Page 65 of Unexpected Shot

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Needing to focus on my shot and not the overwhelming urge to give him a matching black eye, I avert my eyes from him, holding out my hand for my club. When he eventually hands it to me, I nervously play with the grip, hating I have to use it. It’s never been the best in my bag, but right now I need it to come through.

Just like I needed it back then.

Fuck! No. Do not go back to that day. Stay focused on today. Right now.

I do my best to shake away the intrusive thoughts as I approach my ball. I start my routine of lining up the club, then setting my feet, but I can’t concentrate. Everything feels weird. My head. My body. My stomach. The club. It’s off. Everything is off.

I step away from the ball and close my eyes, trying to breathe through the eighteen thousand thoughts and feelings running through me, and focus on things that will calm me.

Seeing little Ace smile at me because he’s a baby and he’s adorable.

A girls’ night with Gabi.

The book I’m reading, where I guessed who the killer was three chapters before it was revealed.

A big, fat, juicy burger.

A crisp Sprite.

Beau’s cologne.

Kissing Beau in front of an Elvis impersonator.

My eyes spring open. Where the hell did that come from?Also, in case I needed the reminder, I’m never, ever, drinking again.

“Any day now,” I hear Beau grumble behind me.

Asshole.

But I don’t reply. Instead, I do what I know how to do. What I’ve always done on a golf course.

Feet.

Hands.

Grip.

Bend.

Shoulders.

Relax.

Breathe.

I feel better than I did before, but something is still off. I can’t tell what.

It’s gotta be my club. I know I avoid my three-wood like the plague, so that has to be it, right?

I adjust the best I can, not wanting to hold up play any longer.

Swing back.

Engage.

Swing down.

Contact.

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