The rhythmic punch of balls being struck echoes through the air. Caddies stand watch over their players, their voices creating a low hum of strategy and encouragement.
In the distance, a growing rumble of spectators across the course can be heard spread, but a good number have gathered behind the ropes here at the range, watching the leaders warmup with the intensity of scouts evaluating prospects. Fragments of their conversations drift over. Predictions being made and bets being placed on who’s going to come out on top when the dust settles.
I ignore everything, determined to focus on my game today. I line up another seven-iron, settling into my pre-shot routine, but something feels off. The ball flies true enough, but it lacks that crisp contact that tells me everything’s dialed in.
“That’s…better.” Rory’s tone is carefully neutral, which means he sees what I’m feeling. “Just need to find your rhythm. How about another?”
I step away and adjust my grip, rolling my shoulders before setting another ball. Ever since Leah’s text on Friday night, I haven’t quite felt myself. I’m not sure I was right to follow Rory’s advice and give Leah the space she asked for, but I have, and there’s no going back now.
Today, I’ve got to leave it all on the course, and then I’ll deal with what’s next for us. But I did wear mint green.
“Conditions are perfect today,” Rory continues, his voice taking on that tone he uses when he’s trying to pump me up without being obvious about it. “No wind to speak of. Greens are going to be receptive. This is a day made for going low.”
I nod, working through my bag. Driver, three-wood, five-iron. Finally, some swings seem to connect, muscle memory taking over as my body remembers what it’s supposed to do when my head isn’t completely fucked.
“Plus,” he adds, pulling out his yardage book, “half the guys ahead of you have never been in contention at a major on Sunday. Pressure does funny things to people who aren’t used to it.”
“And I am?” The question comes out more bitter than I intend.
He looks at me as if I’ve lost my mind. “You’ve been handling pressure since you were little, playing in junior tournaments andstanding over putts with your college scholarship on the line. This is just a bigger stage.”
He’s right, of course. But yesterday felt different. As if I were carrying the weight of the tournament, the media scrutiny, Leah’s absence, and my own expectations. And rather than step up, it crushed me.
“Hays!”
A voice cuts through the background noise, familiar enough to make my heart stutter. But it can’t be. The sound gets swallowed by the crowd noise and the general chaos of a major championship Sunday morning.
I must be hearing things. Wishful thinking mixed with sleep deprivation and the kind of hope that makes you imagine what you need most.
“Hays!”
There it is again, clearer this time, slicing through the air as if it’s meant for my ears only. I turn slowly, afraid to believe, my heart hammering against my ribs. But there she is.
For a split second, the entire world goes silent. The practice range, the crowd, the other players—everything fades to white noise.
Leah stands against the rope, wearing a fuchsia shirt. The same bright pink I used to wear on Sundays. My original signature color. Paired with a white skirt and sneakers along with a ponytail, she looks as if she belongs here, as if she were born to stand beside fairways and cheer from galleries.
But it’s her left hand gripping the rope that makes the seven-iron slip from my fingers. The engagement ring catches the sunlight, the diamond sparkling. She’s wearing it. Actually, wearing it.
My brain short-circuits. This can’t be real. Two days ago, she needed space, convinced she was ruining my career, and now…
“Leah,” I breathe, moving toward her before conscious thought kicks in.
The rhythmic thwacks of practice swings die out around us. Conversations taper off midsentence. I feel every eye on the range turning our way. Fans, caddies, officials, even the other players pause their warmups to watch this unfold. Camera phones appear, quiet murmurs of excitement filling the near silence.
“You’re here,” I say when I reach the rope, because apparently my vocabulary has been reduced to stating the obvious.
“I’m here.” Her voice is soft but steady, carrying the mix of vulnerability and strength that first made me fall for her. “And I’m wearing your ring.”
“I can see that.” The words come out rough, as if I’ve been swallowing sand. I want to vault the rope, pull her into my arms, kiss her until neither of us can think straight. Instead, I settle for covering her hands with mine. “But what are you doing here?”
“You want the honest answer?”
The question is one I asked on the boat that night. I answer the same as she did. “Always.”
“I was wrong.” The words come out in a rush, as if she’s been practicing them. “I was wrong to pull away on Friday. Wrong to let the media noise get in my head. Wrong to keep making you prove yourself when you’ve done nothing but love me since that first night.”
My throat goes tight. The practice range has gone completely still, everyone holding their breath.
