The Long Shot

by A. L. Brooks

  She turned up the volume on the radio as she hit the highway and sang along as loud as she could to one banal pop song after another. Belting out the lyrics to songs that spoke of simple things like first kisses and secret looks across a dance floor was one of her few guilty pleasures. She laughed as she imagined the looks on the faces of all those reporters if they saw her cutting so loose. Someone had given her a nickname ten years ago, when she’d really started to climb up the rankings, and it had stuck: Morgan “Ice” Spencer. They all called her that now. Equally cool on the course as off it, she had a reputation for never letting out a hint of what she felt inside. Only a few people knew she wasn’t that cold—Harry, her mom, Jack to a certain extent, and… No, she wouldn’t think about her. That was still way too painful.

  Pushing those thoughts away, Morgan concentrated on the road. And on preparing herself for what she was bound to walk into in around twenty minutes’ time.

  “Darling!” Her mom rushed forward as the door swung open and pulled Morgan into a warm embrace.

  “Hey, Mom.” Morgan clung on, wishing she could spend the whole evening right here in her mom’s caring arms and not have to deal with the rest of it.

  “Bad luck, darling. You played well.”

  “You watched?”

  Her mom stepped back, a wide smile on her face even though her eyes showed her concern. “Of course I did! I’m afraid I couldn’t look at that last putt, though. The tension was too much.”

  Morgan chuckled. “Yeah, I had my eyes shut too.”

  “Oh, you!” Her mom nudged her with a beautifully manicured fingertip. “I’m sorry it didn’t work out.”

  “That’s the way it goes sometimes.” Morgan shrugged. “Another day they go in.”

  “Very true. Well, come on in. I have food keeping warm in the oven.”

  “You’ve eaten already?”

  Morgan stepped through with her small overnight bag and placed it on the marble floor of the foyer. Her parents’ grand house could easily grace the cover of every home-and-garden magazine and be admired by many, but its clinical, almost cold finish did nothing for Morgan.

  “No, I’ll join you. Your father…ate earlier.”

  Her mom ran a hand through her hair, the soft waves of it lifting with her fingers but settling back perfectly into place once they’d passed.

  Ignoring the comment about her father for now, Morgan followed her mom into the expansive kitchen that ran the width of the house. Split into two sections, the main area held the kitchen itself, and the slightly smaller area to the left was where casual meals were taken at a large oak table.

  As her mom spooned their food onto plates, Morgan poured them each a small glass of wine from the open bottle she found in the refrigerator. She smiled as they moved around each other. Even though Morgan hadn’t lived with her parents for nearly ten years now, she’d fallen right back into the same pattern of sharing an evening with her mom as she had way back then.

  There was still no sign of her father as they sat down to their food, but for once she didn’t have the energy to ask, and her mom didn’t volunteer anything. It should have been awkward, but it wasn’t, and so she accepted the clink of her mom’s wineglass against her own before tucking into her food with gusto.

  “I didn’t realize how hungry I was,” she said after a few rushed mouthfuls.

  Her mom smiled. “Well, you have been rather busy today.”

  Morgan grinned and continued eating, the tuna casserole hot and filling.

  “Up eight ranking places!” Her father’s voice from behind her made her jump in her seat.

  She met her mom’s eyes, inhaled, and turned. “Hey, Dad.”

  Her father, his iPad clutched in his hand and raised somewhat triumphantly, also startled and stared at her. “Morgan. I didn’t hear you come in.”

  “A little while ago. Just catching up with Mom and having some food.” She waved her fork at her plate.

  “Good. Good.” He stepped forward and awkwardly leaned down to kiss her on the cheek. “Did you hear about Jack’s win?” He straightened, his face lit up with pride.

  Morgan’s anger rose. Wow, less than ten seconds to make it all about Jack. Must be a record. “Uh, yeah, Dad, I did. That’s great for him.”

  “Isn’t it? And I just got the updated rankings. Up to 108. He keeps going like this, he’s gonna break back into the top one hundred soon.”

  “That’s marvelous.” Her mom reached out and covered Morgan’s hand briefly before she continued. “And obviously, Morgan did well today too, Gordy.”

  Her dad, to Morgan’s surprise, did at least have the grace to look embarrassed but only for one fleeting moment.

  “Oh, sure. Of course. Second place is a good result.”

  And there it was, hidden in the tone and the choice of words. Good but not good enough. Certainly not good enough for the daughter of Gordon “Gordy” Spencer, winner of six majors on the men’s tour over the course of his career, including two US Opens and a Masters.

  His eyes narrowed as he looked down at her. He was still imposing, even at the age of seventy-five. Although tall, he had a slight stoop, and her mom had mentioned on their last call that his right hip gave him some trouble.

  “Jack’s coming home tomorrow. Will you be here to congratulate him?”

  Resisting the urge to roll her eyes or, worse, scream, Morgan shook her head. “Need to be on the road early. I’ve got a flight west tomorrow.”

  She could have elaborated, told him which tournament was up next, what her hopes were for it, what she thought she’d need to work on in her game, but she knew that tonight, after Jack’s win, she’d be wasting her breath.

  “Well, that’s a shame. Boy’s worked hard this year,” he said. “That tennis tour is tough. Winning any tournament out there when you’ve got the likes of Nadal and Djokovic winning everything else is something to be celebrated.”

  “I know, Dad.” Morgan tried not to sound exasperated, but her mom’s fingers tightening against hers indicated she might not have succeeded.

  Her dad bristled, but she held up a hand.

  “I’m not trying to be difficult. I have places to be. I’m committed to playing the full year, I’ve got sponsorship requirements, and I want to play. I can’t just drop that to stay home and pat Jack on the back.”

  It came out much sharper than she’d intended, and she knew she’d gone too far when her Dad stood as tall as he could, his chest expanding as he did so.

  “This is important,” he snapped. “Jack could break back into the top one hundred players in the world soon! He needs all of our support to do that.”

  “I’m world number four.” Morgan’s throat, damn it, tightened as she pushed back her chair and stood to face him. “Me.” She jabbed a finger into her chest. “Me. I’m the world number four in women’s golf.”

  “Don’t start that again.” Her father turned away.

  “Gordy.” Her mother half rose from her chair, but it was no use.

  Without another word, Morgan’s father strode out of the room.

  Morgan closed her eyes, her hands clenched into tight fists at her sides. Always the same. Why the hell did I expect anything different?

  “Thanks for supper, Mom.” She finally opened her eyes and looked at her mom across the wide table. “It was good, but I think I’d better get back on the road tonight after all.”

  “I…I thought you were staying?” Her mom’s eyes went wide and shimmered with wetness.

  “I can’t.” Morgan’s voice cracked, but she willed herself to keep it together. She wouldn’t cry, not for him.

  “I’ll talk to him.” Her mother wrung her hands together.

  Morgan sighed. “No. Don’t. It’s not worth it.” She walked out to the foyer, grabbed her lightweight jacket from the hook where she’d hung it up less than a
n hour before, and pulled it on.

  “Please stay,” her mom whispered, her hand tentative on Morgan’s arm.

  A sob choking her throat, Morgan shook her head and pulled her mom in for a long hug. “I can’t. Not now. I’m too angry and… Well, you know.”

  “I know. I’m so sorry, Morgan. And I’m so proud of you, for what you’re achieving.”

  “Thanks.” Morgan swallowed. “And I’m proud of Jack too. You know that, right?”

  Her mom stepped back slightly, staring at Morgan. “Of course I do, honey!”

  “I’ll call him later and congratulate him. If he’s not too drunk by then.” Morgan managed a smile, and her mom returned it.

  “You do that. And you call me when you get to California, okay?”

  Of course her mom knew where she headed next, and the thought that she had Morgan’s schedule memorized like that allowed a small ball of warmth to push back at the coldness her father’s words had caused her.

  “I will. Take it easy, Mom.”

  “Of course, darling.” Her mom hugged her one last time, then opened the door.

  Morgan stepped out into the cool night, the air refreshing on her face, where anger and hurt burned just beneath the surface of her skin.

  She opened the rental car, climbed in, and started the engine. The inbuilt GPS pinged to life, and she tapped the name of her hotel into the destination box and then hit a few more keys to choose the longer route back, avoiding the highways. She needed the drive and the solitude. And the cheesy pop music, of course. An old Madonna track came on, and she grinned. Yeah, that would do.

  Chapter 2

  “She blew it! Again!”

  Adrienne looked up from her laptop as Jenny stomped into the office and flung herself down into the guest couch. The leather gave way beneath her with a soft sigh, and the huge vase of flowers on the side table wobbled but stayed upright.

  “Who blew what?” Adrienne asked, although she had a pretty good idea what Jenny was ranting about.

  Jenny threw her arms up. “Morgan Spencer! How could she?”

  She groaned and sunk her head into her hands, nearly crashing her legs into the low oak coffee table that stood between the couch and Adrienne’s desk as she slipped down further into her seat.

  Adrienne chuckled. She was a big fan of women’s golf, but Jenny was fanatical. And she was particularly fanatical about Morgan Spencer, whom she’d had a huge crush on for years. Every time Morgan failed to live up to the heights of the pedestal Jenny had placed her on, it was rather amusing to watch the resulting meltdown.

  “Well, obviously she did it entirely to upset you,” Adrienne said drily, and chuckled when Jenny thumped the leather seat.

  “She’s so frustrating! I totally get why the press go after her like they do. Although Cindy Thomson was particularly vicious, that bitch.”

  Adrienne snorted softly in agreement. Oh yes, Cindy Thomson was indeed a bitch—Adrienne had firsthand experience of that when they’d clashed during the filming of a doc about the history of the Solheim Cup. Cindy had wanted more screen time, keen to get exposure at the start of her TV career. After Adrienne had refused for genuine production reasons, Cindy had gone over Adrienne’s head to someone she knew on the board of directors at the TV company, undermining Adrienne’s position with her peers.

  It pained Adrienne deeply every time she saw Cindy’s face on her TV screen, knowing how many people Cindy had stomped all over to get to where she was now, the golden girl of women’s golf presenting.

  “So did you just drop in here to get all that off your chest, or was there something else?” Adrienne inquired, needing to push thoughts of Cindy Thomson out of her mind.

  Jenny grinned sheepishly, scratching at the back of her head. “No, just the rant. Sorry.”

  Adrienne smiled in understanding at her assistant. Jenny was in her mid-twenties, still learning all there was to know about making TV sports films, and full of the passion that went with her youth and enthusiasm. More than a few times, Adrienne had needed to rein her in when her fiery nature threatened to derail a project or upset an A-lister, but Jenny was rapidly becoming a fine producer’s assistant and would make a fantastic producer one day, if that was the direction she wished to go.

  “You okay?” Jenny asked as she stood. “Wanna coffee or something? I think I spotted some leftover Danish in the conference room a minute ago.” She bounced on the toes of her orange sneakers, the shoes the only splash of color in her outfit. Her black long-sleeved T-shirt and black jeans fitted her lean body like a glove. It wasn’t Jenny’s usual look—there was normally much more color involved—but it worked, especially with her black spiky hair, which she’d gelled up particularly high today.

  “Coffee, yes, Danish, no.”

  “On it.”

  Jenny bounded out of the room, and Adrienne chuckled.

  Oh, to be that young again. But even as the thought crossed her mind, she shook her head. No, she didn’t want to be that age again, actually. And that was in spite of all that had happened to her this past year, knocking her back in ways she would never have imagined. No, forty-nine-year-old Adrienne was a better person—mostly—than the Adrienne who’d once been in Jenny’s shoes, and the experience she’d gained from life since then sat comfortably with her.

  Well, not all of it, but she’d challenge anyone to feel comfortable about being left out of the blue by their partner of ten years for a woman twenty years younger…

  She sighed. Yeah, like I really need to be thinking about all that again. The trouble was, no matter how hard she tried, and no matter how much she’d thrown herself into her work since then, the day when Paula had come home and told her, in a cold and distant tone, that she was leaving and moving in with her new young love would never leave Adrienne’s mind. The pain still cut deep, as did the embarrassment once all their friends found out. Left for a younger model. What a fucking cliché.

  Straightening at her desk, she rolled her shoulders a couple of times and focused back on her screen. When Jenny returned with her coffee and placed it on the I love San Francisco coaster on the corner of the desk, Adrienne was almost too engrossed to notice, mumbling a sound that could have meant “thanks” and scrolling slowly down the proposal that had landed in her in-box overnight.

  Well, well, well. Interesting.

  Adrienne reached for the coffee, blew on it for a moment, then sipped cautiously. Perfect. Her gaze drifted to the tall bookcase on her left, her awards proudly displayed in amongst photos of the wonderful people she’d worked with over the years. Was there a chance to add another one to her treasured collection? She read over the proposal again. It had been sent by one of the development execs upstairs, Daniel, and, as he said in his e-mail, was such an obvious addition to the project they were already working on it would be foolish not to pursue it. And when it came to her work, Adrienne wasn’t a foolish woman.

  She picked up the phone and called him.

  “Thought I might be hearing from you.” She could hear the smirk he wore as he spoke. He was an oily character, and personally she loathed him. She’d seen him act like a predator when it came to the younger female members of the staff, and it pained her that no one seemed willing to do anything about it. He did have more great ideas than not, she had to begrudgingly admit, so she’d spent the last three years swallowing down her feelings about him, and instead they’d worked together to put out a brilliant portfolio of work for TC Productions.

  “I like the idea,” she said, as usual getting straight to the point. She and Daniel were not the sort of people who wasted time on social niceties.

  “And shouldn’t take too much effort to tag on, no?”

  “Not at all. Except for access.”

  “Yes. Do you know her manager?”

  “Not personally, but I know how to reach out to him.”

  “Great.
Keep me posted.”

  He hung up, and Adrienne rolled her eyes. He would take all the plaudits for this once she’d done all the running around to make it happen, but she’d still have her name on the credits, and, if she pulled this off the way her brain was already imagining, who knew what else it might lead to.

  A glow warmed her body. This was what she needed to take her mind off everything else—a big, fat, juicy project that she could really sink her teeth into.

  Perfect.

  The apartment was cold. Adrienne threw her keys on the table near the front door and shivered. Stupid New York weather—forty-five degrees in early June was insane. After opening the narrow cupboard housing the heating controls, she turned them up, hearing the system kick in moments later.

  God, how she missed her house. Their house, the one she and Paula had bought a year after they got together and had lived in until a year ago when Paula dropped her bomb on their relationship. The house had had to be sold—partly because she couldn’t afford the upkeep for it on her own, but mostly because suddenly, overnight, it didn’t feel like home anymore. Not after what Paula had done.

  She stood in the bland hallway of the apartment she now rented instead and sighed. Beige walls, fake wooden floor, plain furniture. When she’d first looked at it, caught up in the throes of her grief, she chose it precisely because it was so bland. It made her feel nothing, and that was good back then because she’d ached and hurt in so many ways. She hadn’t wanted to come home to anything that challenged her any further. But now it depressed her.

  Maybe that was a good sign. Maybe that meant she was, as her friend Tricia had been trying to tell her for a while, ready to put some color back into her life. Of course, Tricia’s version of color was for Adrienne to date again, or at least get laid, but Adrienne wasn’t remotely ready for that.

  After finally removing her coat when she thought she could cope with the lukewarm temperature of the place, she walked into the small kitchen and poured herself a glass of the red wine she’d opened the night before. She yawned widely after her first sip; it was already past ten, and she’d put yet another ridiculously long day in at the office. Still, it was worth it, as the project she’d been working on for the last three months was about to really get off the ground. Just one key phone call to make tomorrow…