Page 19 of Golden Days

I clear my throat, trying to get my mind out of the gutter.

“She does. That Xander guy is⁠—”

“A dick?” Ezra snorts. “On top of that, he also doesn’t know the difference between a pitching wedge and a sand wedge.”

I snicker. “Good thing this was just a social game and we didn’t track our skill progress.”

Ezra’s blond eyebrows scrunch together and he pouts. “Don’t remind me. I played like shit.”

“You did fine,” I say, trying to placate him. Although his pitching shots did leave much to be desired.

“I’ve got the yips, man. I told you.” He unconsciously runs a hand over his buzzed head, blowing out a long breath.

I grip his shoulder and squeeze it in comfort. “We’ll work on it. I’ve got that new simulator in the house…” I trail off, leaving the offer on the table.

“Thanks man,” Ezra says, shoulders relaxing under my touch.

We get moving, placing the golf clubs in my car. My shoulder is sore and I’m ready to head home for a shower and some cat snuggles.

While Petunia and I get cozy on the couch, queuing for a movie that Rowan recommended, Gus sits atop his cat tree, coldly surveying the land. Suddenly, he jumps down and sprints to the patio door, knocking over the bowl of popcorn on the table in the process.

“Gus, I swear to⁠—”

He starts yowling and scratching the glass door. On the other side, a squirrel taunts him, strutting around the patio table.

“Okay, buddy. You tell that squirrel,” I say, rolling my eyes and grabbing the broom to clean up the mess.

As I sweep the last kernel into the dustpan, my phone rings. I swipe and hold it between my shoulder and ear without checking the caller ID. “Hello?”

“Levi, I’ve got news about your request,” my agent says.

“Oh?” I didn’t expect him to get an answer from the pro-am so quickly.

“I’ve had to make a hefty donation to make this happen and it has to be completely hush-hush,” he rambles. “And by I, I mean you had to make a hefty donation.”

“Do I want to know?”

“Nope,” he says. “But the short version is that you are able to choose which amateur gets to play with you in the pro-am.”

“That’s great⁠—”

He interrupts me. “There is a catch.”

I’m still kneeling on the carpet, and I groan and rest my head against the couch. “Of course there’s a catch.”

“It’s not terrible,” he rushes to add. “You need to decide who the amateur is by next week. The board wants to do some background checks and vetting and whatnot to make sure you’re not bringing just anybody into the game.”

“Right, only rich pricks are allowed,” I scoff, rolling my eyes.

“They don’t have to be rich since you technically paid for their entry too, but try to be strategic. We need someone with good PR potential.”

“And you need to know by next week?” I bite my cheek in thought.

“Yep.”

We hang up, and I close my eyes. How the hell am I supposed to find someone so quickly?

Ezra barges in to find me sprawled on the floor, head on the couch, with Petunia trying to soothe my anxiety by purring into my ear.