“It’s a good lie.” I walk in a half circle behind the ball, one way and then the other, before stepping in front of it and plucking a loose leaf off the green and tossing it aside.
“You thinking three wood?” Steve produces my club from the bag.
“Yep.” I take it and take a couple practice swings.
Andy is about two yards behind me and across the fairway, so he’ll take his turn first.
Off to my other side is the network broadcaster and camera crew. Cameron, an Australian who was a great player in the early nineties, has been providing play-by-play coverage, walking with our final pairing all day. He talks in hushed tones into his headset, communicating with the guys in the booth. Usually, I can’t hear what he’s saying, but something about the way the wind is blowing right now sends his words wafting over to me.
“It’s almost an eerily similar situation to the Grand Masters, Jim. Holland Bradley, poised to win, with only himself in his way. Looks like he’s going with the three wood here…”
I block out his words, focusing on what I have to do and running through Mallory’s instructions in my head. Because here’s the thing. Even though I’m in a good place mentally about all of this, I still want to win. I’m a competitor. The difference between me at the Grand Masters and me now is that I know I’ll survive if I don’t win.
Out of respect, I stop my shot preparation when Andy settles in to take his swing.
Steve and I stand still and watch the arch of his ball. It hits the front of the green, clearing the water hazard. The crowd in the grandstand cheers as the ball trickles toward the hole, coming to rest about twelve feet from the cup. It’s a great shot—one I’d be overjoyed to have hit myself. Andy has put himself in a perfect position to make birdie on this par four eighteenth hole. Since I’m currently one shot ahead of him, that means the pressure is on me to also make birdie. Because if I only notch a par, we’ll be tied and heading to extra holes.
I shake my head. One thing at a time. “Do the next thing right,” I mutter to myself, Mallory’s voice echoing in my head.
Cameron’s voice reaches me again. “An excellent shot for Andy! The pressure is on Holland now. Let’s see what he can do.”
“You good?” Steve asks me, holding out a towel. I wipe the sweat that’s built up on my hands and stuff it in my bag.
“I’m good.”
He steps back, leaving me and the ball and the anticipation of my next shot.
The crowd surrounding the eighteenth green and the fairway leading up to it has gone quiet. There are volunteers holding up paddles, signaling no noise, as I settle in to my position.
I exhale and steady my breathing, checking my form against how I know I should be standing. I’m pleased to see I still feel loose. My spine isn’t stiff, and my knees aren’t shaking. I can do this.
The club moves like an extension of my appendage, and I keep my eye on the ball as I bring it around. The contact is solid and swift, sending the little white ball screaming toward the hole.
I hold my club up and over my shoulder, alternatively watching the line of the ball and flicking my gaze down to the location of the hole. The crowd is murmuring, and when my ball lands with a pleasant plop on the green, they explode with cheers.
The cheers intensify as my ball doesn’t stop, but it rolls toward the hole.
Go, go, go, I chant to myself.
“Ice in his veins today, Jim!” Cameron is talking louder to be heard over the cheers. “Holland Bradley has landed his shot six feet from the hole. He makes that putt, and he’ll secure a major victory.”
“Nice ball.” Steve steps up beside me, and I hand my club over as we start walking across the footbridge to the eighteenth green.
“Felt good to stay dry.” I shoot him a grin.
“I bet.”
As we approach the green, the crowd is going wild, cheering for both Andy and me.
We take turns circling our balls, careful not to tread on the green in front of each other’s ball. Since his shot landed slightly farther out than mine, he’ll again putt first.
I can’t help but notice that, once again, I’m within ten feet of the hole. I smile to myself as I picture Mallory scowling at me about my form and making me putt over and over again from this distance.
I wish she was here right now. I flick my gaze to the crowd and over by the walkway to the clubhouse where I know the families of the players typically gather. My whole crew is here, and my heart balloons. My parents are clapping. Mack stands with his arms crossed next to Poppy, who has her hands cupped around her mouth and is screaming. Rose is eyeing her sister with an equal mix of affection and exasperation. Nearby, Anton, who’s wearing a baseball hat and trying very hard to blend in, is in conversation with Collin and Noli. I do a double-take when I swear I spot Vivian, fromMEM, behind them. But before I can confirm it, the woman turns to the side.
I shake my head. There’s no reason Vivian would be here. I talked to Ava, Mindy Sue, and Zelda after Mallory left to tend to her mom. I told them the truth. That I had fallen in love with Mallory, and I didn’t want to waste their time. Vivian and I agreed that when Mallory was ready—and if she was willing—we’d film a final scene with the two of us to give the show an appropriate conclusion to air for the network.
That’s another thing I have to figure out—after I’m done here.
