Page 21 of The Sweet Spot

I get in first and focus on the fairway.

I'm not losing to Max Brennon.

I'm especially not losing while wearing a skirt with a catfish over my cooch.

“Ready, Coach?” JB asks with markedly less enthusiasm than earlier.

I turn the cart on and grip the steering wheel. “Call me that again and I'm switching partners,” I say, to try to get him to smile.

He doesn't. He just nods. I steer us down the cart path and stare straight ahead.

Seventeen holes. That's all I've got left. I'll be fine.

I wish I believed it.

Chapter 4

“Music?” I say, reaching over to turn the radio on. My fingers hover over the button, waiting for her to say something. She doesn't. Not surprising. She hasn't looked at me since I bogeyed the 6th hole.

“Thought it could improve the mood,” I add lightly as I drive across the fairway to the eighth hole, making sure to avoid the cameras that are being set up for tomorrow's live broadcast.

Still nothing. Just her arms crossed, and a slight curl to her upper lip.

Without any further discussion, I turn up the dial, blasting the country music so loud from the cart, Jess starts bopping to the beat from behind.

“Uh, is this Troy Colder?! I love that man!” she calls and I give her a thumbs up. She's happy.

Unfortunately, the woman next to me isn't. Whit's glaring at me now with anger I've only ever seen when the GM found out we didn't make it to the playoffs last year. First time in 13 years, which isn't a stat I'm proud of, but you live and learn.

We're eight holes in and something I've learned about Whit is, she's not here to have a good time, she's here to win, which is unfortunate since I'm making that very difficult for her.

As Max and Jess overtake our golfcart, she leans out of the cart with sunglasses on her head and points at Whit.

“You good over there, Bestie?”

“Fine.” Yeah, that doesn't sound fine.

Jess looks at me before shaking her head and disappearing back into their cart as Max accelerates past us. I watch them go and feel Whit doing the math, running the numbers, calculating exactly how much damage the bogey on six did to our position, and the silence between us is palpable. She is trying very hard not to tell me everything that's wrong with my swing.

I turn the music down.

“Just say it.”

“Say what?”

“What you've wanted to say since the fourth hole.”

She turns to look at me and I can feel the list coming. I can actually feel it, the same way I can feel a pitcher winding up before the ball leaves his hand. Eight holes in and I know her tells. The jaw. The arms. The way her eyes do a quick sweep of me like she's running a diagnostic and doesn't love the results.

“Your rotation locked on the downswing,” she says.

“On the sixth, yeah.”

“And five. It was there on five too, you just got lucky with the contact.”

“Okay.”

“Your grip pressure in your right hand is too tight. You've been clutching the club since the fourth hole and it's causing the face to open at impact.”