes laughing after I decided to ask that stupid question out loud, he trails off with a humming sigh before reaching over and patting the top of my knee.
“The bad news is, you came in dead-last at the Bermuda Open that you’ve never placed lower than second in during your entire career. Instead of taking home a one-point-six million-dollar purse, you’re taking home just enough to pay for our flights home, and you had the meltdown of all meltdowns on national television,” Bodhi says, turning his head to look at me.
“But?” I ask, after several quiet seconds where he doesn’t say anything else and just sits there blinking at me.
“But what?”
“You gave me the bad news, which thanks for that by the way. It’s not like I haven’t been replaying every moment of what I did in my head for the last few hours, trying not to break out into a cold sweat. But now you’re supposed to give me the good news to make me feel better,” I remind him.
“Oh, there’s no good news.” Bodhi laughs, shaking his head. “You broke your pitching wedge over your knee and then threw it in the pond, yanked one of your shoes off your feet and chucked it in after, along with a very delicious bottle of sparkling water I was in the middle of enjoying, and shouted at the top of your lungs for your dad to ‘eat shit’ three feet from every television network in the world.”
I groan, dropping my head in my hands, the nausea coming back nice and strong.
“Actually, you shouted ‘Eat my shit.’ You were very specific about that,” Bodhi adds. “Oh, wait! There is good news.”
I swallow back the vomit long enough to look up as Bodhi pulls his phone out of one of the many unnecessary pockets of his cargo shorts and turns the screen toward me.
“The video of your mental breakdown is now on every single website with a Top Ten Golf Meltdowns list. You’re number one on all of them, so look at you winning something today!”
Before I punch the grin off his face, rock music starts playing loudly from his phone.
“And look at how fun this one is,” he continues, bringing the phone up closer between us. “This website put the part right when your shoe launches out of your hand on a loop and set it to Buckcherry’s ‘Crazy Bitch,’ so it looks like you’re throwing it over and over. Someone also already set up a GoFundMe to have T-shirts printed with your face on them saying Eat My Shit. This is all very exciting, Pal. You’re getting extra sprinkles on your ice cream tonight for making a day of golf fun for me for the first time ever.”